At a birthday party the other night. A glass of wine, a meal, a toast, easy talk, genial anecdotes, a circle of laughter, good night. Somewhere along the thread of a conversation, one of the party-goers mentioned (wistfully, patiently, perhaps resignedly) that she was wondering when she would find "Mister Right".
Anyone with some measure of intimacy with their own heart would recognize the source of that comment and, judging the intelligence and sense of the speaker, would guess this wasn't flippancy, a cliche that echoed some dull ache, but rather carried the volume of sentiment, height, length and depth. The words we use float on the surface; the waters described can be impenetrably profound.
Over the years, I have met a number of Miss Rights – and they were right. I suppose that, while I dabbled in and investigated as many facets of the world that I could find, my tendency in love was to meet a partner at many levels, and instead of delightful surface explorations which lasted a few nights or weeks, I waited until some sense of rightness and longevity was apparent in myself or between us, and so found my partners both excellent co-adventurers and teachers of relationship. Some helped me grow up, some helped me loosen up, some helped me find responsibility, some helped me shed it. Some taught dance, some taught romance. The longer relationships taught more difficult lessons.
Every single partner with whom I shared a path, every relationship found and ripened and deepened, had a life cycle. Every single rightness of connection and growth and moment also arrived at a time when it was not so right, after all, when there was work to be done, or freedom to be granted. In several relationships the values and paths were divergent to such a degree that our fingers, straining to hold fast, were unlaced, and hands pulled apart by the anti-gravity of our deflected orbits. Other times, graceful dancers that we were, we kept our balance and drew ourselves back in to that inner spiral, another turn around the sun, another set of seasons.
The point is, I guess – having to admit that guessing is about as close as those of us with Life Learner's Permits are going to get – that our fears or our sadnesses or our isolation keep us looking for a completion which is ephemeral, something on the surface of things, in the touch, the smile, the shared work, the children, the parents. My party companion was looking for that moment, and hoping for forever.
I think as we grow older, and are rather battered by hard weather, to only be warmed again by sunny days, we recognize there are fewer rights and wrongs than we once imagined. If we are honest with ourselves, Mister or Miss Right is a ghost we hold in lieu of Mister or Miss Now, the one who steps into our lives just as human and complex as we ourselves, muddies the rug, messes up the bed, leaves things quite out of control and…. changes us.
To love is to surrender some part of us, some ego-image that we feel keeps us intact, but in truth only stunts our growth. To surrender is to be changed; just as travel to distant lands (not tourism, but travel) is to allow yourself to see from other eyes, breath with another's breath, move with another's body, and sleep the sometimes restless sleep of a bed you have made adventure.
If your co-explorer shares your road, shares your meals, shares your values, and finds in his or her surrender the generosity to stay beside you… ah, then. Now was just right, after all.