I wake at 5:17am sensing instantly that today I will lose my voice.  My head cold makes its way into my throat and chest.  It is here where the words live, the feelings reside.  I can feel the undoing.  I am being rendered silent.

There is both fear and relief in the dark morning.  All is quiet but for the crickets.  Jeb sleeps.  I grab a lozenge and catch a glimpse of a huge planet in the sky.  I’ve never seen one so close, so big.  I do believe it’s Venus.

I linger in the solace of this silence.  A soft cushion of spaciousness that sifts the air and opens my mind.

Should I stay silent about what tosses with me on this morning’s pillow.  Will giving voice to it (or keyboard letters) somehow set the story free?

Or are some things better left unsaid?

If the Archives are about chronicling the story, then where else but here to express the quiet thread that sits below the surface of these last days?  Last week in Lulu’s letter there was reference to a follow up to the love story with the rocket engineer (The Private Door Swings Open).  For now I could skip Part 2, and even 3, because presently this script is in the Final Scene.

For those just catching up, the plot summary would go something like:

Woman sings eighties love song in steaming moonlight (reference Love and Woo Woo with INXS) and instantly meets dashing gentleman (the rocket scientist) who asks her to travel the world with him.  Long-distance love affair ensues spanning California, India and Hawaii.  Enter woman’s six year old son for intense dramatic tension.  Exit dashing man who continues loving from a distance, climbing mountains round the world while woman stays at sea level.  Google chat provides comfort and frustration.  Woman ends remote relationship with love and good wishes, completing the decision with a ceremonial fire on Independence day.

In an unexpected plot twist, a pair of abandoned boxer shorts spawn an Afterword replete with renewed communication and a rekindled spark (some may call it a backslide).  The phone call that began with where to send his belongings ends in his profession of intense love and an invitation to fly woman to meet him on a remote California coast. Decision must be made soon, he leaves for India in three weeks.  Woman is stunned and floating.

Ill-equipped on how to ‘love and leave’ woman decides to have courage in her vulnerabilities.  Give a try at allowing herself to enjoy a week of coastal sweetness, not worrying about the goodbye.  She lays groundwork for childcare, confides in a few girlfriends and with giddy anticipation, accepts his offer in a timely email, just as he requested.

His locale is out of range.  No cell reception, email connection spotty.  He promises a reply in a few days. She dares to trust, takes morning walks, juicing up affirmations to dispel her doubts.   Lets herself believe that this dashing gentleman will follow through.  Whisk her to his open arms with loving adoration.  She envisions herself seated on the flight to him, butterflies in her stomach and excitement in her heart.  She begins packing her suitcase in her mind.

On day three of no reply she perseveres and tries to keep only good thoughts.  The silence is louder on day four, then five, then six, until the days of nothing-ness move into double digits.  Girlfriends stop asking if she’s going to California.  She drops the affirmative airplane vision and is left utterly confused (and in random moments, enraged).

Weeks later, in a response to her voice mail message asking for the dashing man to please assure her that he has not fallen off a mountain, he sends a text message. Apologizes for his silence.  He didn’t mean to hurt her.  He has things to work on.  Better he do it alone.

Woman agrees.  And one would think this would be The End.

Yet there is one final scene still to be written.

As chance (or cosmic pranksters) would have it, the dashing rocket scientist and I each made plans – independent of each other – to be in California on the same coast, in the same location, at the same time.  It is the exact place where we met one year ago.  I will be there in one week.  And unless his plans have changed, so will he.

As I prepare to go and seek my solitary solace, I search for peace with the possibility that we may converge, face to face, around any cedar-shingled corner.  I’ve worked hard to be able to return to this haven in the forest.  This is my epic, once-a-year chance to fill the well with blissfulness and good.  No time for drama or heartache.  This is my feel-good place.

How would it feel to see him there again?  Would I smile kindly from a distance and walk away?  Resist the urge to kick him in the shins?  Would buried tears coming spilling out?  Or worse, would I still feel connection despite all dignity or reason?

The possibilities of plot are endless and perhaps I’m crafting it in this moment as I type.  I sketch the outline now with intent.  I will return with grace to that rugged coastline grateful for the place that gifted me a vivid love story. Follow the thread of each moment as it comes.  Taking notes as I go.

I stand alone and bow at Love’s altar.  Not abandoned.  Forged.  I’m a lifelong devotee.  Open to be guided to even greater depths.

In the silence and through the words, I am learning to love more truly.  In this there can only be a happy ending.

I guess I’ll keep you posted…