People I Meet

Things did not work out between me and the Young Man at the Comedy Show. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, but I’m starting to feel better. The crying is now limited to just the mornings and the evenings…as opposed to on the hour, every hour, of every day.

I hear that soon enough, the pain in my chest will subside and I will be able to look back on this experience with clarity and insight that only time and distance can bring. However, as with most things in my life–my shortlived romance the most recent example–I’m impatient. I want answers now.  But they are not coming–at least, not in the way I want.

They may, however, be coming in the way that I need.  Perhaps this all happened for me to truly appreciate the People I’ve Met. Family and friends who have supported me through my first relationship–at the ripe old age of 30–and who have displayed an extraordinary amount of patience, love and understanding through my first heartbreak.

There’s my mom, who gives unbelievably accurate advice, despite having never dated or been in a relationship with anyone other than my dad. It’s like she could read my mind when she said, “you have nothing to be ashamed of, you did nothing wrong.”

Then there’s my dad–nothing upsets him more than seeing me sad. He hates it so much that he spent an entire weekend trying to drug me with a happy pill. When I told him that grieving over a broken relationship was normal, he stopped the pill pushing and instead sent me a Yahoo news article: “Breakup Recovery 101: 5 Rules You Must Follow!”

My friend NoMoHo, has given me advice throughout this entire ordeal, using her past experiences to help me learn from her mistakes and lessen my heartache. She told me I was brave and strong to walk away from something that wasn’t working, even though doing so made me feel defeated.

The Psychologists of San Diego opened their home to me when I fled the City to get away from anything that reminded me of what would not be. The Dr. Mrs. provides me critical online support all day, everyday, calmly talking me through my mood swings. Sadness to anger to acceptance…back to sadness again.

There’s the Persian of the East Bay, whose own life story of enduring illness and loss with grace and gratitude, humbles and inspires me.  Her husband insisted that I visit them this past weekend so he could tell me—in person and from a man’s perspective—that I’m a catch and that I should hold out for someone who recognizes that enough to work to be with me.

And there are countless others whose prayers, calls, and e-mails could fill up a blog of its own. When things broke off, I kicked myself for having told so many people about the relationship in the first place–just more people, I thought, to whom I now owe an explanation to as to why things didn’t work out. But now I see the wisdom in that too. I may have lost someone I love, but am blessed with a reminder that I’m still surrounded by people who love me.

Thank you for the People I’ve Met.

My sister asked me when I plan on blogging about her. I shot her down immediately with a not-so-nice, “Never. I’ve already met you.”

But now I’m going to break a rule that I imposed when I started this blog…you know, 3 days ago. I’m going to write about someone I met almost four years ago, but who continues to surprise and amaze me. Even more so now that I’ve decided to be consciously thankful for the People I Meet.

It’s another beautiful weekend in San Francisco. Yesterday was W’s birthday, and she wanted to spend the evening over a bonfire, watching the sunset with her friends at Ocean Beach.

The evite for “Fire, Birthday and Friends” asked us to bring food, wood, and musical instruments. M, the resourceful Algerian, helpfully added in a comment to her RSVP that if we didn’t have have any instruments we could bring pots and pans. (Sure enough, she brought an aluminum bowl and a wooden mixing spoon, which she enthusiastically banged on while taking a break from playing her tabla).

French-Moroccan W has lived in SF for over 5 years and, more than anyone I know, has taken full advantage of living in the City where anything goes. She takes a crazy jumble of classes–meditation, ceramics, massage, tango, not to mention our weekly halaqa (study circle)–and embarks on the most interesting adventures–a weekend trip to a farm, a two week “green” bus ride down through Mexico and Guatemala, and an annual pilgrimage to Burning Man.  Her warm and enthusiastic spirit, not to mention her wonderful ability to see the beauty in everything and everyone (“oh, it’s so beautiful”–said in a French accent), is truly inspiring.

Even still, I was amazed by the assortment of people who had gathered at the beach to celebrate her birthday.  In just a couple of hours, I chatted with a Syrian, Mexican and Pakistani and danced and banged on a dhol with an Iraqi, Sudanese, and Egyptian–the Moroccans lit up a sheesha and the French and Palestinians hit a tambourine over the fire while singing old French songs. Our little drumming circle was briefly visited by a couple of SF hippies with dreads roaming the beach. They immediately went into a trance and danced, danced, danced, eyes closed in great concentration and appreciation for the music. S and I laughed so hard, we started crying.

I left shortly after the fireworks. W’s friend had picked up a reel of fireworks during their trip to Mexico and said he had been saving them for a special ocassion. W let out a huge whoop and hopped around a little at the news, “I love fireworks, I want them at my wedding!”

Oh, it’s so beautiful.

Thank you for the Moroccan at the beach.