As I said at the time:
That round, as I looked back, I had the advantage of understanding my emotional and physical workings better than I did at the time I made the journal entries. Some of my intuitive yet wise moves, despite my many yearnings, now amazed me. Opportunities for involvement that I backed away from, despite my deep craving for relationship. With you, though, if I didn’t demand more, it was because I was afraid you would have bolted or rejected me. So much for self-confidence! Still, you managed to avoid becoming the conduit to/from/of my emotions, back to me, as so much of my psychological wiring has invoked, nor with you was the touch of flesh the ultimate reality (more accurately, my grounding), as it had been with my second college girlfriend, the first woman to be fully naked with me and/or have sex, my senior year of college, at that. Maybe with you, I was already approaching a kind of Tantric sensuality. (Something tempered, via the ashram restrictions, into a renewed Puritanism. Alas.) Is it true I never became dependent on you, no matter how much I hoped we’d spend the rest of our lives together? Or how much you threw me into the proverbial loop? So here you were, only the fourth woman I’d known intimately – and two of those were quite turbulent and oh-so-briefly before you. (From my end, my relative innocence certainly adds to the enchantment.) Or maybe, with you, there was also a faint awareness of my own need to maintain some dimension of freedom – at least not be caught up in the emotional entrapment of others, despite the patterning my mother instilled and which I have usually escaped by living all too much in my intellect alone. This does make for a curious dichotomy!
It’s not my intention to be clinical or analytical here, but rather to see and express more clearly the connections and currents through all of this experience, as well as what followed. Perhaps become wiser, too. If anything, I now feel like an artist who is “painterly,” adding layer to layer for greater intensity and depth. Besides, you’ve unintentionally instigated a fresh reconsideration of so much of these decades.
(And here, my younger one just called from school, to say she’ll be late … she’s dissecting a freshly shot and delivered coyote that had been afflicting another student’s dad’s hen house. How’s that for an unexpected brush stroke? You, with all of your cadaver experiences or employment, and the kid, with her new passion for science. Diener? My three dictionaries at hand don’t even have that word, and this computer’s not online for a quick Google. Later, at the office, I find it in the very fat volume, where it’s defined as “laboratory assistant.” Oh. That’s got to be a great word for Scrabble.)
There’s also the fact that males typically avoid so much in conversing or corresponding with each other, or at least did, back when real letters were mailed. Email, from all I’ve seen, is altogether ephemeral. My best friend from junior high, for instance, has always been all business, even when his first wife was dying of cancer or his mother, from Alzheimer’s. How frustrating! Even with our men’s group at Meeting (a weekly lunchtime gathering that was instigated at the prompting of women, go figure), the dialogue is more likely to turn to politics or finances (out there) than emotions or family (within us).