The Beginning
What I am about to do, I never do, here in mi tenti senza pieta; I have never done yet:
I am about to tell as close to the whole truth as I have ever told, not just the fraction of the story that is most significant, that is prettiest to me. I do this at the request of a new friend (who prefers to remain anonymous), who has asked me to “intertwine more about [my] own history and [my] feelings into the stories.”
Even as I sit here, I wonder at what parts to leave out for the sake of brevity, for the sake of privacy, for the sake of decency and decorum towards the ones I love…. I ask myself earnestly, amidst the only truth I know to be true: What is "more," and how much is too much? And who is to truly say, but me?
My heart knows every part of the story, all parts of the romance, all parts of The Truth, and that they are all essential and valuable components; knows that leaving out one part will change the flavor, could change the entire result, like putting too little garlic in a sauce to compensate for someone’s preference, or adding too few eggs to a cake batter; whereas giving the entirety of my story may be the only way to satisfy me, to result in all that is desired and needed from anyone.
But, I cannot tell the entire tale, as not all parts are mine to tell.
Instead, I will keep to the truth that my heart and my mind demand, without judgement - and I will ask for your open mind and for your heart. I will try to ignore, if possible, my fears; and, if not, to face the fears - and feelings - that grip me, that gripped me, in my hope... and in my hopelessness, beg not to be judged, but to be understood, and asked for clarity, if something is not understood. And I will leave out as very little as possible; and I will beg your mercy for my refrain of those parts that I do. I fear I have already failed, in my inability to give you everything....
But I will try to remember everything, to give you my heart's truth - honestly and entirely, with the knowledge that, in truth, you would have to connect to me - to be me, to be us - to know, to experience the entirety.
And, to my chef: I write this because every second of our life together was beautiful; and every second since, even those still tinged with guilt or pain or doubt or insecurity. You are, and always will be, my first - perhaps my only - classical muse. Ne me quitte pas.
I have a thing for chefs.
Who doesn’t, these days — with so many beautiful restaurants popping up everywhere, with so much passion going into the growing of clean produce, into the raising of natural livestock, resulting after so much life and love in a dish placed before you on a table or bar in a room meant exclusively for the joyful homage to food? And we know, don’t we? That it is the chefs who are responsible, who are the ultimate fountainheads of such driving forces with their intense creative energy and individual, exacting standards of sensorial perfection, for whom such temples of hedonism and sensition (the religion of sensation) are built, that we may indulge in heights of pleasure for the simple act of nourishment?
I certainly know.
And that is perhaps why, this past December, I wished - serious, but half-joking - for a chef-boyfriend for Christmas.
In perfect karmic irony, I won one shortly before Valentine’s Day.
We met, serendipitiously, on Twitter in the very weekly chat hosted by @Foodiechats wherein I had expressed quite openly my wish for a chef before Christmas - and had my wish retweeted by a few amused foodies.
Don’t ask me how it happened! I have asked him what drew him so strongly that he reached out to call back my energy, my attention after our short exchange during the chat. Maybe it was exactly as he said, and I, being the free spirit I am, having stated so simply - when he pronounced that he’d be traveling to Thailand soon and might open a burger joint in that exotic place - that I would love to visit, to travel in a few years, when I have my sailboat…. Maybe I captivated him with my excited verve.
He has maintained it was my “courage” that drew him. I don’t know that the word is precise, for it has confused me since the day he first told me, has caused such deep rifts and consternation and pain between us since, when I expressed and behaved in ways I know to be true courage….
I maintained, very seriously, that I am not courageous. Just vulnerable, and willing to be so. But maybe these qualities imply that I am both vulnerable and courageous. I don't know.
There is that moment, when you meet someone for the first time - and, yes, it can exist online, in the 140-character feed of the Twitterverse - when you just know something big is going to happen. The right person, the right place, the right time.
I’ve always known it only takes a second to know another person; for anyone brave enough or simple enough or honest enough or lucky enough to look, to know the potential of any relationship. It only takes a glance; it only takes a moment of openness, of awareness of the other person - and you know what you feel, what they feel; what you want, what they want. That is connection, and it happens immediately, with everyone, with everything - because we are alive, we are human: thinking-sensing-feeling beings.
We do get confused, bogged down, sometimes, with so many thoughts, feelings, emotions, memories. Ideas. Wishes. Dreams. Standards and moralities. Our minds are ever-calculating, looking for “the perfect one” - which only means: the perfect one to fulfill everything we want and wish and dream… and love. That’s why “yes” or “no;” that’s why we have a concept of choosing. That’s why he’s right and she’s not quite. That’s why there’s “a time for everything” - because maybe, there’s a moment when he’s not right, and she’s perfect, even when the truth is that there’s actually, truly nothing wrong with now, and now, and now for him, or for her, or for you.
It was his willingness to engage, his interest in me, his openness that drew me in to him, as excited and curious and trepidatious as a child being offered a ride on a magical beast.
And I looked more carefully into him.
There was a picture of him on his profile that, very clearly, very handsomely, very charmingly showed him working intensely in a kitchen, chef's coat on and head down, wearing glasses... that... when I saw it, when I opened it up larger on my screen, made my heart jump, startled and shocked; that made my shoulders, my stomach tense in that oh-my-god-I'm-in-love way.
Followed immediately by the backlash of my imagined reality.
Oh no.
I bit my lips and read more about him on his profile, happy for being wherever-in-the-world away from him, to be far from anyone's eyes, from everyone's senses that they - whomever they were (my Foodiechats friends, this chef, his friends) - could not see me, could not detect the obvious light now sparkling in my eyes, could not see me chewing my lower lip like a schoolgirl with the biggest crush of her life. Could not judge me.
For... Everyone close to me knows I fall in love quickly, so quickly it probably looks like a whim. I do rush into love, when I'm drawn; and, having rushed in many times with "the wrong people," have hurt myself... and likely others. I have charmed - and scared off - more than a few men and lovers with abrupt honesty, with immense energy, with my sudden and intense bursts of love. With my kind of razor's-edge-thin spontaneity, hurricane-swirling energy, mad delight in the very everything of life - particularly when it breaks with the norm just enough to be beautifully, luxuriously wild and crazy.
This felt different, though: it was easy; the excitement was high, and yet manageable, growing steadily with our exchange.
My heart kept singing; my head kept ringing: He's a chef. He's a chef. He's a chef!
I knew it. I knew it, with every word, with every second of the exchange that passed between us: This was my chef.
My eyes drank in his profile eagerly, charmed excitedly by our shared passions for music, for travel, for food….
Some part of my mind, though, sought to temper me: I thought of my other boyfriend, of the yet-uncommon practice of polyamory, which I uncommonly practice. Of the last date I'd been on, a few weeks previously, with a kind, cool, extremely-tall and handsome beer rep whose eye I had somehow caught at the Team HIDI event for The Giving Kitchen, a date condoned excitedly by my polyamorous boyfriend. The date had ended well with a very enticing kiss and a promise for lunch the next day... which never happened, as the beer rep decided, though our rapport was fun and honest and open - particularly about my polyamory - that he wanted an exclusive relationship with someone who wanted the same.
My mind whipped wildly from visions of sailing to Thailand, of sailing with this chef, of having him cook for me - on my sailboat!! - to my guilt over not yet mentioning my Australian boyfriend, with whom I would most certainly be sailing, should I travel to Thailand. And I judged myself harshly for my first fleck of dishonesty: Damnit, Meri; why wouldn't you mention that you're with someone...??? I replied to myself: Because we weren't talking privately, of course....
Our conversation continued in public, across the Foodiechats world, playing with ideas, dreams that I hung onto.
Then moved to direct messaging.
Calm down! I swore at myself. Calm down; you don't know anything. What if he isn't really into you in that way? Just be friends; just make friends. You know what? Just get to know him. Just talk to him; just interview him.
I felt my shoulders relax immediately, my body behave to my will. Just interview him like a chef. As a chef. Find out about his life. Right? Just make friends.
I calmed down more, my head swimming, swarming with untapped, unexpressed, excited energy. My heart waiting. Just get to know him. If he wants to know you.
I gave him this blog address; we exchanged email addresses. He excitedly parted to make dinner; I was already turning to write my first email, promised to send it immediately, when he replied eagerly that he'd respond in the morning.
I started a draft, very honest, very open, very direct. I wrote half of it....
Sighed. Told myself it was too much, too soon. What if he doesn't understand? What if ... what if he doesn't like polyamory? What if... he goes away... immediately...?
No no no. This was my chef. I knew it was; I wanted him so badly. I had to go gingerly.
Damn...!
I cut the original draft, the one where I told of being married, still, to my husband, after being separated for over ten years; where I had started telling him of my love affair with the Australian man. I hate myself a little more, judged myself a little more for my dishonesty. I didn't believe in doing this, in revising what first came out of me. I didn't believe it could be the truth, that it could be truly me. I didn't believe such things were honest, were true...!
And yet, I wrote the more careful one, a less-excited one, a more measured one... a short one. Polite, but open; with enough leads to be interesting, to show my enthusiasm, my excitement at meeting him. It was not really me... it was... part of me. It was... the disciplined me. The... professional, maybe-get-to-know-me me.
The rest of me bustled, hoped, promised to open up, if only he responded as I... ....
And I sent it, hoping to hear from him the next day.... as my energy, my girlish, impossible love rippled through me, restrained... wanting to be free, waiting to be free, hoping to be freed....
The next morning, I checked my email. There was no response. Nothing but my usual plethora of foodie newsletters.
And nothing, for two weeks.
For two weeks, my heart beat steadily, heavily in my chest, every morning when I woke, every time I checked my email. Hoping that this time, I would hear from him.
I almost wrote back to him on Twitter. Instead, I convinced myself, disappointedly, that he was busy; he was a chef, after all. He owned restaurants, didn't he? Ok, so... he's busy. Maybe later, we'll talk. Maybe he's not my chef, I lied to myself.
"Meredith, why didn't you return my email?"
My heart jumped again when the direct message arrived on my Twitter, the day before Valentine's Day. "Kinda hurt my feelings," he continued.
Oh my god, how did I miss an email from him???
"I didn't get a response to mine... I thought you were too busy or something. To be honest, I was pretty dismayed...." I immediately replied.
I opened my inbox frantically, scanned the contents from the past couple of weeks, searched for his email address. My stomach sank and my heart rocketed in a near-singular motion; I found it, excitedly, happily - but two weeks late!
Meanwhile, his response came: "Oh? Then I am so very sorry! That was not my intent. Can we try this again? I will email you from [another] account. Please let me know:)"
My nervousness returned; I felt horrible that I could have missed it, had wanted it so badly...! How could I have missed it...???
My mind immediately drew conclusions that may not have had anything to do with reality: that I was responsible for the delay, for missing his email because I had not been totally honest with him, and karma was plugging in a warning. I hate pretending to know things, especially esoteric, unprovable things, when I do not; I dismissed the words of my thought, and let their impact take their toll on me, demanding honesty, demanding the truth.
"...I just searched for your email and found it; I think it somehow got lost amidst the shuffle!! I'm so sorry; I'm so pleased to find it!"
And he responded so kindly, so generously: "That's alright. It happens. I will look for your email response :)"
I don't get over my mistakes easily: "Gosh, I feel horrible at just finding it... But I'll reply presently. Thank you so much for sharing...!"
Again, he was so kind, so gentle, so gentlemanly. And I began to read his email, to reply, amidst another short exchange on Twitter's DM.
His reciprocal email response was short, to the point, cautious-but-open. He shared a little more in his email than I had in mine, about his private life... and asked me three direct questions to get me moving more openly about mine.
My next email was much more open, my heart much more free, my response considerably longer. I let out my excitement, let the words flow from me, let my feelings be what they were... since he had mentioned in our latest Twitter exchange a "weird feeling that we would get along."
And, as I confessed in the exchange: I do look for such things.
I told him of my husband, of my family, of being polyamorous....
What is "polyamory," though?
There are apparently many ways of polyamory, but the foundation is always an up-front honesty wherein the partners agree very clearly that they are open to building, to maintaining, to having other relationships of whatever nature they may encounter.
But I was not ready to tell "my" chef about "my Aussie," to whom I was intensely committed, whom I trusted implicitly, with whom I was nearly entirely truthful and honest.
Instead, I waited, wanted the chef's response. I invited him to respond.
I didn't quite realize, then, the strain of the rising conflicts between my mind and heart. I didn't listen as my values kept clashing against themselves, against each other in me. I was still being cautious, was still testing myself and him, was still being dishonest - according to my definition... because I was holding back; because to hold back any emotion, any feeling, any thought that arises, any truth that can be known, any knowledge that exists - even hidden - inside me is a crime. Is a lie. Is a brutality, is a cheat to me, to my heart, to my interlocutor. To all of those I love; to all that I love, because this was not entirely what I wanted to share, was not entirely what I wanted to tell. Was not entirely what I wanted to feel....
It was a bad habit to start. And I felt so insecure.
I did not want to feel so insecure. So unsure.
I wanted to feel in love. I wanted to be in love. In his love; in my love. And I was in love; but the pressure was mounting in me. The conflict growing.
I let it go; I let myself be, promised myself to be more open, more honest.... I pushed away the war in my mind, the confusion that stirred my emotions.
Still, I communicated well: he heard my heart correctly, and I do not know if he even found fault in the ways I wrote, for his response was even more engaged than before; we progressed in the conversation more intimately, opening up impressively fast to one another. The way I was taking was not really my way... but it was a way. We were engaging; we were learning about each other, excitedly, openly.... And, if he noticed that I was hesitant, frightened, not entirely honest, he forgave me.
I forgave me, too, perhaps? I let myself love myself, let myself love him in a new way, gave myself another chance. And he again, excitedly, openly, honestly engaged.
We shared that we wanted break down our walls; that we wanted to stop compartmentalizing our lives.
He shared that he knew about polyamory; that he had no issues with mine.
My heart jumped again! And then: he offered his phone number! My instincts screamed to call him immediately, to hear his voice now! I swallowed my heart back into my chest, let the moment pass; sent him a text instead.
I kept reading the email: "I...bare no secrets...," "...am very upfront, forward and direct...."
My heart kept skipping...!
This was who I wanted. This was who I needed. This was my chef...!
This is who I was, at heart; this is who I wanted to be with my friends, with my family, with those most intimate with me. I waited; I waited; I waited....
I wanted to talk to him so badly, and something, something was wrong...! I could feel it. I could tell: something great was wrong!
I didn't care; I didn't care. I wanted this man; wanted to talk to him. Wanted to hear his voice for the first time, wanted to let go of this enormous love that I was holding in. Wanted to give it to him; needed to release it, somehow. I was too excited. SO excited. I wanted our romance....
Damn. In the back of my head, I knew, knew, knew, knew, knew... something was wrong.
It was just pressure, just the pressure of my excitement. I didn't want to listen completely to my own body's warnings; I refused to listen. I heard anyway, and responded to myself:
Ok, so I wasn't totally honest before; let me catch up then!
I gave more and more, excitedly running with my emotions, letting them flow from me in happy thoughts, as fast as possible, so as not to let the rest catch up, so as not to let my self-criticism drag me down, so as not to let my self-judgement slay me. More honesty, more truth; what am I feeling now, now, now...?!! Meanwhile, trying so hard to remain well-behaved, well-mannered; not to overpower him with my thrill, my excitement... to find words that actually constructed intelligible sentences.
I told him about my Aussie boyfriend. I told him about my children. I gushed my immense excitement over him; about my reeling, spiraling feelings, about my very-active imagination that now included dreams and thoughts of him....
I described myself, physically.
I wanted to give him everything.
My darling love: I forgot to mention: I hate lying, even in the smallest forms. Hate it; hate myself every time I lie, even a little bit; hate myself for every small dishonesty. Would bite myself forever, crush myself forever into dust, and that dust into dust, and that powder into molecules, and those molecules into atoms... until I am nothing resembling anything that can be, that ever could be me... forever until I am gone. Forever.
Our breakup is not your fault. It is mine.
You were right: I hated me. My sadness, that you saw, that you sensed, that you detected... that was not others misunderstanding me. It was me, misunderstanding me. It was me, not listening to me.
I crushed us; I could not live with us. I could not live with the beauty you gave me, with all of the forgiveness you gave. With all of the perfect, perfect gifts you gave. With all of the perfect, perfect life you offered.
Every day, he offered more to me: we chatted on the phone for hours, that first night; and I got off, and it was so hard while we talked - so hard to maintain my neutrality towards both of us, towards myself. Not to break in some way, not to let go of some of the lies and pain I was causing myself.
I did what I habitually do: I found the faults he holds against himself, and I loved them instead of dealing with the faults I find with myself. I forgave them, instead. Not that they were ever mine to forgive.... But I certainly found no fault in them. I found nothing but beauty and charm in my chef, over and over and over again - even when I had such a hard time doing as he asked: to let go of some of my growing intensity, to let go of the sadness in me, to love myself.
I would cry, now - have cried, repeatedly - for the current state of things. For my foolishness, for my fears in the beginning; for following my mind’s imaginings and not my heart’s knowledge…. For ignoring my values, my principles, my standards for myself.
Better - I would scream, would cry, would beg of my months-younger self - to rush in, to risk it all up-front, to expose everything, because this is who I am and who I wish to be: true; honest; me!! Better to fall head-over-heels, to give everything, to be crushed again for any reason whatsoever, even up-front - especially up-front!! - just to love, just for the chance to be loved…!
In case you ever wondered: Fear is not truth.
Fear can be driven by truth, can lead to truth. Truth can lead to fear, if truth is stunted, if it is not followed out. And fear can be completely fabricated, completely imaginary, imitating reality, even constructing a sort-of reality; can be reasoned out and justified, can be believed….
But fear is still never actually truth.
The truth was: I was always in love with him, and he in love with me - from the moment that we met, instantly. There was no choice, except the choice to acknowledge it, the choice to allow ourselves to follow it, to discover why… to live it. To love it. To trust it.
Instead, we were coloring in the details, each hiding half of our crayons.
