And	Lord,	what	boring	bedrooms! But
today	the	convent	experience—the	internal	variety—means	anything	but	that. It	means	no	fun	that	isn’t	laced	with	the	sacred,	no	excitement	that	isn’t	laced
with	the	sacred,	no	sex	that	isn’t	laced	with	the	sacred. Or	put	another	way,	it
means	that	the	sacred,	once	you	realize	what	it	is,	is	actually	fun	and	exciting
and,	where	appropriate,	sexual. It’s	important	to	celebrate	your	life,	because	it’s	the	one	God	gave	you. If
He	were	leaving	you	a	text	message,	I	think	it	would	say:	“Enjoy	yourself.”
I	read	an	interview	with	actress	Cameron	Diaz	where	she	said	that	she
didn’t	think	being	light	and	bubbly	was	any	less	valid	than	being	dark	and
moody. I	took	that	in	for	a	moment,	realizing	it	had	taken	me	decades	longer
to	see	this	than	it	had	taken	her. Baby-boomer	women	wanted	to	be	taken	so
seriously,
	primarily	because	our	mothers	weren’t. We	suppressed	our	joy
under	the	false	assumption	that	joy	is	silly. In	fact,	it’s	when	you	realize	how
very	serious	life	truly	is	that	you	take	every	opportunity	to	laugh	when	it
comes	along. Mariane	Pearl,	the	widow	of	slain	
Wall	Street	Journal
	reporter
Daniel	Pearl,	has	said	that	happiness	is	an	act	of	resistance. There	are	so	many	ways	we’re	punished,	including	by	ourselves,	for	the
ecstatic	impulse	that	runs	through	our	veins. Whenever	I	see	a	homeless
person	walking	down	the	street	in	some	absurd	and	ridiculous	outfit—usually
sporting	something	like	a	hat	with	rabbit	ears	or	lots	of	buttons	proclaiming	a
UFO	invasion—part	of	me	thinks,	
Oh,	poor	lost	soul,
	and	part	of	me	thinks,	
I
wish	I	had	the	nerve	to	wear	that. It	has	occurred	to	me	that	I’ve	never	seen	a	statue	of	a	Greek	or	Hindu
goddess	in	which	she	wasn’t	dressed	to	the	nines. The	idea	that	a	
spiritual
woman	chooses	to	have	less	going	on	for	her	in	the	looks	department	was
introduced	into	our	thought	system	by	a	womanhating	institution,	let’s
remember—the	same	club	that	used	to	burn	women	at	the	stake. So	when
they	suggest	a	woman	should	dress	plainly	and	simply	in	order	to	show	her
piety,	I	rush	to	put	on	a	camisole. Makeup	and	jewelry	go	back	longer	than
they
	do;	thousands	of	years	ago,	women	wore	rouge	and	rubies	and	knew
exactly	what	they	were	doing. Queen	Esther	didn’t	save	her	people	by	looking
unattractive	that	night. Any	effort	to	desexualize	women	is	an	effort	to
disempower	us,	and	making	us	feel	guilty	about	wanting	to	look	good	is	more
of	the	same	oppressive	game. Our	society	is	of	two	minds	about	a	mature	woman	trying	to	look	good.She’s	shamed	for	“letting	herself	go,”	yet	she’s	often	shamed	for	trying	to
hold	it	together. All	this	talk	about	“natural	aging”	is	sort	of	ridiculous. Can
we	talk	about	pesticides,	pollution,	carcinogens,	the	hole	in	the	ozone,	worry,
economic	anxiety,	and	divorce	statistics? There’s	nothing	necessarily	
natural
about	all	that	stress	on	your	face. If	a	woman	wants	to	order	the	newest
antiaging	cream	from	an	800	number,	get	Botox,	or	employ	any	other
cosmetic	procedure,	then	I	think	she	should	do	it. I	don’t	see	aging	with	a
kick-ass	regimen	for	staying	hot	and	happening	as	any	less	
graceful
	than
simply	appreciating	your	wrinkles. It’s	not	“serious”	to	want	to	look	good? What’s	so	serious	about	
not
	looking
good? Seriously	gorgeous	and	ageless	Gloria	Vanderbilt	has	said	that	beauty
is	a	gift	from	God,	which	we	have	a	responsibility	to	care	for	as	long	as	we
can. In	any	case,	I	don’t	see	where	my	looking	haggard	helps	a	woman	in	a
poverty-stricken	area	rise	up. In	fact,	I	
do
	see	where	my	wanting	excellence	in
every	area	of	my	life	lifts	me	to	a	level	of	achievement	where	it’s	more	likely
that	I	can	help	her. Denying	care	to	oneself	doesn’t	translate	into	care	for	others. A	woman
taking	care	of	herself—both	in	body	and	in	spirit—is	part	of	her	participation
in	a	wild	and	wonderful	female	adventure. That	adventure	is	emotional,
intellectual,	spiritual,	and	sexual. I	realize	that	more	fuel	for	the	engine	of	my	life—as	a	mother,	an	activist,	a
writer,	a	citizen,	a	creator	in	any	area—comes	from	my	bedroom	and	what
goes	on	there	than	in	any	other	place. I	could	buy	a	hundred	desks,	and	I
would	still	write	sitting	up	on	my	bed. The	library	is	not	my	engine	room. My
office	is	not	my	engine	room. The	kitchen	is	not	my	engine	room. Where	I
live	in	my	most	passionate	places	is	my	engine	room. And	there	are
goddesses	from	every	culture	and	every	age	who	agree. The	ancient	world
was	dotted	with	romantic	and	erotic	temples. I	don’t	have	a	temple	per	se,	but
I	have	a	bedroom,	so	I	start	with	that. Sometimes	when	I	think	about	all	the	suffering	in	the	world—from	torture
to	slavery	to	war	to	child	abuse—I’m	awed	by	the	realization	there	must	be
some	tremendous	counterforce	keeping	humanity	from	completely	self-
destructing. Consider	the	fact	that	every	second,	someone	is	born. Every
second,	someone	is	dying. The	cycles	of	life	continue,	circling	the	globe	at
every	moment. And	consider	this:	Every	second	(or	so	I	hope),	someone
somewhere	is	having	an	ecstatic	orgasm	with	someone	he	or	she	loves. I	think
this	circle	of	ecstasy	is	probably	doing	as	much	to	keep	the	world	from	flying
apart	as	is	any	other	force.Words	of	hate,	acts	of	violence,	horrible	things	done	in	the	light	of	day—
none	have	ultimate	power	before	true	acts	of	love,	many	of	which	are	done	in
the	dark	of	night. It’s	part	of	the	archetypal	mission	of	the	human	female	to
take	care	of	the	home,	and	that	beautiful	moment	in	the	dark	
is
	home. We
should	honor	our	function	as	keepers	of	the	erotic	flame. The	bedroom	is
where	we	both	conceive	our	children	and	repair	our	lovers,	both	of	which	fuel
the	survival	of	the	human	race. This	is	all	the	more	important	as	a	woman	ages,	because	we’re	using	the
power	of	consciousness	to	compensate	for	ways	that	nature	has	passed	us	by. Once	we’ve	completed	our	childbearing	years,	nature	doesn’t	really	
care
whether	we	ever	have	sex	again	or	not! We’re	not	getting	a	lot	of	
help
	from
nature	the	way	we	used	to. But	our	sexual	magic	is	not	simply	about	babies;	it’s	about	enchantment. We	don’t	lure	men	into	bed	only	in	order	to	procreate;	we	lure	them	into	bed
in	order	to	set	their	hearts	on	fire. We	lure	them	into	a	bewitched	and
bewitching	space	so	that	the	romantic	alchemy	of	love	can	help	deliver	them
to	their	greatness,	and	us	to	ours. This	isn’t	a	job	that	stops	when	we	age;	in	a
way,	it’s	a	job	we	don’t	even	
understand
	until	we	age. Midlife	is	
not
	the	time
to	disenchant	ourselves. It’s	a	time	to	turn	on	all	our	magic	in	full	force. E
XCITEMENT	DOESN’T	KNOCK	AT	YOUR	DOOR
	any	less	when	you’re	older	than	when
you’re	younger. It’s	just	that	when	you’re	younger,	you’re	more	likely	to	open
the	door	and	let	it	in. With	age,	you	start	growing	
ambivalent
	about
excitement. You	might	say	that	you	want	it,	but	at	the	same	time	you’re	not
sure	you	have	the	energy	for	it. Yet	a	surefire	way	to	diminish	your	energy	is
to	deny	the	ultimate	energy	pill,	which	is	participation	in	life	itself. My	father	lived	to	be	85,	and	he	was	exciting	his	entire	life. He	used	to
always	say,	“You’ve	gotta	have	a	sense	of	adventure!”	And	boy	did	he. It
wasn’t	just	evidenced	by	his	dramatic	adventures	traveling	the	world;	it	was
evidenced	by	his	approach	to	everyday	life. The	way	he	rode	in	a	convertible
even	when	it	was	raining	because	“Only	sissies	put	the	top	up.”	The	way	he
taught	his	small	children	Stanislavsky	acting	exercises	as	a	substitute	for
normal	games. The	way	he	wore	a	Greek	sailor’s	cap	around,	although	we
lived	in	Texas,	just	in	case	the	Greek	navy	might	call	and	say	they	needed
him! My	father	was	like	a	male	version	of	Auntie	Mame. Whatever	he	did,	he
was	
into
	it—fully,	passionately,	and	with	total	vigor. A	man	like	my	father
wasn’t	looking	to	vitamins	to	give	him	more	energy. He	looked	to	
life
	to	give
him	more	energy,	by	giving	it	so	much	of	his	own.In	the	Russian	Orthodox	Church,	there	is	the	concept	of	the	“passion
bearer.”	I	think	that’s	what	midlife	makes	us:	the	passion	bearers	of	life,
people	who	have	been	through	enough	to	have	felt	the	passion	of	life’s	pain	as
well	as	its	triumphs. To	whatever	extent	we	can	demonstrate	the	joy	of
standing	forth	in	the	space	of	our	own	resurrection,	to	that	extent	we	make
space	for	uplift	and	victory	in	other	people’s	lives. It’s	a	role	of	the	elder	to	lead	the	tribal	celebrations. We’re	the	holders	of
the	excitement	factor. When	a	woman	20	years	younger	than	I	am	announces
that	she’s	pregnant,	I	feel	I’m	fulfilling	some	primal	function	by	letting	her
know	I	think	it’s	the	most	exciting	thing	in	the	world. It’s	as	though	I’m
representing	the	opinion	of	something	larger	than	myself. A	teenager	gets	on	a
sports	team	or	enters	an	essay-writing	contest;	a	young	woman	gets	into	the
managerial	training	program	at	the	company	she’s	been	working	at	for	years;
a	young	man	starts	his	own	company	or	makes	his	first	business	deal—in
every	case,	an	older	person’s	enthusiasm	could	be	a	memory	someone	holds
for	a	lifetime. People	need	to	know	that	the	world	is	on	their	side,	and	for	a
younger	person,	the	“world”	is	often	represented	by	whatever	adult	he	or	she
is	speaking	to	at	the	time. Celebration	isn’t	passive;	it’s	an	active	energy	mover. I’ve	heard	young
people	denigrate	something	I	know	in	their	hearts	represents	a	dream	come
true,	saying	something	like,	“Oh,	it’s	not	that	big	a	deal.”	But	if	I	say	with
determination,	“Oh,	
yes
	it	is!”	then	their	entire	attitude	shifts. I	do	this	for	them,	and	I	do	it	for	myself. Once	you’ve	lived	enough,	once
you’re	cried	enough	tears,	you	know	how	blessed	it	is	to	have	something	to
smile	about. People	who	are	passionate	about	life	don’t	have	a	positive
attitude	because	they	don’t	know	any	better. They’re	often	positive	because
they	
do
	know	better. They	know	that	heartbreak	could	happen	any	day. If	it’s
not	happening	today,	let’s	give	thanks. I	used	to	have	a	bottle	of	good	champagne	in	my	refrigerator. It	remained
there	for	months,	as	I	kept	waiting	for	something	to	“celebrate.”	Finally,
someone	stole	it. I	got	the	point. I	had	waited	too	long. Dear	God,
I	give	You
praise	and	thanks
for	the	blessings	in	my	life.May	they	not	be	diminished
by	my	lack	of	appreciation. Teach	me	how	to	receive	my	good,
and	support	others	in	claiming	theirs. Amen
ONCE
	I	
WAS	RIDING	ON	A	TRAIN	IN	ENGLAND
,	having	just	left	my	daughter	at	a	high
school	program	in	Oxford. Before	I	left,	she	showed	me	her	favorite	spots
from	her	trip	there	the	summer	before:	the	crêperie	where	she	and	her	friends
stayed	up	late	at	night	to	discuss	capitalism	and	Marxism	
(“Yes,	darling,	your
mother	was	young	once,	too—I	have	
so
	been	there	and	done	that!”);	the
Christ	Church	rebuilt	by	Henry	VIII	in	1532	(my	daughter	and	I	have	an
ongoing	conversation	about	Anne	Boleyn,	in	which	I	insist	that	whichever
way	you	view	it,	beheading	
is
	spousal	abuse);	and	our	conversations	that
morning	about	philosophy	and	love	were	mixed	with	my	reminders	to	do
things	like	remember	to	floss. As	I	rode	back	to	London,	I	cried	a	bit. My	little	baby	wasn’t	a	baby
anymore. She’s	not	even	a	little	girl	anymore. She’s	in	that	age	group	Louisa
May	Alcott	so	exquisitely	termed	“little	women.”	Soon	enough,	“Mommy,
may	I?”	will	disappear	completely,	replaced	more	often,	I	suppose,	by	“Mom,
please	send	money.”
This	transitional	time	is	as	profound	for	me	as	it	is	for	her. I’ve	been	good
at	some	aspects	of	mothering,	average	at	others,	and	probably	rotten	at	some. I’ve	never	baked	a	brownie	in	my	life. I	keep	buying	cookbooks,	but	I	just
read	them	and	then	say,	“Nah.”	Yet	we	all	have	our	gifts,	and	the	ones	I	do
have,	I’m	eager	to	pass	on	to	her. Our	children	are	more	than	our	charges;	once	past	puberty,	they	should	be
our	students	in	life’s	deeper	lessons,	our	apprentices	at	living	life	well. I	don’t
want	my	daughter	to	feel	that	she	has	to	leave	my	side	in	order	to	learn
anything	
truly
	important. I	want	to	be	more	than	the	
cleavage
	police,	for
God’s	sake! I	want	to	be	her	mystical	mentor. Raising	children	is	an	advanced	spiritual	practice. Holding	them	close	when
you’re	all	the	world	to	them	is	sometimes	emotionally	overwhelming;	letting
them	go	when	they’re	ready	to	move	away	from	you	is	overwhelming	as	well. And	keeping	the	lines	of	communication	open	is	often	much	easier	said	than
done. It’s	very	different	than	it	was	when	they	were	just	cute	little	kids	in	their
cute	little	outfits	playing	on	cute	little	playdates. I	see	people	with	adorablebabies,	blissfully	unaware	that	the	day	will	come	when	they’re	so	not	in
control,	and	I	think,	
Oh,	honey,	you	wait. But	I	say	nothing. I	just	smile. Let
them	enjoy	this	while	it	lasts. Sooner	than	they	think,	they’ll	lose	the
unconditional	adoration	to	which	they’ve	become	accustomed. Every	parent	meets	the	moment	when	a	look	in	their	child’s	eyes	says,
“Now	I	get	it. I’ve	figured	you	out.”	They’ll	have	to	learn	to	respect	the
unfolding	life	of	a	child	whose	ultimate	destiny	is	his	or	hers	alone. A	fiery
life	force	moves	from	us	into	our	children	at	a	certain	point,	and	it’s	only
when	we	allow	this	to	happen	that	a	new	fire	begins	to	burn	within	us. We
can’t	hold	on	to	the	fire	that	used	to	be	ours	when	it	no	longer	is. We	have	to
let	go	and	watch	with	mixed	emotions	as	it	ignites	within	our	sons	and
daughters. Still,	that	doesn’t	mean	that	they	gain	something	but	we	lose. On	that	day,
as	I	rode	away	from	Oxford,	I	was	crying	but	I	was	smiling	as	well. My
daughter	was	free	now	in	that	way	that	only	the	young	can	be	free. But	I	was
free,	too,	in	a	way	only	someone	who	has	raised	his	or	her	children	to	a
certain	age	and	watched	them	grow	up	can	be. She	
and
	I	had	earned	new
wings. We	both	need	to	go	on	to	the	next	stage	of	our	lives	and	enter	a	new	set	of
magic	years. Everyone	must	follow	the	trajectory	of	his	or	her	own	soul
growth. On	the	one	hand,	I	can’t	imagine	how	I’ll	feel	when	I	don’t	get	to
look	at	the	clock	at	3:15	in	the	afternoon	and	say	excitedly,	“Oh,	she’ll	be
home	soon!”	(There’s	such	a	fantastic	way	teenagers	slam	the	door	behind
them	when	they	come	home	from	school,	bellowing	“I’m	home!”	with	such
confidence	that	it’s	the	biggest	news	anybody’s	going	to	hear	all	day.) On	the
other	hand,	I	know	there	will	be	new	experiences	in	the	future	when	we’re	no
longer	based	in	the	same	city,	different	from	the	ones	we	have	now	but	just	as
wonderful. Only	when	you	allow	someone	else	to	grow	do	you	get	to	grow,	too. And
sometimes,	of	course,	that	means	they	grow	away	from	you. Counterintuitively,	the	more	you	allow	people	to	take	the	distance	they	need,
the	closer	your	bond	with	them	becomes. The	more	I	let	my	daughter	go,	the
more	she	lets	me	in. I	will	never	forget	when	my	little	girl	was	so	tiny	that	I	propped	her	up
between	pillows	on	my	bed	as	I	sat	next	to	her	and	wrote. I	think	of	that	often
when	she’s	lying	across	the	same	bed	now,	chattering	on	after	school	about
homework	and	history	and	life. These	are	the	good	old	days,	and	believe	me,	I
know	it. Watching	her	one	day,	I	began	tearing	up	at	the	thought	that	she’sgrowing	up	so	fast;	we	won’t	be	having	these	daily	mother-daughter-plop-
down-and-discuss-everything	sessions	after	school	each	day	for	that	much
longer. But	then	my	momentary	sadness	was	interrupted	by	a	vision	just	as
beautiful	as	what	was	in	front	of	me. I	saw	us	plopped	down	right	here	again,
but	this	time	with	another	baby,	as	a	new	mother	comes	over	to	visit
Grandma. The	baby	is	gorgeous,	the	mother	is	ecstatic,	and	the	grandma’s
pretty	cool	herself. Or	so	I	saw,	and	so	I	pray. Dear	God,
Please	take	care	of	my	precious	child
as	her	path	now	leads	her	away	from	me. May	angels	surround	her,
and	may	she	find	her	way. May	my	love	for	her
be	as	a	light	that	surrounds	her,
for	all	her	living	days. Amen
Chapter	Six
I
	
W
ILL	
S
URVIVE
A
while	back	singer/songwriter	Rupert	Holmes	had	a	hit	song	about	a
married	couple	who	both	took	out	personal	ads,	trying	to	find	someone	who
wanted	more	adventure	than	was	offered	in	their	marriage. What	they	didn’t
know,	of	course—and	found	out	when	they	answered	each	other’s	ad!—was
that	both	of	them	wanted	to	do	more	exciting	things	than	they	were	in	the
habit	of	doing	together. Years	ago,	I	knew	a	man	whose	wife	died,	after	which	all	he	could	do	was
just	sit	there	crying,	“I	never	took	her	on	the	trips	she	wanted	to	take. I	didn’t
tell	her	often	enough	how	much	I	loved	her. There	are	so	many	things	I
should	have	done	with	her	and	didn’t…	.”	It	was	tragic	to	see	his	eyes	so	open
at	a	time	when	it	was	so	too	late. Many	people,	for	many	reasons,	resist	the	grand	adventure	that	love	can	be. It’s	one	of	those	brass	rings	that	is	often	right	in	front	of	us,	yet	we	don’t	grab
on. It’s	one	thing	when	we	just	don’t	feel	the	energy,	when	it’s	simply	not	the
right	person. But	sometimes	it	
is
	the	right	person—there	
is
	the	energy—but
we	don’t	give	the	relationship	the	time	or	space	or	attention	it	takes	to
cultivate	what’s	already	good	and	turn	it	into	something	great. Once	you’re	a	certain	age,	the	idea	of	wasting	any	opportunity—
particularly	the	opportunity	to	love—is	seen	as	the	blasphemy	it	is. You	might
as	well	just	spit	at	God	as	turn	away	from	the	chance	to	really	love. And	that’s
why	love	burns	brightly	at	midlife;	you’re	no	longer	under	the	delusion	that
the	sparks	that	are	flying	here	fly	along	every	day. A	friend	of	mine	said	to	me	once,	“I	used	to	be	so	afraid	of	committing	to	a
woman	for	the	rest	of	my	life	…	but	‘the	rest	of	my	life’	doesn’t	sound	like	so
long	anymore!”
Many	of	us	have	wounds	that	keep	us	from	loving	fearlessly. And	fear,
while	rarely	justified,	is	often	understandable. Letting	go	of	fear	that	has
accumulated	over	many	years,	in	order	to	be	able	to	experience	the	love
standing	in	front	of	you	right	now—that	challenge	is	the	romantic	call	ofmidlife. Dear	God,
Please	melt
the	walls	in	front	of	my	heart. Remove	my	fear
and	restore	my	joy,
that	I	might	love	again. Amen
O
NE	OF	OUR	BIGGEST	FEARS,	OBVIOUSLY,	IS	THE	FEAR	OF	ABANDONMENT
. Clearly,	it	hits	a
primal	wound	when	someone	whose	love	has	meant	so	much	to	us	then
changes	his	or	her	mind. Metaphysically,	what	happens	when	we	separate	from	a	beloved	is	that	we
reexperience	our	original	separation	from	God—or	at	least	the	illusion	that	we
could	ever	
be
	separate. In	fact,	such	a	separation	would	be	so	shattering	to	the
entire	universe	that	the	universe	could	no	longer	exist	were	it	to	be	true. The
truth	is	that	our	oneness	with	God,	and	with	each	other,	is	a	fundamental,
unalterable	aspect	of	reality. Not	consciously	realizing	any	of	this,	we	displace	our	hunger	for	conscious
contact	with	God	onto	our	search	for	a	romantic	partner. Connection	with	a
lover	is	intoxicating	because	it	reminds	us	of	our	union	with	God;	separation
is	so	devastating	because	it	reminds	us	of	what	it	feels	to	be	separate	from
Him. And	a	terrible	catch-22	develops:	Feeling	separate	from	God,	I’m	more
hungry	for	you. But	also,	feeling	separate	from	Him,	I’m	not	in	a	whole	state. Being	not	in	a	whole	state,	I’m	fractured—and	thus	more	likely	to	
blow
	it
with	you. So	it	is	that	love	can	be	hell. And	so	it	is	that	love	can	be	heaven. Both	are	worthy	of	investigation…	. S
OMETIMES	IT’S	THE	ONE	WHO	TAKES	AWAY	ALL	OUR	PAIN
	who	then	piles	on	even	more	of	it. I	once	had	the	most	beautiful	romance,	or	at	least	I	thought	so. Then	one
day	it	was	simply	gone. I	had	heard	stories	of	people	suddenly	walking	out	on
their	families,	never	to	return. But	I	always	thought	there	must	be	more	to	itthan	that;	surely	it	wasn’t	that	simple. No	one	just	got	up	one	day	and	said,
“It’s	over,”	and	that	was	it. Or	so	I	believed	until	it	happened	to	me. I’m	one	of	those	people	who	needs	to	
talk	
…	to	process,	to	understand,	to
give	and	receive	forgiveness	if	nothing	else. But	some	people	find	all	that
talking	at	the	end	too	much	to	take. Or	perhaps	the	talking	might	expose	too
much. For	whatever	reason,	it	seems	better	for	them	to	surgically	remove	the
other	person	from	their	life,	burn	the	bridge	behind	them,	throw	a	bomb	into	a
beautiful	garden	that	could	have	been	a	friendship	that	lasted	a	lifetime. This	man	had	given	me	a	gift. With	him,	I’d	had	the	experience	of	a	love
that	didn’t	conflict	with	my	larger	sense	of	mission	for	my	life. For	once	there
seemed	to	be	no	competition,	no	split,	between	my	romantic	life	and	my
career. I	didn’t	feel	I	was	neglecting	one	in	order	to	best	serve	the	other,	and
for	me	that	was	new. Instead,	I	felt	his	love	like	a	raft	beneath	me,	on	which	I
could	just	lie	back	serenely. Often	before,	I	had	felt	as	though	the	different
elements	of	my	life	were	like	plates	clanging	against	each	other	in	a	too-
crowded	dishwasher. Yet	while	he	was	there,	there	was	no	clanging. Things
that	usually	seemed	difficult	weren’t	so	hard	to	hold	together	after	all. He’d
meet	what	for	me	were	the	most	stress-producing	issues	with	some	line	like,
“Yeah,	well,	so	what	should	we	have	for	dinner?”	and	I	would	melt. But	then	it	ended,	in	an	abrupt	and	unkind	way. I,	of	course,	had	a	choice	to
make. In	the	words	of	
A	Course	in	Miracles,
	I	could	be	hostage	to	my	ego	or
host	to	God. I	knew	that	there	is	no	letting	go	of	others—the	kind	of	release
that	frees	not	only	them	but	you	as	well—without	giving	them	your	genuine
blessing. It	wouldn’t	be	enough	to	just	say,	“I	release	you.”	I	had	to	be	able	to
say,	“I	release	you	and	pray	that	you	walk	with	angels. I	release	you	and	hope
your	dreams	come	true. I	release	you	and	wish	you	happiness.”	I	resisted,	as	I
was	filled	with	resentment. But	I	prayed. Soon	after,	I	was	reading	
A	Course	in	Miracles
	and	came	across	truth	that	I
needed	to	hear. I	was	reminded	that	all	of	us	are	equally	holy	in	God’s	eyes	…
that	whatever	grievance	I	hold	against	another	person	has	more	to	do	with	my
own	need	to	find	blame	than	with	anything	they	have	done	. . . and	that
regardless	of	what	mistakes	have	been	made	by	anyone	in	the	past,	in	the
present	I	can	choose	to	see	love. Reading	such	things	had	the	miraculous
power	to	alchemize	my	emotions,	to	remove	the	painful	impurities	that,	after
all,	weren’t	ruining	
his
	day—just	mine! The	ego	feasts	on	all	this	pain,	like	a	scavenger	dog	delivering	endless
evidence	of	other	people’s	cruelty,	wrongdoing,	injustices,	and	so	forth. It’s	so
tempting	to	monitor	someone	else’s	issues,	leaving	out	of	the	equation	whatwe	ourselves	might	need	to	learn	from	a	situation. One	of	the	most	important
gifts	of	any	relationship	is	the	gift	of	self-awareness. In	the	final	analysis,	that
is	the	reason	for	love:	that	one	day	we	will	
become
	love. And	everything	that
ever	happens	will	be	used	to	show	us	how	we’re	doing	so	far. One	morning	I	woke	up	thinking	about	him. I	found	myself	saying	a
spontaneous	prayer,	no	longer	that	God	help	me	through	this	experience	but
that	God	help	him. I’d	known	intellectually,	of	course,	that	this	man’s
behavior	at	the	end	of	our	relationship	was	not	that	of	a	cruel	person	so	much
as	that	of	a	wounded	one. The	intensity	of	my	own	pain	had	made	me	unable
to	see	beyond	the	wound	he’d	inflicted	on	me	to	feel	true	compassion	for	the
wound	in	him. Yet	that	was	my	lesson,	clearly:	to	feel	deeper	compassion	for
someone	else’s	wounds	so	I	could	then	be	healed	of	my	own. And	finally,	on
that	particular	morning,	I	could. I	could	imagine	how	much	pain	he	would
have	had	to	be	in,	on	some	deep	level,	to	so	casually	throw	away	the	kind	of
connection	we	had	had. I	thought	of	Emerson’s	words:	“Whenever	you	meet
anyone,	remember	they	are	going	through	a	great	war.”	I	could	see	that	about
him. I	prayed	for	him,	and	I	wished	him	healed. Then	I	could	see	what	perhaps	had	been	the	agreement	forged	between	our
souls. Like	so	many	women,	an	anger	at	men—from	unavailable	fathers	to
unavailable	lovers—had	left	a	toughness	in	my	heart	that	did	not	serve	me
well. Forgiving	this	man,	praying	for	him,	really	wanting	in	my	heart	for	him
to	be	happy,	I	felt	a	shift	inside	myself. He	stood	for	every	man	who	had	ever
made	me	feel	dismissed. Forgiving	him	helped	me	forgive	them	all. And	then,
in	a	deeper	way,	I	was	free. The	blessing	was	simply	that	I’d	had	the	experience,	and	an	experience
cannot	be	possessed. It’s	there	when	it’s	there	and	it’s	gone	when	it’s	gone. Ultimately	you	come	to	realize	that	everything	is	yours	and	nothing	is	yours. As	Helena	says	about	her	beloved	Demetrius	in	Shakespeare’s	
A	Midsummer
Night’s	Dream:	
“And	I	have	found	Demetrius	like	a	jewel,	/	Mine	own,	and
not	mine	own.”
When	you’re	young,	you	hold	on	tightly	to	love	in	the	hopes	that	it	will	last
forever. When	you’re	older,	you	know	you	don’t	need	to	hold	on	because	it
does
	last	forever. People	come	and	they	sometimes	go. But	love	remains,	if	it
remains	in	you. People	often	say,	“I’ve	been	hurt	so	bad. How	can	I	ever	trust	again?”	But
faith	in	love	doesn’t	mean	faith	in	someone’s	personality;	it	means	faith	in	the
changeless	nature	of	love	itself. Faith	in	love	isn’t	faith	in	another	person;
ultimately,	it’s	faith	in	ourselves. It	means	faith	in	our	capacity	to	discern	andin	our	capacity	to	forgive. It	means	faith	in	our	capacity	to	love	fiercely,	yet
with	the	full	understanding	that	who	and	what	we	love	today	might	be	gone
tomorrow. True	love	is	always	a	risk,	in	that	sense. But	the	universe	isn’t	invested	just
in	giving	us	what	we	want. It’s	invested	us	in	teaching	us	how	to	love. And	if
we	bless	others	when	they’re	with	us,	but	withhold	our	blessing	if	and	when
they	leave,	then	we	ourselves	have	not	yet	received	or	become	the	blessing. A
blessing	that	isn’t	constant	is	not	a	blessing. What	we	trust	is	the	will	of	God. We’re	brought	into	each	other’s	lives	on
divine	assignment,	spirit	working	through	the	subconscious	mind	to	draw	us
to	people	with	whom	we	have	the	greatest	opportunity	for	soul	growth. But
that	doesn’t	mean	that	the	lessons	will	always	be	easy. In	fact,	someone	might
have	been	brought	into	our	lives	in	order	for	us	to	master	the	lesson	of
discernment—in	other	words,	to	teach	us	what	to	turn	
away
	from. Sometimes	it’s	an	experience	of	what	you	do	not	ultimately	want	that
teaches	you	what	you	
do
	want. Sometimes	it’s	the	one	who	shatters	you	who
releases	you	to	your	truest	love. Something	didn’t	turn	out	to	be	what	you
hoped	for,	but	perhaps	that	was	the	point. It	was	a	relationship	that	released
you	to	you,	thus	setting	you	on	a	higher	path. True	love	can’t	come	until	you
know	yourself,	and	you	couldn’t	know	yourself	until	certain	appetites	were
blasted	out	of	you. You	might	have	had	an	appetite	for	the	less	than	committed	because	you
weren’t	ready	to	be	committed. Now,	having	been	run	from,	you	are	ready	to
stop	running. Now,	having	been	stung,	you	are	ready	to	stop	stinging. And
now	a	true	love—someone	who	neither	stings	nor	runs	nor	is	attracted	to	pain
—is	on	their	way	to	meet	you. In	the	words	or	the	Persian	poet	Rumi,	“Out	of
a	shattered	open	heart	springs	a	fountain	of	fiery	sacred	passion	that	will
never	run	dry.”
Don’t	skip	a	beat. Perfume	your	soul. Make	ready	your	house. Prepare	your
heart. Perhaps	you	were	let	down	by	a	love	of	this	world,	so	you	would	learn	at
last	to	lean	only	on	God. Dear	God,
I	surrender	to	You
my	past	relationships.Teach	me	how	to	forgive,
dear	God,
that	I	might	be	weighed	down	no	longer. I	release	the	ones	who	have	wounded	me:
may	they	now	find	their	joy. May	I	be	forgiven
for	the	wounds	I’ve	inflicted. May	all	of	us	find	true	peace. Amen
T
HE	PROBLEM	WITH	
NOT	
YET	LEANING	ON
	G
OD	IS	THAT	WE	THEN	TEND
	to	lean	inordinately	on
other	people. Failing	to	embrace	a	love	that	will	always	be	there	for	us,	we
become	vulnerable	to	ones	that	won’t	be. I	remember	a	television	show	that	was	very	popular	when	I	was	a	little	girl
called	
Father	Knows	Best. Every	time	the	teenage	daughter	walked	into	a
room,	her	father	gave	her	a	huge	smile	and	exclaimed,	“Why	hello,	Princess!”
Being	so	deeply	adored	by	her	father	at	that	age,	a	girl’s	brain	would	be
imprinted	with	an	emotional	propensity	for	men	who	treat	her	in	a	similarly
adoring	way. Healthy	male	attention	would	feel	natural	to	her;	she’d	grow	up
knowing	what	it	looks	like	and	how	she	should	respond	to	it. But	if	male	attention	is	missing,	then	the	girl	grows	up	in	many	cases	to	be
a	woman	who	either	deflects	such	a	comment	because	it’s	so	alien	to	her,	or
goes	in	the	opposite	direction	and	practically	turns	it	into	a	marriage	proposal! Either	way,	there’s	a	void	where	a	genuine	sense	of	her	female	self	should	be. And	boy,	is	an	inauthentic	person	a	sucker	for	an	inauthentic	person. A	woman	like	that	would	be	particularly	vulnerable	to	emotional	charlatans
—the	“charmers”	who	say	exactly	the	right	thing	and	know	a	fair	amount	of
poetry,	but	from	whom	there’s	rarely	a	responsible	follow-through	to	their
protestations	of	adoration. He	too	was	almost	always	a	wounded	child. Something	made	it	necessary	for	him,	when	young,	to	learn	performance	as	a
survival	skill. For	whatever	reason,	he	came	to	feel	at	a	tragically	early	age
that	deceit	rather	than	authenticity	was	a	normal	mode	of	being. Conscious
connection	to	his	own	deeper	truth	was	superseded	by	a	need	to	find	whatever
words	or	behavior	would	help	him	survive	a	traumatic	moment. Life	taught
him	to	behave	falsely—not	how	to	present	himself	as	he	truly	is,	in	touch	withhis	honest	feelings	and	deeper	truth—but	rather	to	display	with	lightning
speed	whatever	behavior	gives	him	a	short-term	emotional	advantage. Someone	who	learned	the	subtleties	of	human	manipulation	at	an	early	age
tends	to	be	very	good	at	it	by	the	time	he’s	an	adult. Such	a	person	simply
lacks	integrity;	not	because	he’s	a	bad	human	being,	but	because	he	was
knocked	out	of	his	spiritual	center	as	a	child	and	hasn’t	yet	learned	to	reclaim
it. As	a	child,	he	was	a	victim;	as	an	adult,	however,	he’ll	be	held	accountable
for	his	behavior	one	way	or	another. As	a	friend	once	said	to	me,	“The
universe	keeps	a	perfect	set	of	books.”
How	many	times	have	we	excused	someone’s	unacceptable	behavior	with
lines	like,	“But	inside,	he’s	just	a	wounded	little	boy”? To	which	a	girlfriend
of	mine	once	responded,	“So	was	Hitler.”	The	fact	that	I	have	compassion	for
you	doesn’t	mean	I	shouldn’t	delete	you	from	my	BlackBerry. Damaged	people	damage	people. They’re	also	attracted	to	other	damaged
people. So	we	should	all	beware. Those	such	as	the	man	and	woman	described	above	would	easily	be	drawn
to	each	other,	as	their	neuroses	form	a	perfect	fit. He’s	a	performer
extraordinaire,	and	she’s	easily	taken	in	by	a	great	performance. Their	egos’
intention	is	that	they	trigger	each	other’s	wounds,	but	God’s	intention	is	that
they	
heal
	each	other’s	wounds. Which	it	will	be	is	up	to	them. Whoever	is
willing	to	do	the	work	in	a	relationship,	seeing	it	as	their	own	opportunity	for
self-healing,	w	ill	receive	the	blessing	whether	the	other	person	makes	the
same	choice	or	not. And,	ultimately,	all	of	us	will	get	there;	lessons	we
haven’t	learned	will	just	keep	coming	around	until	we	do. Healing	can	hurt—whether	it’s	the	healing	of	having	to	face	the	shame	of
our	own	humiliation,	or	the	pain	of	having	to	turn	our	backs	on	someone
whose	patterns	are	unhealthy	for	us	to	be	around	though	we	love	them	still. Either	way,	the	pain	of	the	healing	is	far	preferable	to	the	pain	of	remaining	at
the	effect	of	the	neurotic	pattern. The	woman	will	find,	if	she	searches,	that	while	her	worldly	daddy	wasn’t
always	there,	her	Heavenly	Father	is	there	for	her	always;	never	fails	to	adore
her;	and	has	created	her	whole,	which	she	will	always	be. The	man	will
discover—if	he	continues	his	spiritual	quest—that	the	patterns	of	deceit	that
he	learned	so	early,	and	have	now	become	forces	over	which	he	seems	to	have
no	control,	can	and	will	be	healed	as	he	acknowledges	them	and	prays	that
they	be	lifted. Will	the	man	and	woman	above	get	past	their	wounds? Will	she	growstrong	enough	in	her	sense	of	true	self	to	lose	all	attraction	to	false	romantics,
preferring	authentic	love	before	the	ersatz	version? Will	he	at	last	feel	bad
enough	about	the	hurt	he	causes	others	to	ask	for	God’s	help	in	changing	his
behavior? Each	must	choose. The	one	who	learns	and	grows	will	mature	and
ripen	with	age. The	one	who	doesn’t	will	just	grow	old…	. Dear	God,
Please	heal	my	romantic	wounds,
that	I	might	give	and	receive	true	love. Teach	me	how	to	let	love	in,
and	how	to	let	it	stay. Amen
I
N	ACTRESS
	E
LLEN
	B
URSTYN’S	SUPERB	MEMOIR
,	
L
essons	in
	
B
ecoming
	
M
yself
,	she	describes	how,
after	a	dramatic,	decades-long	string	of	husbands	and	lovers,	she	found
herself	taking	a	25-year	break—repeat:	
25	
years
—before	ultimately	finding
the	healthy,	wholesome	romance	she’d	always	wanted. She	didn’t	even	date
during	her	romantic	hiatus,	so	sure	was	she	that	any	liaison	she	developed
would	be	just	another	reflection	of	the	same	painful	patterns	she’d	played	out
in	her	relationships	until	then. I	call	this	a	“sex-and-love	fast.”	Few	people	think	of	it	that	way	when
they’re	going	through	it,	of	course. While	we’re	experiencing	it,	we	just	feel
it’s	a	“dry	spell”	or	even	the	“end	of	all	that”;	we	might	think	it’s	happening
because	we’re	older	now,	so	we	don’t	attract	lovers	as	easily	anymore. But	the
truth	is	often	that	we	declared	a	halt	to	romance	on	a	subconscious	level,
regardless	of	how	much	the	conscious	mind	protests	that	“we’d	love	to	meet
someone.”
Why? As	a	middle-aged	friend	of	mine	once	responded	when	I	asked	her	if
she	was	seeing	anyone,	“No. I	can’t	stand	who	I	become	when	I’m	in	a
relationship. I’d	rather	not	even	do	it.”	Once	you	see	that	in	every	relationship
you’ve	encountered	the	same	demon—your	
own
—you	realize	that	until	you
deal	with	that	demon,	you’ll	never	find	true	love. For	the	demon	blocks	it. This	demon	takes	various	forms	in	your	arsenal	of	self-sabotage:	insecurity,
lack	of	boundaries,	jealousy,	dishonesty,	anger,	control,	neediness,	or
whatever	other	form	of	personal	inauthenticity	that	leads	you	time	and	time
again	to	either	attract	the	bad	ones	or	blow	it	with	the	good	ones. It	is	naïve	to
underestimate	that	demon’s	power.After	one	of	her	romances	went	desperately	sour,	a	friend	once	told	me,
“Another	one	like	that	would	kill	me.”	I	understood	what	she	meant,	and	so
can	most	people. There	comes	a	time	when	you	feel	like	the	high	of	romance
isn’t	worth	the	pain	of	its	demise;	when	the	risk	of	a	romantic	disaster
outweighs	the	thrill	of	the	ride. And	that	time	is	…	you	guessed	it	. . . more
often	than	not	around	midlife. Why? First	of	all,	because	it	often	takes	that	long	to	have	experienced
enough	disasters	that	you’d	do	anything	possible	to	make	sure	you	avoid
another	one. Also,	you’ve	reached	a	point	when	you	don’t	have	as	hard	a	time
overriding	your	hormones. Your	body	isn’t	so	upset	anymore	to	hear	you	say
that	you’re	taking	a	break. It	rather	welcomes	the	chance	for	some	downtime. The	yearning	for	love	is	still	there,	but	the	yearning	alchemizes	into
something	less	personal. Not	less	personal	in	the	sense	that	you	don’t	love	an
intimate	conversation	or	having	a	warm	body	hold	you	close;	just	less
personal	in	the	sense	that	life	has	forced	you	to	see	beyond	the	illusion	that
any	human	being	can	erase	all	your	pain. You	realize	the	romantic	mythology
we	were	all	brought	up	with	is	like	a	computer	file	that	has	been	corrupted. Until	that	file	has	been	removed	and	replaced	by	another,	no	matter	what	we
do,	our	ultimate	outcome	will	be	tainted. This	doesn’t	mean	you	don’t	still	crave	love—the	craving	itself	never	stops. As	a	matter	of	fact,	at	just	the	point	when	you’ve	had	enough,	the	very	fact
that	you	
have
	had	enough	is	what	causes	your	breakthrough	into	the
awareness	that	sets	you	free. As	it’s	said	in	Alcoholics	Anonymous,	every
problem	comes	bearing	its	own	solution. It’s	often	when	love	has	hurt	you	the
most	that	you	come	to	see	how	and	why	you	set	yourself	up	for	all	that	pain. So	you	go	on	a	fast. All	of	a	sudden,	your	phone	stops	ringing. Like	Ellen
Burstyn,	you’re	forced	to	cleanse	your	palate. Burstyn	came	to	understand	that	her	negative	relationship	patterns	were
reflections	of	her	childhood	wounds,	which	she’d	have	to	reenact	until	she
healed	them. So	do	we	all. Until	that	work	is	done	on	some	level,	there	is	no
getting	off	the	wheel	of	suffering. Our	subconscious	minds	aren’t	wrong	in
cutting	us	off	from	love	and	sex	for	a	while,	as	the	work	is	being	done	and
deeply	absorbed	into	our	system. The	fast	isn’t	something	we	do	to	isolate;
it’s	something	we	do	to	survive. First	there	was	childhood,	and	the	wounding	that	occurred	then. Then	there
was	young	adulthood,	and	all	the	disasters	that	occurred	because	of	your
childhood	wounds. And	then	there’s	midlife,	when	it’s	time	to	deal	at	last	withwhat	happened	in	childhood	
and
	in	young	adulthood. Midlife	is	the	time	to
heal,	so	our	hearts	can	finally	be	delivered	from	the	past	and	released	to	the
fullness	of	what	love	can	be	right	now. When	you	see	a	lot	of	middle-aged	individuals	at	personal-growth
seminars,	it’s	not	because	they’re	done	with	love	and	this	is	their	only
entertainment	now. Often,	they	have	memories	that	might	shock	the	younger
people	around	them. Whenever	you	see	an	older	person,	you	might	want	to
subtract	40	years,	and	that	will	tell	you	how	old	he	or	she	was	in	the	’60s. But
the	new	midlife	is	not	a	time	to	simply	dwell	on	our	memories	of	love	and	the
demons	we	encountered	there;	it’s	time	to	develop	the	skill	to	send	the
demons	back	to	hell. Sometimes	you	wonder	if	you	missed	your	window. Ellen	Burstyn	writes
that	she	remembered	feeling,	
Now	that	I	know	I	am	ready	at	last	to	love	well,
I	fear	it	is	too	late. With	that	sentiment,	she	echoes	the	fears	of	many. Yet
that’s	just	a	typical,	last-ditch	effort	of	the	demon	to	deter	us,	a	common	pain
that	often	pops	up	in	our	heads	in	that	one	minute	before	the	miracle. Once	your	mind	and	heart	are	realigned—when	the	broken	self	you	became
in	childhood	is	no	longer	manifesting	broken	relationships—then	you’re
ready	at	last	to	love	again. Compassion,	integrity,	truthfulness,	generosity,	and
graciousness	become	key	elements	in	your	new	romantic	skill	set. You	come
to	see	what	you	did	wrong	in	the	past	and	to	forgive	yourself,	to	understand
other	people’s	actions	and,	where	necessary,	forgive	them,	too. You	are
humbled	at	last	into	your	purity	and	grace. In	the	Epilogue	of	her	book,	Burstyn	describes	how	she	finally	met	the	man
of	her	dreams,	and	I	finished	the	last	page	thinking,	
Now	I	want	to	read	the
sequel! I’d	read	hundreds	of	pages	about	the	horrors	of	her	past;	now	I	wanted
to	know	what	finally	getting	it	right	would	look	and	feel	like. Just	as	certain	foods	need	to	marinate,	our	romantic	skills	need	years
sometimes	to	come	together	in	all	their	richness. I	asked	Burstyn	what	it’s	like
now,	to	finally	feel	that	she	loves	and	is	loved	well. “What’s	different?”	I
asked	her. “For	starters,”	she	said,	“there	is	much	more	respect	and	much	less
judgment. Conversations	don’t	escalate	into	arguments,	and	arguments	don’t
escalate	into	violence.”	She	paused. “And	now	I	know	how	to	let	a	man	be.”
So	in	our	youth,	we	often	had	love	but	didn’t	know	what	to	do	with	it. Then
sometimes,	after	what	can	be	a	very	long	time	in	the	romantic	wilderness,	we
find	love	again	or	love	finds	us. And	this	time,	we	
do
	know	what	to	do. Thatwilderness—that	fast—was	not	the	end	of	anything. It	was	our	romantic
salvation. Dear	God,
Please	reveal	to	me
the	glory	of	manhood,
the	beauty	of	the	masculine,
and	the	greatness	of	men. Amen
I	
ALWAYS	HATE	IT	WHEN
	I’
M	ASKED	TO	FILL	OUT
	an	official	form	of	some	kind	that
includes	the	options	“single,”	“married,”	or	“divorced.”	I	always	leave	that
section	blank,	as	my	way	of	saying,	“That’s	none	of	your	damn	business.”
I	think	I	feel	that	way	because	it	seems	too	personal. It	feels	like	an
emotional	identity	theft,	giving	someone	permission	to	make	assumptions
about	me	based	on	such	external	categories. (Calm	down,	Marianne. This	is	a
dental
	form.) Which	is	not	to	say,	of	course,	that	whether	we’re	married	or	single	doesn’t
matter. It’s	just	to	say	that	the	deeper	issues	of	love	are	not	about	form	but
content. The	problem	I	see	most	often	blocking	the	romantic	impulse	is	a
stifled	sense	of	self:	Many	men	aren’t	really	sure	how	to	be	men,	and	many
women	aren’t	really	sure	how	to	be	women. Our	generational	detour	into	an
ambisexual	wasteland	was	part	of	what	emotionally	stunted	many	of	us	for
years. When	a	woman	thinks	that	she	can	overdo	her	“masculine	self”	and	a
man	will	still	want	her,	or	a	man	thinks	that	he	can	overdo	his	“feminine	self”
and	a	woman	will	still	want	him,	then	all	manner	of	confusion	leads	to	all
manner	of	pain. That	delusional	trend	has	begun	to	self-correct,	but	the
generational	wound	is	not	yet	fully	healed. It’s	one	of	those	many	areas	where
our	parents	sometimes	had	it	right—for	the	wrong	reasons,	perhaps,	but	in
ways	we	didn’t	realize,	they	had	it	right. My	mother	was	a	broad. If	she	had	an	opinion,	you	knew	it. If	she	didn’t
like	something,	she’d	let	you	hear	about	it. And	my	father	never	seemed	to
think	that	he	had	the	right	to	stop	her	from	expressing	herself. He	never
seemed	to	want	to. However	
…	there	was	a	limit	that	he	sometimes	set,	not	to
her	self-expression	but	to	any	discomfort	it	might	be	causing	him.My	father	never	called	my	mother	by	her	name,	ever. She	was	always	just
“Sweetheart.”	But	every	once	in	a	while—not	frequently,	but	at	those	rare
times	when	something	she	was	going	on	about	was	stirring	tension	he	was	not
okay	with—my	father	simply	looked	at	her	and	said	simply,	“Sophie	Ann.”
And	my	mother	stopped. That	was	it. She	grew	silent. It	took	me	many	years
and	tears	to	understand	what	a	lucky	woman	my	mother	was. For	a	woman	to	feel	free	to	be	strong	and	wild	and	creatively	rambunctious,
she	can’t	afford	to	be	with	a	partner	who	in	any	way	stifles	her,	invalidates
her,	or	punishes	her	for	being	who	she	is. That	being	said,	a	woman	is	blessed
by	the	presence	of	someone	who	can	say,	in	a	way	that	doesn’t	withhold	his
affection	or	undermine	her	confidence,	“Are	you	sure	you	want	to	go	that
far?”
For	many	women,	our	deepest	craving	is	for	a	place	to	relax. We’re	like	the
water	in	a	swimming	pool. Of	course	we	appreciate	the	concrete;	all	we	have
to	do	is	just	be	the	water. A	woman’s	state	of	being,	not	doing,	is	what
magnetizes	love. And	nothing	is	a	more	powerful	state	of	being	than	a	deep
acceptance	of	what	
is. Too	often	we	inquire	about	a	situation,	“How	can	I
change	this?”	when	we	should	be	asking,	“How	can	I	dwell	within	this
circumstance	in	the	highest	possible	way?”
If	you’re	single	and	would	like	a	partner,	you’ll	only	attract	one	when
you’ve	mastered	the	lessons	of	singleness. Don’t	ask	how	you	can	“get”	a
man. Ask	how	you	can	be	the	coolest	woman	in	the	world—and	when	that
happens,	you’ll	enjoy	the	experience	so	much	it	won’t	even	matter	whether
men	notice	you	or	not. Which	means,	of	course,	that	they	will. I	did	a	lot	of	research	for	you	so	that	I	could	report	back	on	that. One	of	the	most	insidiously	self-sabotaging	questions	is,	“Why	can’t	I	meet
the	right	man	[or	woman]?”	It	implies	that	there	is	someone	out	there,	maybe
in	Mongolia	or	someplace,	and	if	only	you	knew	where	he	or	she	was,	then
you	could	pop	over	on	the	next	flight. But	since	metaphysically	nothing	is	outside	of	us—everything	we
experience	is	a	reflection	of	what’s	going	on	in	our	head—there’s	no	point	in
flying	to	Mongolia	if	we’re	not	already	the	perfect	fit	for	our	ideal	partner. And	once	we	
are
	ready,	we	needn’t	go	anywhere	because	he	or	she	will
simply	appear. Whenever	people	have	stood	up	in	my	lectures—and	it	has	been	often—to
say	their	heartbreak	is	that	they	haven’t	yet	found	a	mate,	I	usually	find
myself	saying,	“Tell	me	the	truth;	I	know	you	know	it. What	do	you	do	thatkeeps	love	at	bay?”
Often	the	room	gasps,	as	though	I’ve	said	something	confrontational. And
perhaps	I	have:	I’ve	asked	a	person	to	confront	him-	or	herself. I’ve	suggested
that	they	take	full	responsibility	for	their	own	experience. And	more	often
than	not,	after	a	pause,	I’m	met	with	an	honest	and	illuminating	answer:
“I	act	needy.”
“I	attract	men,	but	then	I	start	acting	like	a	man	myself,	so	they	leave. I’m
not	very	feminine.”
“I	get	jealous.”
“I	get	angry.”
“I’m	controlling.”
“I’m	so	desperate	to	have	kids	and	men	can	feel	it.”
To	which	I	usually	respond	with	something	like,	“Ah. Well,	then	isn’t	it
wonderful	that	your	great	love	isn’t	here	yet? You	can	handle	this	now,	so	you
don’t	ruin	another	good	opportunity!”
In	other	words,	it’s	not	only	explainable	why	these	men	and	women	are
single—it’s	
good
	that	they	are! This	is	their	time	to	get	ready. Time	to	do	all
the	work,	internally	and	externally,	that	goes	along	with	preparing	yourself	as
the	gift	you	really	are—not	as	an	assorted	set	of	fragmented	emotions,
unhealed	neuroses,	and	broken	dreams	from	an	unforgiven	past. The	most	important	thing	to	work	on,	always,	is	the	nature	of	our	thoughts. Whenever	we	believe	that	a	situation	is	lacking,	we	create	more	lack. Why? Because	lack	is	our	core	belief. Believing
	you	lack,	you	
attract
	more	lack. I
lack	love	in	my	life
	is	not	a	thought	that	invites	a	partner. What	I’ve	got	is	hot
goes	further. And	one	thing	we	should	never	do	is	believe	statistics. Years	ago	it	was
speculated	in	a	major	news	magazine	that	a	woman	over	a	certain	age	had	a
better	chance	of	being	killed	by	a	terrorist	than	finding	love	at	midlife. But
guess	what? That	magazine	ended	up	taking	back	its	pronouncement! We	
do
have	a	chance! Oh,	thank	you! So	we	learned	something	important	from	that
little	turnaround:	We	need	to	watch	what	we	read. Be	aware	of	any	junk	you
let	into	your	consciousness. And	don’t	expect	the	voices	of	the	world	to	know
one	damn	thing	about	what’s	happening	in	your	universe. A	girlfriend	of	mine	once	remarked,	“I	hate	being	single	because	when	I
walk	into	a	party	alone,	I	feel	like	everyone	thinks	I’m	pathetic	and	is	feelingsorry	for	me.”	I	told	her	that	this	was	just	her	thought	and	nothing	else. “For
all	you	know,”	I	said,	“they	assume	you’re	meeting	George	Clooney	after	the
party.”	Midlife	is	the	time	to	stop	giving	one	moment’s	thought	to	other
people’s	opinions	anyway. Let	them	think	whatever	they	want	to	think. It’s
your
	thoughts	that	create	your	experience. Love	is	attracted	to	the	master	at	love. It	does	not	ask,	“What’s	your	age?”
Nor	does	it	ask,	“How	long	did	it	take	you	to	learn	all	this?”	It	only	asks
whether	you’re	ready. And	when	you	are,	then	it	will	come. It	can	take	a	lot	of	years	before	you	arrive	at	love’s	door	with	little	or	no
baggage. There	might	have	been	struggles	galore	making	all	the	shifts,	from
neediness	to	self-confidence,	controlling	to	surrendered,	anxious	to
lighthearted,	demanding	to	grateful,	overreactive	to	nonreactive,	critical	to
supportive,	blaming	to	forgiving	…	not	to	mention	flannel	to	lace. But	once
you	arrive,	you	
really
	arrive. Someone	once	said	to	me,	“You’re	everything	I’ve	ever	wanted.”	I	turned
my	face	and	uttered	to	myself,	“Honey,	if	ya	only	knew	…	!”
O
NCE	YOU’VE	LOVED,	YOU	DO	STAND	A	CHANCE
	of	having	encountered	the	demons	that
surround	it:	someone’s	fear,	someone’s	lies,	someone’s	betrayal. But	you	have
two	choices	after	you’ve	encountered	them. You	can	go	forward	in	timidity
and	fear,	with	an	energy	that	reads,	“I’m	afraid	of	the	demons. I	come	with
lots
	of	baggage.”	Or	you	can	go	forward	with	the	fabulous	energy	that	only
the	experience	of	love	in	all	its	vicissitudes	can	give,	an	energy	that	reads,	“I
have	seen	the	demons,	but	I	stared	them	down.”
No	great	man	gets	excited	about	some	bitter	woman	he	met	last	night. But
he	might	get	excited	when	he	meets	a	woman	whose	eyes	and	smile	have	a
knowing	look,	one	that	says	she	knows	what	men	are	all	about	and	
still
	thinks
they’re	the	best	game	in	town. You	see	men	differently	at	midlife	than	you	did	when	you	were	younger. They	seemed	so	powerful	in	the	years	when	you	still	felt	weak. But	once
you’ve	found	your	own	strength,	and	therefore	see	yourself	more	clearly,	you
see	men	in	a	whole	new	way	as	well. Their	strength,	their	gorgeousness,	their
damage,	their	needs,	their	souls,	their	bodies,	all	make	more	sense	to	you
now. Yet	you’re	not	attached. In	the	shining	place	of	pure	understanding,	you
know	a	man	can	neither	complete	you	nor	hurt	you. It’s	when	need	has	been
burned	out	of	you	that	desire	begins	to	burn	its	brightest. Among	other	things,	experience	teaches	you	how	to	make	better	choices. If
unworthy	opportunities	are	offered	you,	you’ll	know	to	give	them	a	pass.Your	hard-earned	wisdom	makes	you	more	likely	to	say	“no”	to
untrustworthy	offers,	and	a	wise	but	openhearted	
“yes”	to	good	ones. No
book	or	school	could	have	taught	you	that. Sometimes	it’s	the	pain	of	love	that	transforms	you	into	someone	who	has
the	courage	to	take	it	on. You	come	to	thank	God	for	the	lessons	you	learned,
no	matter	how	they	came	to	you	or	what	they	felt	like	at	the	time. So	
what
	if
you’re	not	young	anymore;	you	have	so	much	more	skill	now,	and	so	much
less	fear.Now	you’re	ready	for	love. Bring	it	on. Chapter	Seven
I
N	THE	
M
IDNIGHT	
H
OUR
I
	remember	the	moment	the	doctor	told	me. I	was	standing	in	my	kitchen,	not
having	bothered	to	emotionally	prepare	myself	for	the	call. I’d	had	light
menstrual	periods	for	years,	and	I	realized	the	chances	were	good	that,
although	I	was	still	quite	young,	the	end	might	have	already	come. And	it	had. The	doctor	had	gotten	back	my	numbers. He	put	it	bluntly:
“You’re	done.”
The	room	spun	around	me;	I	felt	too	weak	to	stand. I	sat	down	slowly	and
the	tears	began. After	all	the	years	you	work	so	hard	to	keep	from	getting
pregnant,	you	suddenly	find	that	you	couldn’t	get	pregnant	anymore	if	you
tried. In	that	moment	you	regret	every	goddamned	act	of	birth	control	you’d
ever	engaged	in	your	entire	life. I	remember	a	poster	that	was	popular	years	ago,	with	a	cartoon	character	of
a	woman	exclaiming,	“Oh	my	gosh,	I	forgot	to	have	children!”	Many	of	us
took	so	long	to	grow	up	that	a	lot	of	us	were	nearing	middle	age	before	we
realized	we	even	wanted	kids! One	day	I	attended	a	luncheon	where	I	was	sitting	next	to	a	man	about	my
age,	who	was	delightedly	telling	stories	about	his	teenaged	stepdaughters. He
commented	that	he	had	never	had	children	of	his	own	and	felt	so	blessed	to	be
a	stepparent	now. Sensing	his	joy	and	absolute	wonder	at	what	the	girls	had	brought	into	his
life,	I	looked	at	him	for	a	moment	and	simply	said,	
“We	were	so	damned
stupid.”	He	looked	back	at	me,	clearly	understanding	what	I	meant,	and
nodded	slowly. That	says	it:	
We	were	so	damned	stupid
. Someone	once	asked	me	what	greatness	I	thought	my	daughter	was
destined	to	achieve,	and	I	responded,	“First	of	all,	I	think	she’ll	have	a	big,
happy	family.”	They	thought	I	was	joking. I	was	not. It	doesn’t	matter	whether	you	want	children	or	not. Still,	from	apsychological	perspective,	it	matters	when	the	day	comes	and	you	know	you
couldn’t	have	them	even	if	you	wanted	to. For	men,	obviously,	things	are
different	and	they	can	go	on	and	on. Nature	
knows
	how	long	it	takes	
them
	to
grow	up! (I’m	joking	here.) But	for	the	other	half	of	the	human	race,
something	miraculous	occurs	to	your	body	every	month,	and	then	it’s	gone. It
is	simply	gone. I’ve	watched	with	awe	as	the	baton	of	voluptuousness	has	been	passed	to
my	17-year-old	daughter. Of	course	I	don’t	want	to	mimic	a	17-year-old’s
attractiveness,	but	I	do	want	to	hold	on	to	my	own	as	best	I	can. There’s	a
certain	psychoerotic	quality—I	always	feel	it	in	France—a	feeling	that	any
night	could	be	a	magic	night,	and	you	want	to	be	ready	for	it	if	this	one	is. I	remember	the	hormones	of	youth. I	remember	when	every	cell	of	my
body	screamed,	“Get	a	man! Get	
any
	man!”	Later	they	were	just	as	apt	to	say,
“Whatever. I	don’t	care.”	My	body	isn’t	a	slave	to	itself	the	way	it	used	to	be,
but	my	soul	has	taken	things	to	a	whole	new	place. It’s	natural	that	there	are	years	when	the	thought	of	sex	is	pretty	much
everyone’s	preoccupation;	the	species	can’t	propagate	unless	young	people
move	the	process	forward. But	sometimes	it’s	when	the	urge	for	sex	becomes
a	little	less	urgent	that	the	urge	for	love	becomes	even	more	pure. The	urge
for	connection	itself	is	ageless;	what	changes	is	our	understanding	of	what
connection	
means. Sometimes	people	know	a	lot	about	sex	but	not	much	at	all
about	love. In	the	realm	of	the	body,	something	starts	to	cool	off	as	we	age. But	in	the
realm	of	the	spirit,	things	are	just	heating	up. Mature	women	are	pursued	not
just	for	their	bodies	but	for	their	
knowing. A	man	recognizes,	however
unconsciously,	that	a	woman’s	love	is	an	initiation	into	his	own	manhood. On
a	physical	level,	that	initiation	can	mean	something	as	crude	as	a	ride	in	the
backseat	of	a	car. But	on	a	spiritual	level,	it’s	the	result	of	an	internal
connection	that	sex	itself	cannot	guarantee. For	this,	a	man	needs	more	than	a
woman. He	needs	a	priestess. Every	woman	has	an	inner	priestess,	but	she	often	takes	a	few	decades	to
emerge. A	priestess	is	fierce—particularly	in	bed. Once	she	arrives,	she	is
looking	for	men	and	not	boys. It’s	not	enough,	at	a	certain	point,	for	a	man	to	just	know	how	to	handle	a
woman’s	body. He	has	to	learn	how	to	handle	a	woman’s	
being,
	and	often	it’s
a	priestess	who	teaches	him. One	of	the	greatest	gifts	a	mature	woman	gives	a
man	is	that	what	makes	his	younger	girlfriends	swoon,	“Give	it	to	me! I’ll	doanything!”	makes	the	older	woman	go,	“Yeah,	so	what	else	have	you	got?”
For	her,	he’s	going	to	have	to	work	a	whole	lot	harder. And	that	pun	is
intended. If	what	you’re	up	to	is	producing	babies,	then	obviously	the	younger
woman	has	the	goods. With	a	younger	woman,	a	man	can	conceive	a	child. But	with	a	priestess,	he	is	often	more	likely	to	conceive	the	man	he	wants	to
be. Physically,	a	man	spreads	his	seed;	spiritually,	a	woman	spreads	hers. Ultimately,	we	impregnate	each	other	and	then	we	are	both	reborn. When	a
man	has	spent	magic	time	with	a	woman	mature	enough	and	wise	enough	to
have	entered	her	priestess	years,	he’s	the	one	who’s	likely	to	call	later	and	say,
“Honey,	I	think	I’m	pregnant.”	The	new	breed	of	hot	new	mama	has
miraculous	powers,	calling	forth	a	new	breed	of	man. O
NE	DAY	MY	DAUGHTER	CAME	HOME	AND	TOLD	ME
	I	
JUST	HAD
	to	hear	this	great	new	song. It
was	a	cover	of	Bob	Dylan’s	“Lay,	Lady,	Lay.”	I	explained	to	her	that	in	my
day,	we	listened	to	the	
real	
“Lay,	Lady,	Lay.”	And	in	my	case,	as	I’m	sure	is
true	for	thousands	of	others	as	well,	we	did	a	whole	lot	more	than	just	listen. I’ve	asked	myself	often	in	the	last	few	years,	“What	did	my	mother	think	we
were	
doing
	on	those	afternoons?”
I	read	a	quote	once	that	no	matter	how	old	we	are,	the	music	we	most	relate
to	is	the	music	of	our	youth. In	my	case,	that’s	definitely	true. And	the	songs	I
remember	most	are	the	songs	I	fell	in	love	to. From	Joan	Armatrading	to
Jefferson	Airplane	to	Van	Morrison,	there	are	phrases	of	songs	that	remind	me
of	things,	beautiful	things,	that	were	some	of	the	sweetest	moments	of	my
life. And	why	were	they	so	sweet? Because,	along	with	the	birth	of	my
daughter,	they	took	me	to	a	place	where	there	was	no	separation	between
myself	and	someone	else. And	that	was	real. The	love	affairs	we	had	in	our
youth	were	not	unreal,	so	much	as	the	personality	structures	we	went	on	to
develop	afterward	were	not	containers	for	that	much	reality. Some	of	what	we
call	“mature”	in	our	society	is	spiritually	regressive. I’ve	officiated	at	scores	of	marriages,	perhaps	even	more. I	believe	in	the
institution. But	far	too	often,	it’s	devastatingly	obvious	that	a	vortex	that	can
be	the	greatest	liberator	is	turned	by	the	ego	into	the	bleakest	prison,	not	only
for	the	body	but	for	the	soul. The	words	
husband
	and	
wife
	should	not	be
synonymous	with	
roommate. Love	should	not	be	mundane. It	should	not	be
banal. When	it	becomes	that,	it	loses	its	magic. While	the	comforts	of	shared
coffee	cups,	someone	to	sort	through	the	bills	with,	conversations	about	thechildren,	and	admissions	of	fear	to	one	who	has	become	your	best	friend	are
all	a	part	of	what	make	long-term	nesting	wonderful,	emotionally	it	is	to	our
peril	when	we	allow	considerations	of	the	world	to	form	a	veil	across	the	face
of	love. I	was	sitting	next	to	a	man	on	an	airplane	once,	who	told	me	that	he	and	his
wife	were	excited	about	a	new	business	venture. For	the	first	time	in	their
marriage,	they	were	going	to	be	working	together. They	had	refurbished	a
carriage	house	in	back	of	their	home	and	had	turned	it	into	an	office. All	of
this	seemed	to	them	like	a	fabulous	setup	for	a	great	next	phase	in	both	their
careers	and	their	relationship. As	he	told	me	of	their	plans,	I	think	he	saw	me	choke	on	my	red	wine. “What?”	he	asked. “Nothing,”	I	responded,	aware	that	I	didn’t	even	know	this	man,	and	had	no
business	giving	him	unsolicited	advice. But	he	persisted. He	asked. And	once
you	do	that	with	me,	expect	opinions. “Well,	what	I’ve	learned,”	I	told	him,	“is	that	when	a	woman	is	working,
she’s	in	a	masculine	mode. But	that	same	mode	that	works	so	well	at	work
needs	to	transition	to	a	feminine	mode	if	she	wants	to	be	as	successful	at	love
as	she	is	at	work.”	Again,	I’ve	researched	this. “Go	on	…	,”	he	said. “So	it	probably	seems	great	to	you	now,	that	you	and	your	wife	will	be	able
to	just	walk	the	little	path	from	your	office	to	your	kitchen	and	keep	the	same
conversation	going	while	you’re	preparing	dinner	that	you	were	having	at	the
office.”
“Is	that	bad?”	he	asked. “No,	it’s	not	bad,”	I	said,	“except	possibly	for	your	marriage. You’ve	taken
the	psychic	gestalt	of	a	business	partnership	and	literally	given	it	the	run	of
your	house. And	in	time,	that	will	include	your	bedroom.”
“Whoa,”	he	said. Men	get	very	alert	when	the	subject	turns	to	sex. “So	I
shouldn’t	work	with	my	wife?”
“I	didn’t	say	that!”	I	responded. “But	I	do	know	this:	If	this	kind	of	thinking
makes	sense	to	you—if	you	feel	that	you	and	your	wife	want	to	protect	the
erotic	quality	of	your	marriage	from	encroachment	by	a	business	mentality—
then	I	would	suggest	you	take	30	minutes	apart	from	each	other	between
office	hours	and	evening	hours. She	needs	at	least	that	much	time	to	switchpsychically	into	another	mode. Meditation,	walking,	soft	music,	candles,
bubble	baths,	whatever	her	soul	craves	as	a	balm	to	her	nervous	system—such
time	should	be	ritualistically	built	into	your	lifestyle,	or	you’re	going	to	start
finding	that	a	businesswoman	has	shown	up	in	your	bed	where	an	erotic
goddess	used	to	be.”
Weeks	later	I	received	a	thank-you	note	from	him. And	after	that,	one	from
his	wife…	. *
Romantic	love	is	a	force	of	nature. Like	an	ancient	goddess,	it	likes	to
receive	gifts. It	must	be	honored,	respected,	protected,	and	cherished. Otherwise,	it	simply	leaves. Dear	God,
Please	make	me
a	master	at	love. Reveal	to	me	its	mysteries,
and	give	to	me	its	magic. And	may	I	never	use	its	power
for	any	purposes
but	the	ones	You	intend. Amen
___________________________________________
A	
FRIEND	TOLD	ME	HER	DAUGHTER
	was	getting	married	at	the	age	of	40. “That’s	great!”	I	said. “Is	she	madly	in	love?”
“Well,	I	don’t	know	if	it’s	
like
	that	at	40,”	she	responded. I	thought	to	myself,	
But	why	not? Real	passion	doesn’t	emerge	from	the
body	but	from	consciousness. Should	the	age	of	the	body	determine	the	heat
of	the	soul? Love	itself	doesn’t	diminish	as	we	age;	what	diminishes	too	often
is	how	willing	we	are	to	stand	up	and	meet	it. We	love	fiercely	and	fearlessly
when	we’re	young,	until	we	learn	what	there	is	to	be	afraid	of. And	then	we
start	to	load	layer	upon	layer	of	unprocessed	hurt	onto	more	and	more
relationships,	to	the	point	that	our	bitterness	and	fear	have	all	but	capped	our
capacity	for	all-out	bliss. The	age	of	our	cells	has	absolutely	nothing	to	do	with	our	ability	tomagnetize	or	hold	on	to	love. Midlife	is	not	the	time	to	say,	“Oh	well,	I’ll	just
settle	for	something	comfortable	now,”	and	simplistically	conclude	that	the
years	of	heat	are	behind	us. That	heat	was	not	a	function	of	our	age. It	might
move	around	from	chakra	from	chakra,	but	heat	will	always	be	heat. Love	doesn’t	lose	its	edge	and	become	boring	as	you	get	older	unless	
you
do. If	anything,	age	makes	you	more	able	to	appreciate	things	in	others	that
you	used	to	be	unable	to	see	because	you	were	so	busy	looking	at	yourself. Until	you	inhabit	the	entirety	of	your	being,	you	keep	seeking	your
completion	in	someone	else. And	that	will	never	work,	of	course. Romance
isn’t	here	to	complete	your	universe	but	to	expand	it. Yet	it’s	pretty	difficult	to
appreciate	that	concept	until	the	notion	of	an	expanded	universe	is	attractive
to	you. John	Mayer	sings	a	song	called	“Your	Body	Is	a	Wonderland.”	What’s
really	cool	is	when	you	can	add,	“And	so	is	your	mind,	and	your	heart,	and
your	soul.”
You	can’t	see	the	true	wonderland	in	another	person	until	you’ve	explored
the	one	inside	yourself. That	starts	happening	at	a	certain	age,	whether	you
wish	it	to	or	not. And	it	changes	you. Accumulated	experience	of	the	world
both	breaks	your	heart	and	opens	it. I	remember	lying	in	the	dark	one	night
right	after	a	school	shooting,	when	my	grief	for	the	victims’	families	felt	like
more	than	I	could	bear. I	turned	to	my	love	and,	for	just	one	moment,	felt	an
exquisite	understanding	of	the	profound	juxtaposition	of	pain	and	pleasure
that	lies	at	the	heart	of	the	human	experience. I	loved	in	a	different	way	before
I	understood	suffering. Age	wears	you	down,	but	as	it	does,	it	softens	you	as
well. I	knew	in	that	moment	that	there	are	no	guarantees. There	is	no	certain
bulwark	against	human	suffering. Neither	this	relationship,	nor	any	other
circumstance,	can	possibly	protect	me	against	the	potential	for	heartbreak;
whatever	valleys	are	my	fate	will	occur	no	matter	what. But	there	is,	when	we
are	open	to	the	experience,	the	glorious	beauty	of	an	appreciated	now. When
we	no	longer	take	the	good	in	life	for	granted,	we	have	a	humility	and
gratitude	that	more	than	compensate	for	what	no	longer	remains	of	our
innocence. Innocence	leaves,	but	love	remains. There	is	nothing	to	do	with
this	but	receive	its	truth. I	opened	my	arms	and	I	drank	him	in. B
EYOND	OBVIOUS	PROPRIETIES
,	I	
DON’T	THINK	IT	SHOULD	MATTER
	how	old	your	lover	is	any
more	than	it	should	matter	how	old	your	doctor,	teacher,	or	car-insurance
salesperson	is. What	matters	is	the	soul	growth	that	brings	two	hearts
together. Every	relationship	has	a	natural	arc,	a	time	that’s	perfect	for	the
lessons	that	the	relationship	is	here	to	teach	us. Some	are	long	and	some	are
short. Love	will	never	bow	to	time	because	love	is	real	and	time	is	not. Amoment	of	true	love	is	more	important	to	some	of	us	than	decades	of
domestic	timeshare. Love	is	an	adventure	of	the	soul,	whether	as	a	love	affair	that	is	short	but
intense,	or	as	a	marriage	that	lasts	until	death	do	us	part. In	the	words	of	Ram
Dass,	we	are	brought	into	each	other’s	lives	“for	a	reason,	a	season,	or	a
lifetime.”	It	isn’t	the	length	of	time,	but	rather	the	depth	of	knowing	and
forgiveness	and	growth	that	occurs,	which	determines	the	meaning	of	a
connection	between	two	people. I	love	the	Joni	Mitchell	lyric	that	love	is
souls	touching	souls. Some	people	have	slept	together	for	30	years	but	their
souls	have	never	touched. By	some	estimation,	theirs	is	still	a	successful
marriage	…	but	there	are	many	ways	to	estimate	love. I	once	knew	a	man	who	was	younger	than	I	was	chronologically,	but	much
more	firmly	grounded	in	the	truth	of	his	being	than	I	was	in	mine. I	kept	up
this	inauthentic	mantra	about	how	he	was	much	too	young	for	me,	until	one
day	I	realized	that	the	quizzical	look	on	his	face	wasn’t	disappointment,	it	was
disrespect. He	had	expected	more	of	me. He	expected	me	to	be	more	honest. What	a	convenient	front	for	my	fear	it	was	to	go	on	and	on	about	how	he
hadn’t	had	his	babies	yet	and	since	I	couldn’t	give	him	those	then	of	course	I
wasn’t	the	woman	for	him. “For	a	lifetime,	you’re	probably	right,”	he	said. “But	I	didn’t	ask	you	for	a	lifetime. I	asked	you	for	Saturday	night.”
But	how	can	I	relax	on	Saturday	night,
	I	thought,	
when	I	already	know	that
this	is	a	limited	run? I	saw	an	episode	on	
Sex	and	the	City
	where	that’s	called
“expiration	dating”:	You	know	in	advance	that	there’s	a	date	past	which	you
can’t	continue	this. It	took	a	while	for	me	to	realize	that	that	had	never
stopped	me	from	enjoying	yogurt,	so	it	didn’t	have	to	stop	me	from	enjoying
men	either. The	idea	of	falling	for	someone	with	whom	there	was	a	built-in	time	limit
seemed	terrifying	at	first,	until	I	realized,	
But	isn’t	that	what	death	is? Had	I
ever	said,	“Sorry,	I	can’t	love	you—after	40	or	50	years,	you’ll	probably	be
out	of	here”? No. We	have	the	double	illusion	that	life	is	long	and	love	is
short. In	fact,	life	is	short	but	love	lasts	forever. So	I	gave	the	young	man	a	chance—as	though	I	had	so	much	to	teach	him,
you	see. And	the	irony,	which	was	no	irony	at	all	to	him	but	simply	an
obvious	point,	was	that	he,	carrying	so	much	less	fear	than	I,	came	to	the
experience	with	more	wisdom	and	strength. Whatever	I	had	in	accumulated
knowledge,	he	bested	with	his	more	open	mind:	fewer	rules,	fewer	limits,
fewer	affectations	of	knowing	things	that	can’t	be	known. It	wasn’t	I	who	wasthe	guru	at	love	here;	it	was	he. I	thought	he	might	be	blessed	by	the	love	of
someone	more	knowing	than	he,	but	I	think	I	was	more	blessed	to	be	loved	by
someone	more	
unknowing
	than	I. People	are	matched	perfectly	for	the	gifts
they	bring	to	each	other,	and	sometimes	it’s	those	who	teach	us	when	
not
	to
reason	who	are	as	important	as	those	who	teach	us	how	to. Knowledge	has
many	dimensions.
_OceanofPDF.com_The_Age_of_Miracles_-_Marianne_Williamson.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        And	Lord,	what	boring	bedrooms. But
today	the	convent	experience—the	internal	variety—means	anything	but	that. It	means	no	fun	that	isn’t	laced	with	the	sacred,	no	excitement	that	isn’t	laced
with	the	sacred,	no	sex	that	isn’t	laced	with	the	sacred. Or	put	another	way,	it
means	that	the	sacred,	once	you	realize	what	it	is,	is	actually	fun	and	exciting
and,	where	appropriate,	sexual. It’s	important	to	celebrate	your	life,	because	it’s	the	one	God	gave	you. If
He	were	leaving	you	a	text	message,	I	think	it	would	say:	“Enjoy	yourself. ”
I	read	an	interview	with	actress	Cameron	Diaz	where	she	said	that	she
didn’t	think	being	light	and	bubbly	was	any	less	valid	than	being	dark	and
moody. I	took	that	in	for	a	moment,	realizing	it	had	taken	me	decades	longer
to	see	this	than	it	had	taken	her. Baby-boomer	women	wanted	to	be	taken	so
seriously,
	primarily	because	our	mothers	weren’t. We	suppressed	our	joy
under	the	false	assumption	that	joy	is	silly. In	fact,	it’s	when	you	realize	how
very	serious	life	truly	is	that	you	take	every	opportunity	to	laugh	when	it
comes	along. Mariane	Pearl,	the	widow	of	slain	
Wall	Street	Journal
	reporter
Daniel	Pearl,	has	said	that	happiness	is	an	act	of	resistance. There	are	so	many	ways	we’re	punished,	including	by	ourselves,	for	the
ecstatic	impulse	that	runs	through	our	veins. Whenever	I	see	a	homeless
person	walking	down	the	street	in	some	absurd	and	ridiculous	outfit—usually
sporting	something	like	a	hat	with	rabbit	ears	or	lots	of	buttons	proclaiming	a
UFO	invasion—part	of	me	thinks,	
Oh,	poor	lost	soul,
	and	part	of	me	thinks,	
I
wish	I	had	the	nerve	to	wear	that. It	has	occurred	to	me	that	I’ve	never	seen	a	statue	of	a	Greek	or	Hindu
goddess	in	which	she	wasn’t	dressed	to	the	nines. The	idea	that	a	
spiritual
woman	chooses	to	have	less	going	on	for	her	in	the	looks	department	was
introduced	into	our	thought	system	by	a	womanhating	institution,	let’s
remember—the	same	club	that	used	to	burn	women	at	the	stake. So	when
they	suggest	a	woman	should	dress	plainly	and	simply	in	order	to	show	her
piety,	I	rush	to	put	on	a	camisole. Makeup	and	jewelry	go	back	longer	than
they
	do;	thousands	of	years	ago,	women	wore	rouge	and	rubies	and	knew
exactly	what	they	were	doing. Queen	Esther	didn’t	save	her	people	by	looking
unattractive	that	night. Any	effort	to	desexualize	women	is	an	effort	to
disempower	us,	and	making	us	feel	guilty	about	wanting	to	look	good	is	more
of	the	same	oppressive	game. Our	society	is	of	two	minds	about	a	mature	woman	trying	to	look	good. She’s	shamed	for	“letting	herself	go,”	yet	she’s	often	shamed	for	trying	to
hold	it	together. All	this	talk	about	“natural	aging”	is	sort	of	ridiculous. Can
we	talk	about	pesticides,	pollution,	carcinogens,	the	hole	in	the	ozone,	worry,
economic	anxiety,	and	divorce	statistics. There’s	nothing	necessarily	
natural
about	all	that	stress	on	your	face. If	a	woman	wants	to	order	the	newest
antiaging	cream	from	an	800	number,	get	Botox,	or	employ	any	other
cosmetic	procedure,	then	I	think	she	should	do	it. I	don’t	see	aging	with	a
kick-ass	regimen	for	staying	hot	and	happening	as	any	less	
graceful
	than
simply	appreciating	your	wrinkles. It’s	not	“serious”	to	want	to	look	good. What’s	so	serious	about	
not
	looking
good. Seriously	gorgeous	and	ageless	Gloria	Vanderbilt	has	said	that	beauty
is	a	gift	from	God,	which	we	have	a	responsibility	to	care	for	as	long	as	we
can. In	any	case,	I	don’t	see	where	my	looking	haggard	helps	a	woman	in	a
poverty-stricken	area	rise	up. In	fact,	I	
do
	see	where	my	wanting	excellence	in
every	area	of	my	life	lifts	me	to	a	level	of	achievement	where	it’s	more	likely
that	I	can	help	her. Denying	care	to	oneself	doesn’t	translate	into	care	for	others. A	woman
taking	care	of	herself—both	in	body	and	in	spirit—is	part	of	her	participation
in	a	wild	and	wonderful	female	adventure. That	adventure	is	emotional,
intellectual,	spiritual,	and	sexual. I	realize	that	more	fuel	for	the	engine	of	my	life—as	a	mother,	an	activist,	a
writer,	a	citizen,	a	creator	in	any	area—comes	from	my	bedroom	and	what
goes	on	there	than	in	any	other	place. I	could	buy	a	hundred	desks,	and	I
would	still	write	sitting	up	on	my	bed. The	library	is	not	my	engine	room. My
office	is	not	my	engine	room. The	kitchen	is	not	my	engine	room. Where	I
live	in	my	most	passionate	places	is	my	engine	room. And	there	are
goddesses	from	every	culture	and	every	age	who	agree. The	ancient	world
was	dotted	with	romantic	and	erotic	temples. I	don’t	have	a	temple	per	se,	but
I	have	a	bedroom,	so	I	start	with	that. Sometimes	when	I	think	about	all	the	suffering	in	the	world—from	torture
to	slavery	to	war	to	child	abuse—I’m	awed	by	the	realization	there	must	be
some	tremendous	counterforce	keeping	humanity	from	completely	self-
destructing. Consider	the	fact	that	every	second,	someone	is	born. Every
second,	someone	is	dying. The	cycles	of	life	continue,	circling	the	globe	at
every	moment. And	consider	this:	Every	second	(or	so	I	hope),	someone
somewhere	is	having	an	ecstatic	orgasm	with	someone	he	or	she	loves. I	think
this	circle	of	ecstasy	is	probably	doing	as	much	to	keep	the	world	from	flying
apart	as	is	any	other	force. Words	of	hate,	acts	of	violence,	horrible	things	done	in	the	light	of	day—
none	have	ultimate	power	before	true	acts	of	love,	many	of	which	are	done	in
the	dark	of	night. It’s	part	of	the	archetypal	mission	of	the	human	female	to
take	care	of	the	home,	and	that	beautiful	moment	in	the	dark	
is
	home. We
should	honor	our	function	as	keepers	of	the	erotic	flame. The	bedroom	is
where	we	both	conceive	our	children	and	repair	our	lovers,	both	of	which	fuel
the	survival	of	the	human	race. This	is	all	the	more	important	as	a	woman	ages,	because	we’re	using	the
power	of	consciousness	to	compensate	for	ways	that	nature	has	passed	us	by. Once	we’ve	completed	our	childbearing	years,	nature	doesn’t	really	
care
whether	we	ever	have	sex	again	or	not. We’re	not	getting	a	lot	of	
help
	from
nature	the	way	we	used	to. But	our	sexual	magic	is	not	simply	about	babies;	it’s	about	enchantment. We	don’t	lure	men	into	bed	only	in	order	to	procreate;	we	lure	them	into	bed
in	order	to	set	their	hearts	on	fire. We	lure	them	into	a	bewitched	and
bewitching	space	so	that	the	romantic	alchemy	of	love	can	help	deliver	them
to	their	greatness,	and	us	to	ours. This	isn’t	a	job	that	stops	when	we	age;	in	a
way,	it’s	a	job	we	don’t	even	
understand
	until	we	age. Midlife	is	
not
	the	time
to	disenchant	ourselves. It’s	a	time	to	turn	on	all	our	magic	in	full	force. E
XCITEMENT	DOESN’T	KNOCK	AT	YOUR	DOOR
	any	less	when	you’re	older	than	when
you’re	younger. It’s	just	that	when	you’re	younger,	you’re	more	likely	to	open
the	door	and	let	it	in. With	age,	you	start	growing	
ambivalent
	about
excitement. You	might	say	that	you	want	it,	but	at	the	same	time	you’re	not
sure	you	have	the	energy	for	it. Yet	a	surefire	way	to	diminish	your	energy	is
to	deny	the	ultimate	energy	pill,	which	is	participation	in	life	itself. My	father	lived	to	be	85,	and	he	was	exciting	his	entire	life. He	used	to
always	say,	“You’ve	gotta	have	a	sense	of	adventure. ”	And	boy	did	he. It
wasn’t	just	evidenced	by	his	dramatic	adventures	traveling	the	world;	it	was
evidenced	by	his	approach	to	everyday	life. The	way	he	rode	in	a	convertible
even	when	it	was	raining	because	“Only	sissies	put	the	top	up. ”	The	way	he
taught	his	small	children	Stanislavsky	acting	exercises	as	a	substitute	for
normal	games. The	way	he	wore	a	Greek	sailor’s	cap	around,	although	we
lived	in	Texas,	just	in	case	the	Greek	navy	might	call	and	say	they	needed
him. My	father	was	like	a	male	version	of	Auntie	Mame. Whatever	he	did,	he
was	
into
	it—fully,	passionately,	and	with	total	vigor. A	man	like	my	father
wasn’t	looking	to	vitamins	to	give	him	more	energy. He	looked	to	
life
	to	give
him	more	energy,	by	giving	it	so	much	of	his	own. In	the	Russian	Orthodox	Church,	there	is	the	concept	of	the	“passion
bearer. ”	I	think	that’s	what	midlife	makes	us:	the	passion	bearers	of	life,
people	who	have	been	through	enough	to	have	felt	the	passion	of	life’s	pain	as
well	as	its	triumphs. To	whatever	extent	we	can	demonstrate	the	joy	of
standing	forth	in	the	space	of	our	own	resurrection,	to	that	extent	we	make
space	for	uplift	and	victory	in	other	people’s	lives. It’s	a	role	of	the	elder	to	lead	the	tribal	celebrations. We’re	the	holders	of
the	excitement	factor. When	a	woman	20	years	younger	than	I	am	announces
that	she’s	pregnant,	I	feel	I’m	fulfilling	some	primal	function	by	letting	her
know	I	think	it’s	the	most	exciting	thing	in	the	world. It’s	as	though	I’m
representing	the	opinion	of	something	larger	than	myself. A	teenager	gets	on	a
sports	team	or	enters	an	essay-writing	contest;	a	young	woman	gets	into	the
managerial	training	program	at	the	company	she’s	been	working	at	for	years;
a	young	man	starts	his	own	company	or	makes	his	first	business	deal—in
every	case,	an	older	person’s	enthusiasm	could	be	a	memory	someone	holds
for	a	lifetime. People	need	to	know	that	the	world	is	on	their	side,	and	for	a
younger	person,	the	“world”	is	often	represented	by	whatever	adult	he	or	she
is	speaking	to	at	the	time. Celebration	isn’t	passive;	it’s	an	active	energy	mover. I’ve	heard	young
people	denigrate	something	I	know	in	their	hearts	represents	a	dream	come
true,	saying	something	like,	“Oh,	it’s	not	that	big	a	deal. ”	But	if	I	say	with
determination,	“Oh,	
yes
	it	is. ”	then	their	entire	attitude	shifts. I	do	this	for	them,	and	I	do	it	for	myself. Once	you’ve	lived	enough,	once
you’re	cried	enough	tears,	you	know	how	blessed	it	is	to	have	something	to
smile	about. People	who	are	passionate	about	life	don’t	have	a	positive
attitude	because	they	don’t	know	any	better. They’re	often	positive	because
they	
do
	know	better. They	know	that	heartbreak	could	happen	any	day. If	it’s
not	happening	today,	let’s	give	thanks. I	used	to	have	a	bottle	of	good	champagne	in	my	refrigerator. It	remained
there	for	months,	as	I	kept	waiting	for	something	to	“celebrate. ”	Finally,
someone	stole	it. I	got	the	point. I	had	waited	too	long. Dear	God,
I	give	You
praise	and	thanks
for	the	blessings	in	my	life. May	they	not	be	diminished
by	my	lack	of	appreciation. Teach	me	how	to	receive	my	good,
and	support	others	in	claiming	theirs. Amen
ONCE
	I	
WAS	RIDING	ON	A	TRAIN	IN	ENGLAND
,	having	just	left	my	daughter	at	a	high
school	program	in	Oxford. Before	I	left,	she	showed	me	her	favorite	spots
from	her	trip	there	the	summer	before:	the	crêperie	where	she	and	her	friends
stayed	up	late	at	night	to	discuss	capitalism	and	Marxism	
(“Yes,	darling,	your
mother	was	young	once,	too—I	have	
so
	been	there	and	done	that. ”);	the
Christ	Church	rebuilt	by	Henry	VIII	in	1532	(my	daughter	and	I	have	an
ongoing	conversation	about	Anne	Boleyn,	in	which	I	insist	that	whichever
way	you	view	it,	beheading	
is
	spousal	abuse);	and	our	conversations	that
morning	about	philosophy	and	love	were	mixed	with	my	reminders	to	do
things	like	remember	to	floss. As	I	rode	back	to	London,	I	cried	a	bit. My	little	baby	wasn’t	a	baby
anymore. She’s	not	even	a	little	girl	anymore. She’s	in	that	age	group	Louisa
May	Alcott	so	exquisitely	termed	“little	women. ”	Soon	enough,	“Mommy,
may	I. ”	will	disappear	completely,	replaced	more	often,	I	suppose,	by	“Mom,
please	send	money. ”
This	transitional	time	is	as	profound	for	me	as	it	is	for	her. I’ve	been	good
at	some	aspects	of	mothering,	average	at	others,	and	probably	rotten	at	some. I’ve	never	baked	a	brownie	in	my	life. I	keep	buying	cookbooks,	but	I	just
read	them	and	then	say,	“Nah. ”	Yet	we	all	have	our	gifts,	and	the	ones	I	do
have,	I’m	eager	to	pass	on	to	her. Our	children	are	more	than	our	charges;	once	past	puberty,	they	should	be
our	students	in	life’s	deeper	lessons,	our	apprentices	at	living	life	well. I	don’t
want	my	daughter	to	feel	that	she	has	to	leave	my	side	in	order	to	learn
anything	
truly
	important. I	want	to	be	more	than	the	
cleavage
	police,	for
God’s	sake. I	want	to	be	her	mystical	mentor. Raising	children	is	an	advanced	spiritual	practice. Holding	them	close	when
you’re	all	the	world	to	them	is	sometimes	emotionally	overwhelming;	letting
them	go	when	they’re	ready	to	move	away	from	you	is	overwhelming	as	well. And	keeping	the	lines	of	communication	open	is	often	much	easier	said	than
done. It’s	very	different	than	it	was	when	they	were	just	cute	little	kids	in	their
cute	little	outfits	playing	on	cute	little	playdates. I	see	people	with	adorablebabies,	blissfully	unaware	that	the	day	will	come	when	they’re	so	not	in
control,	and	I	think,	
Oh,	honey,	you	wait. But	I	say	nothing. I	just	smile. Let
them	enjoy	this	while	it	lasts. Sooner	than	they	think,	they’ll	lose	the
unconditional	adoration	to	which	they’ve	become	accustomed. Every	parent	meets	the	moment	when	a	look	in	their	child’s	eyes	says,
“Now	I	get	it. I’ve	figured	you	out. ”	They’ll	have	to	learn	to	respect	the
unfolding	life	of	a	child	whose	ultimate	destiny	is	his	or	hers	alone. A	fiery
life	force	moves	from	us	into	our	children	at	a	certain	point,	and	it’s	only
when	we	allow	this	to	happen	that	a	new	fire	begins	to	burn	within	us. We
can’t	hold	on	to	the	fire	that	used	to	be	ours	when	it	no	longer	is. We	have	to
let	go	and	watch	with	mixed	emotions	as	it	ignites	within	our	sons	and
daughters. Still,	that	doesn’t	mean	that	they	gain	something	but	we	lose. On	that	day,
as	I	rode	away	from	Oxford,	I	was	crying	but	I	was	smiling	as	well. My
daughter	was	free	now	in	that	way	that	only	the	young	can	be	free. But	I	was
free,	too,	in	a	way	only	someone	who	has	raised	his	or	her	children	to	a
certain	age	and	watched	them	grow	up	can	be. She	
and
	I	had	earned	new
wings. We	both	need	to	go	on	to	the	next	stage	of	our	lives	and	enter	a	new	set	of
magic	years. Everyone	must	follow	the	trajectory	of	his	or	her	own	soul
growth. On	the	one	hand,	I	can’t	imagine	how	I’ll	feel	when	I	don’t	get	to
look	at	the	clock	at	3:15	in	the	afternoon	and	say	excitedly,	“Oh,	she’ll	be
home	soon. ”	(There’s	such	a	fantastic	way	teenagers	slam	the	door	behind
them	when	they	come	home	from	school,	bellowing	“I’m	home. ”	with	such
confidence	that	it’s	the	biggest	news	anybody’s	going	to	hear	all	day. ) On	the
other	hand,	I	know	there	will	be	new	experiences	in	the	future	when	we’re	no
longer	based	in	the	same	city,	different	from	the	ones	we	have	now	but	just	as
wonderful. Only	when	you	allow	someone	else	to	grow	do	you	get	to	grow,	too. And
sometimes,	of	course,	that	means	they	grow	away	from	you. Counterintuitively,	the	more	you	allow	people	to	take	the	distance	they	need,
the	closer	your	bond	with	them	becomes. The	more	I	let	my	daughter	go,	the
more	she	lets	me	in. I	will	never	forget	when	my	little	girl	was	so	tiny	that	I	propped	her	up
between	pillows	on	my	bed	as	I	sat	next	to	her	and	wrote. I	think	of	that	often
when	she’s	lying	across	the	same	bed	now,	chattering	on	after	school	about
homework	and	history	and	life. These	are	the	good	old	days,	and	believe	me,	I
know	it. Watching	her	one	day,	I	began	tearing	up	at	the	thought	that	she’sgrowing	up	so	fast;	we	won’t	be	having	these	daily	mother-daughter-plop-
down-and-discuss-everything	sessions	after	school	each	day	for	that	much
longer. But	then	my	momentary	sadness	was	interrupted	by	a	vision	just	as
beautiful	as	what	was	in	front	of	me. I	saw	us	plopped	down	right	here	again,
but	this	time	with	another	baby,	as	a	new	mother	comes	over	to	visit
Grandma. The	baby	is	gorgeous,	the	mother	is	ecstatic,	and	the	grandma’s
pretty	cool	herself. Or	so	I	saw,	and	so	I	pray. Dear	God,
Please	take	care	of	my	precious	child
as	her	path	now	leads	her	away	from	me. May	angels	surround	her,
and	may	she	find	her	way. May	my	love	for	her
be	as	a	light	that	surrounds	her,
for	all	her	living	days. Amen
Chapter	Six
I
	
W
ILL	
S
URVIVE
A
while	back	singer/songwriter	Rupert	Holmes	had	a	hit	song	about	a
married	couple	who	both	took	out	personal	ads,	trying	to	find	someone	who
wanted	more	adventure	than	was	offered	in	their	marriage. What	they	didn’t
know,	of	course—and	found	out	when	they	answered	each	other’s	ad. —was
that	both	of	them	wanted	to	do	more	exciting	things	than	they	were	in	the
habit	of	doing	together. Years	ago,	I	knew	a	man	whose	wife	died,	after	which	all	he	could	do	was
just	sit	there	crying,	“I	never	took	her	on	the	trips	she	wanted	to	take. I	didn’t
tell	her	often	enough	how	much	I	loved	her. There	are	so	many	things	I
should	have	done	with	her	and	didn’t…. ”	It	was	tragic	to	see	his	eyes	so	open
at	a	time	when	it	was	so	too	late. Many	people,	for	many	reasons,	resist	the	grand	adventure	that	love	can	be. It’s	one	of	those	brass	rings	that	is	often	right	in	front	of	us,	yet	we	don’t	grab
on. It’s	one	thing	when	we	just	don’t	feel	the	energy,	when	it’s	simply	not	the
right	person. But	sometimes	it	
is
	the	right	person—there	
is
	the	energy—but
we	don’t	give	the	relationship	the	time	or	space	or	attention	it	takes	to
cultivate	what’s	already	good	and	turn	it	into	something	great. Once	you’re	a	certain	age,	the	idea	of	wasting	any	opportunity—
particularly	the	opportunity	to	love—is	seen	as	the	blasphemy	it	is. You	might
as	well	just	spit	at	God	as	turn	away	from	the	chance	to	really	love. And	that’s
why	love	burns	brightly	at	midlife;	you’re	no	longer	under	the	delusion	that
the	sparks	that	are	flying	here	fly	along	every	day. A	friend	of	mine	said	to	me	once,	“I	used	to	be	so	afraid	of	committing	to	a
woman	for	the	rest	of	my	life	…	but	‘the	rest	of	my	life’	doesn’t	sound	like	so
long	anymore. ”
Many	of	us	have	wounds	that	keep	us	from	loving	fearlessly. And	fear,
while	rarely	justified,	is	often	understandable. Letting	go	of	fear	that	has
accumulated	over	many	years,	in	order	to	be	able	to	experience	the	love
standing	in	front	of	you	right	now—that	challenge	is	the	romantic	call	ofmidlife. Dear	God,
Please	melt
the	walls	in	front	of	my	heart. Remove	my	fear
and	restore	my	joy,
that	I	might	love	again. Amen
O
NE	OF	OUR	BIGGEST	FEARS,	OBVIOUSLY,	IS	THE	FEAR	OF	ABANDONMENT. Clearly,	it	hits	a
primal	wound	when	someone	whose	love	has	meant	so	much	to	us	then
changes	his	or	her	mind. Metaphysically,	what	happens	when	we	separate	from	a	beloved	is	that	we
reexperience	our	original	separation	from	God—or	at	least	the	illusion	that	we
could	ever	
be
	separate. In	fact,	such	a	separation	would	be	so	shattering	to	the
entire	universe	that	the	universe	could	no	longer	exist	were	it	to	be	true. The
truth	is	that	our	oneness	with	God,	and	with	each	other,	is	a	fundamental,
unalterable	aspect	of	reality. Not	consciously	realizing	any	of	this,	we	displace	our	hunger	for	conscious
contact	with	God	onto	our	search	for	a	romantic	partner. Connection	with	a
lover	is	intoxicating	because	it	reminds	us	of	our	union	with	God;	separation
is	so	devastating	because	it	reminds	us	of	what	it	feels	to	be	separate	from
Him. And	a	terrible	catch-22	develops:	Feeling	separate	from	God,	I’m	more
hungry	for	you. But	also,	feeling	separate	from	Him,	I’m	not	in	a	whole	state. Being	not	in	a	whole	state,	I’m	fractured—and	thus	more	likely	to	
blow
	it
with	you. So	it	is	that	love	can	be	hell. And	so	it	is	that	love	can	be	heaven. Both	are	worthy	of	investigation…. S
OMETIMES	IT’S	THE	ONE	WHO	TAKES	AWAY	ALL	OUR	PAIN
	who	then	piles	on	even	more	of	it. I	once	had	the	most	beautiful	romance,	or	at	least	I	thought	so. Then	one
day	it	was	simply	gone. I	had	heard	stories	of	people	suddenly	walking	out	on
their	families,	never	to	return. But	I	always	thought	there	must	be	more	to	itthan	that;	surely	it	wasn’t	that	simple. No	one	just	got	up	one	day	and	said,
“It’s	over,”	and	that	was	it. Or	so	I	believed	until	it	happened	to	me. I’m	one	of	those	people	who	needs	to	
talk	
…	to	process,	to	understand,	to
give	and	receive	forgiveness	if	nothing	else. But	some	people	find	all	that
talking	at	the	end	too	much	to	take. Or	perhaps	the	talking	might	expose	too
much. For	whatever	reason,	it	seems	better	for	them	to	surgically	remove	the
other	person	from	their	life,	burn	the	bridge	behind	them,	throw	a	bomb	into	a
beautiful	garden	that	could	have	been	a	friendship	that	lasted	a	lifetime. This	man	had	given	me	a	gift. With	him,	I’d	had	the	experience	of	a	love
that	didn’t	conflict	with	my	larger	sense	of	mission	for	my	life. For	once	there
seemed	to	be	no	competition,	no	split,	between	my	romantic	life	and	my
career. I	didn’t	feel	I	was	neglecting	one	in	order	to	best	serve	the	other,	and
for	me	that	was	new. Instead,	I	felt	his	love	like	a	raft	beneath	me,	on	which	I
could	just	lie	back	serenely. Often	before,	I	had	felt	as	though	the	different
elements	of	my	life	were	like	plates	clanging	against	each	other	in	a	too-
crowded	dishwasher. Yet	while	he	was	there,	there	was	no	clanging. Things
that	usually	seemed	difficult	weren’t	so	hard	to	hold	together	after	all. He’d
meet	what	for	me	were	the	most	stress-producing	issues	with	some	line	like,
“Yeah,	well,	so	what	should	we	have	for	dinner. ”	and	I	would	melt. But	then	it	ended,	in	an	abrupt	and	unkind	way. I,	of	course,	had	a	choice	to
make. In	the	words	of	
A	Course	in	Miracles,
	I	could	be	hostage	to	my	ego	or
host	to	God. I	knew	that	there	is	no	letting	go	of	others—the	kind	of	release
that	frees	not	only	them	but	you	as	well—without	giving	them	your	genuine
blessing. It	wouldn’t	be	enough	to	just	say,	“I	release	you. ”	I	had	to	be	able	to
say,	“I	release	you	and	pray	that	you	walk	with	angels. I	release	you	and	hope
your	dreams	come	true. I	release	you	and	wish	you	happiness. ”	I	resisted,	as	I
was	filled	with	resentment. But	I	prayed. Soon	after,	I	was	reading	
A	Course	in	Miracles
	and	came	across	truth	that	I
needed	to	hear. I	was	reminded	that	all	of	us	are	equally	holy	in	God’s	eyes	…
that	whatever	grievance	I	hold	against	another	person	has	more	to	do	with	my
own	need	to	find	blame	than	with	anything	they	have	done. and	that
regardless	of	what	mistakes	have	been	made	by	anyone	in	the	past,	in	the
present	I	can	choose	to	see	love. Reading	such	things	had	the	miraculous
power	to	alchemize	my	emotions,	to	remove	the	painful	impurities	that,	after
all,	weren’t	ruining	
his
	day—just	mine. The	ego	feasts	on	all	this	pain,	like	a	scavenger	dog	delivering	endless
evidence	of	other	people’s	cruelty,	wrongdoing,	injustices,	and	so	forth. It’s	so
tempting	to	monitor	someone	else’s	issues,	leaving	out	of	the	equation	whatwe	ourselves	might	need	to	learn	from	a	situation. One	of	the	most	important
gifts	of	any	relationship	is	the	gift	of	self-awareness. In	the	final	analysis,	that
is	the	reason	for	love:	that	one	day	we	will	
become
	love. And	everything	that
ever	happens	will	be	used	to	show	us	how	we’re	doing	so	far. One	morning	I	woke	up	thinking	about	him. I	found	myself	saying	a
spontaneous	prayer,	no	longer	that	God	help	me	through	this	experience	but
that	God	help	him. I’d	known	intellectually,	of	course,	that	this	man’s
behavior	at	the	end	of	our	relationship	was	not	that	of	a	cruel	person	so	much
as	that	of	a	wounded	one. The	intensity	of	my	own	pain	had	made	me	unable
to	see	beyond	the	wound	he’d	inflicted	on	me	to	feel	true	compassion	for	the
wound	in	him. Yet	that	was	my	lesson,	clearly:	to	feel	deeper	compassion	for
someone	else’s	wounds	so	I	could	then	be	healed	of	my	own. And	finally,	on
that	particular	morning,	I	could. I	could	imagine	how	much	pain	he	would
have	had	to	be	in,	on	some	deep	level,	to	so	casually	throw	away	the	kind	of
connection	we	had	had. I	thought	of	Emerson’s	words:	“Whenever	you	meet
anyone,	remember	they	are	going	through	a	great	war. ”	I	could	see	that	about
him. I	prayed	for	him,	and	I	wished	him	healed. Then	I	could	see	what	perhaps	had	been	the	agreement	forged	between	our
souls. Like	so	many	women,	an	anger	at	men—from	unavailable	fathers	to
unavailable	lovers—had	left	a	toughness	in	my	heart	that	did	not	serve	me
well. Forgiving	this	man,	praying	for	him,	really	wanting	in	my	heart	for	him
to	be	happy,	I	felt	a	shift	inside	myself. He	stood	for	every	man	who	had	ever
made	me	feel	dismissed. Forgiving	him	helped	me	forgive	them	all. And	then,
in	a	deeper	way,	I	was	free. The	blessing	was	simply	that	I’d	had	the	experience,	and	an	experience
cannot	be	possessed. It’s	there	when	it’s	there	and	it’s	gone	when	it’s	gone. Ultimately	you	come	to	realize	that	everything	is	yours	and	nothing	is	yours. As	Helena	says	about	her	beloved	Demetrius	in	Shakespeare’s	
A	Midsummer
Night’s	Dream:	
“And	I	have	found	Demetrius	like	a	jewel,	/	Mine	own,	and
not	mine	own. ”
When	you’re	young,	you	hold	on	tightly	to	love	in	the	hopes	that	it	will	last
forever. When	you’re	older,	you	know	you	don’t	need	to	hold	on	because	it
does
	last	forever. People	come	and	they	sometimes	go. But	love	remains,	if	it
remains	in	you. People	often	say,	“I’ve	been	hurt	so	bad. How	can	I	ever	trust	again. ”	But
faith	in	love	doesn’t	mean	faith	in	someone’s	personality;	it	means	faith	in	the
changeless	nature	of	love	itself. Faith	in	love	isn’t	faith	in	another	person;
ultimately,	it’s	faith	in	ourselves. It	means	faith	in	our	capacity	to	discern	andin	our	capacity	to	forgive. It	means	faith	in	our	capacity	to	love	fiercely,	yet
with	the	full	understanding	that	who	and	what	we	love	today	might	be	gone
tomorrow. True	love	is	always	a	risk,	in	that	sense. But	the	universe	isn’t	invested	just
in	giving	us	what	we	want. It’s	invested	us	in	teaching	us	how	to	love. And	if
we	bless	others	when	they’re	with	us,	but	withhold	our	blessing	if	and	when
they	leave,	then	we	ourselves	have	not	yet	received	or	become	the	blessing. A
blessing	that	isn’t	constant	is	not	a	blessing. What	we	trust	is	the	will	of	God. We’re	brought	into	each	other’s	lives	on
divine	assignment,	spirit	working	through	the	subconscious	mind	to	draw	us
to	people	with	whom	we	have	the	greatest	opportunity	for	soul	growth. But
that	doesn’t	mean	that	the	lessons	will	always	be	easy. In	fact,	someone	might
have	been	brought	into	our	lives	in	order	for	us	to	master	the	lesson	of
discernment—in	other	words,	to	teach	us	what	to	turn	
away
	from. Sometimes	it’s	an	experience	of	what	you	do	not	ultimately	want	that
teaches	you	what	you	
do
	want. Sometimes	it’s	the	one	who	shatters	you	who
releases	you	to	your	truest	love. Something	didn’t	turn	out	to	be	what	you
hoped	for,	but	perhaps	that	was	the	point. It	was	a	relationship	that	released
you	to	you,	thus	setting	you	on	a	higher	path. True	love	can’t	come	until	you
know	yourself,	and	you	couldn’t	know	yourself	until	certain	appetites	were
blasted	out	of	you. You	might	have	had	an	appetite	for	the	less	than	committed	because	you
weren’t	ready	to	be	committed. Now,	having	been	run	from,	you	are	ready	to
stop	running. Now,	having	been	stung,	you	are	ready	to	stop	stinging. And
now	a	true	love—someone	who	neither	stings	nor	runs	nor	is	attracted	to	pain
—is	on	their	way	to	meet	you. In	the	words	or	the	Persian	poet	Rumi,	“Out	of
a	shattered	open	heart	springs	a	fountain	of	fiery	sacred	passion	that	will
never	run	dry. ”
Don’t	skip	a	beat. Perfume	your	soul. Make	ready	your	house. Prepare	your
heart. Perhaps	you	were	let	down	by	a	love	of	this	world,	so	you	would	learn	at
last	to	lean	only	on	God. Dear	God,
I	surrender	to	You
my	past	relationships. Teach	me	how	to	forgive,
dear	God,
that	I	might	be	weighed	down	no	longer. I	release	the	ones	who	have	wounded	me:
may	they	now	find	their	joy. May	I	be	forgiven
for	the	wounds	I’ve	inflicted. May	all	of	us	find	true	peace. Amen
T
HE	PROBLEM	WITH	
NOT	
YET	LEANING	ON
	G
OD	IS	THAT	WE	THEN	TEND
	to	lean	inordinately	on
other	people. Failing	to	embrace	a	love	that	will	always	be	there	for	us,	we
become	vulnerable	to	ones	that	won’t	be. I	remember	a	television	show	that	was	very	popular	when	I	was	a	little	girl
called	
Father	Knows	Best. Every	time	the	teenage	daughter	walked	into	a
room,	her	father	gave	her	a	huge	smile	and	exclaimed,	“Why	hello,	Princess. ”
Being	so	deeply	adored	by	her	father	at	that	age,	a	girl’s	brain	would	be
imprinted	with	an	emotional	propensity	for	men	who	treat	her	in	a	similarly
adoring	way. Healthy	male	attention	would	feel	natural	to	her;	she’d	grow	up
knowing	what	it	looks	like	and	how	she	should	respond	to	it. But	if	male	attention	is	missing,	then	the	girl	grows	up	in	many	cases	to	be
a	woman	who	either	deflects	such	a	comment	because	it’s	so	alien	to	her,	or
goes	in	the	opposite	direction	and	practically	turns	it	into	a	marriage	proposal. Either	way,	there’s	a	void	where	a	genuine	sense	of	her	female	self	should	be. And	boy,	is	an	inauthentic	person	a	sucker	for	an	inauthentic	person. A	woman	like	that	would	be	particularly	vulnerable	to	emotional	charlatans
—the	“charmers”	who	say	exactly	the	right	thing	and	know	a	fair	amount	of
poetry,	but	from	whom	there’s	rarely	a	responsible	follow-through	to	their
protestations	of	adoration. He	too	was	almost	always	a	wounded	child. Something	made	it	necessary	for	him,	when	young,	to	learn	performance	as	a
survival	skill. For	whatever	reason,	he	came	to	feel	at	a	tragically	early	age
that	deceit	rather	than	authenticity	was	a	normal	mode	of	being. Conscious
connection	to	his	own	deeper	truth	was	superseded	by	a	need	to	find	whatever
words	or	behavior	would	help	him	survive	a	traumatic	moment. Life	taught
him	to	behave	falsely—not	how	to	present	himself	as	he	truly	is,	in	touch	withhis	honest	feelings	and	deeper	truth—but	rather	to	display	with	lightning
speed	whatever	behavior	gives	him	a	short-term	emotional	advantage. Someone	who	learned	the	subtleties	of	human	manipulation	at	an	early	age
tends	to	be	very	good	at	it	by	the	time	he’s	an	adult. Such	a	person	simply
lacks	integrity;	not	because	he’s	a	bad	human	being,	but	because	he	was
knocked	out	of	his	spiritual	center	as	a	child	and	hasn’t	yet	learned	to	reclaim
it. As	a	child,	he	was	a	victim;	as	an	adult,	however,	he’ll	be	held	accountable
for	his	behavior	one	way	or	another. As	a	friend	once	said	to	me,	“The
universe	keeps	a	perfect	set	of	books. ”
How	many	times	have	we	excused	someone’s	unacceptable	behavior	with
lines	like,	“But	inside,	he’s	just	a	wounded	little	boy”. To	which	a	girlfriend
of	mine	once	responded,	“So	was	Hitler. ”	The	fact	that	I	have	compassion	for
you	doesn’t	mean	I	shouldn’t	delete	you	from	my	BlackBerry. Damaged	people	damage	people. They’re	also	attracted	to	other	damaged
people. So	we	should	all	beware. Those	such	as	the	man	and	woman	described	above	would	easily	be	drawn
to	each	other,	as	their	neuroses	form	a	perfect	fit. He’s	a	performer
extraordinaire,	and	she’s	easily	taken	in	by	a	great	performance. Their	egos’
intention	is	that	they	trigger	each	other’s	wounds,	but	God’s	intention	is	that
they	
heal
	each	other’s	wounds. Which	it	will	be	is	up	to	them. Whoever	is
willing	to	do	the	work	in	a	relationship,	seeing	it	as	their	own	opportunity	for
self-healing,	w	ill	receive	the	blessing	whether	the	other	person	makes	the
same	choice	or	not. And,	ultimately,	all	of	us	will	get	there;	lessons	we
haven’t	learned	will	just	keep	coming	around	until	we	do. Healing	can	hurt—whether	it’s	the	healing	of	having	to	face	the	shame	of
our	own	humiliation,	or	the	pain	of	having	to	turn	our	backs	on	someone
whose	patterns	are	unhealthy	for	us	to	be	around	though	we	love	them	still. Either	way,	the	pain	of	the	healing	is	far	preferable	to	the	pain	of	remaining	at
the	effect	of	the	neurotic	pattern. The	woman	will	find,	if	she	searches,	that	while	her	worldly	daddy	wasn’t
always	there,	her	Heavenly	Father	is	there	for	her	always;	never	fails	to	adore
her;	and	has	created	her	whole,	which	she	will	always	be. The	man	will
discover—if	he	continues	his	spiritual	quest—that	the	patterns	of	deceit	that
he	learned	so	early,	and	have	now	become	forces	over	which	he	seems	to	have
no	control,	can	and	will	be	healed	as	he	acknowledges	them	and	prays	that
they	be	lifted. Will	the	man	and	woman	above	get	past	their	wounds. Will	she	growstrong	enough	in	her	sense	of	true	self	to	lose	all	attraction	to	false	romantics,
preferring	authentic	love	before	the	ersatz	version. Will	he	at	last	feel	bad
enough	about	the	hurt	he	causes	others	to	ask	for	God’s	help	in	changing	his
behavior. Each	must	choose. The	one	who	learns	and	grows	will	mature	and
ripen	with	age. The	one	who	doesn’t	will	just	grow	old…. Dear	God,
Please	heal	my	romantic	wounds,
that	I	might	give	and	receive	true	love. Teach	me	how	to	let	love	in,
and	how	to	let	it	stay. Amen
I
N	ACTRESS
	E
LLEN
	B
URSTYN’S	SUPERB	MEMOIR
,	
L
essons	in
	
B
ecoming
	
M
yself
,	she	describes	how,
after	a	dramatic,	decades-long	string	of	husbands	and	lovers,	she	found
herself	taking	a	25-year	break—repeat:	
25	
years
—before	ultimately	finding
the	healthy,	wholesome	romance	she’d	always	wanted. She	didn’t	even	date
during	her	romantic	hiatus,	so	sure	was	she	that	any	liaison	she	developed
would	be	just	another	reflection	of	the	same	painful	patterns	she’d	played	out
in	her	relationships	until	then. I	call	this	a	“sex-and-love	fast. ”	Few	people	think	of	it	that	way	when
they’re	going	through	it,	of	course. While	we’re	experiencing	it,	we	just	feel
it’s	a	“dry	spell”	or	even	the	“end	of	all	that”;	we	might	think	it’s	happening
because	we’re	older	now,	so	we	don’t	attract	lovers	as	easily	anymore. But	the
truth	is	often	that	we	declared	a	halt	to	romance	on	a	subconscious	level,
regardless	of	how	much	the	conscious	mind	protests	that	“we’d	love	to	meet
someone. ”
Why. As	a	middle-aged	friend	of	mine	once	responded	when	I	asked	her	if
she	was	seeing	anyone,	“No. I	can’t	stand	who	I	become	when	I’m	in	a
relationship. I’d	rather	not	even	do	it. ”	Once	you	see	that	in	every	relationship
you’ve	encountered	the	same	demon—your	
own
—you	realize	that	until	you
deal	with	that	demon,	you’ll	never	find	true	love. For	the	demon	blocks	it. This	demon	takes	various	forms	in	your	arsenal	of	self-sabotage:	insecurity,
lack	of	boundaries,	jealousy,	dishonesty,	anger,	control,	neediness,	or
whatever	other	form	of	personal	inauthenticity	that	leads	you	time	and	time
again	to	either	attract	the	bad	ones	or	blow	it	with	the	good	ones. It	is	naïve	to
underestimate	that	demon’s	power. After	one	of	her	romances	went	desperately	sour,	a	friend	once	told	me,
“Another	one	like	that	would	kill	me. ”	I	understood	what	she	meant,	and	so
can	most	people. There	comes	a	time	when	you	feel	like	the	high	of	romance
isn’t	worth	the	pain	of	its	demise;	when	the	risk	of	a	romantic	disaster
outweighs	the	thrill	of	the	ride. And	that	time	is	…	you	guessed	it. more
often	than	not	around	midlife. Why. First	of	all,	because	it	often	takes	that	long	to	have	experienced
enough	disasters	that	you’d	do	anything	possible	to	make	sure	you	avoid
another	one. Also,	you’ve	reached	a	point	when	you	don’t	have	as	hard	a	time
overriding	your	hormones. Your	body	isn’t	so	upset	anymore	to	hear	you	say
that	you’re	taking	a	break. It	rather	welcomes	the	chance	for	some	downtime. The	yearning	for	love	is	still	there,	but	the	yearning	alchemizes	into
something	less	personal. Not	less	personal	in	the	sense	that	you	don’t	love	an
intimate	conversation	or	having	a	warm	body	hold	you	close;	just	less
personal	in	the	sense	that	life	has	forced	you	to	see	beyond	the	illusion	that
any	human	being	can	erase	all	your	pain. You	realize	the	romantic	mythology
we	were	all	brought	up	with	is	like	a	computer	file	that	has	been	corrupted. Until	that	file	has	been	removed	and	replaced	by	another,	no	matter	what	we
do,	our	ultimate	outcome	will	be	tainted. This	doesn’t	mean	you	don’t	still	crave	love—the	craving	itself	never	stops. As	a	matter	of	fact,	at	just	the	point	when	you’ve	had	enough,	the	very	fact
that	you	
have
	had	enough	is	what	causes	your	breakthrough	into	the
awareness	that	sets	you	free. As	it’s	said	in	Alcoholics	Anonymous,	every
problem	comes	bearing	its	own	solution. It’s	often	when	love	has	hurt	you	the
most	that	you	come	to	see	how	and	why	you	set	yourself	up	for	all	that	pain. So	you	go	on	a	fast. All	of	a	sudden,	your	phone	stops	ringing. Like	Ellen
Burstyn,	you’re	forced	to	cleanse	your	palate. Burstyn	came	to	understand	that	her	negative	relationship	patterns	were
reflections	of	her	childhood	wounds,	which	she’d	have	to	reenact	until	she
healed	them. So	do	we	all. Until	that	work	is	done	on	some	level,	there	is	no
getting	off	the	wheel	of	suffering. Our	subconscious	minds	aren’t	wrong	in
cutting	us	off	from	love	and	sex	for	a	while,	as	the	work	is	being	done	and
deeply	absorbed	into	our	system. The	fast	isn’t	something	we	do	to	isolate;
it’s	something	we	do	to	survive. First	there	was	childhood,	and	the	wounding	that	occurred	then. Then	there
was	young	adulthood,	and	all	the	disasters	that	occurred	because	of	your
childhood	wounds. And	then	there’s	midlife,	when	it’s	time	to	deal	at	last	withwhat	happened	in	childhood	
and
	in	young	adulthood. Midlife	is	the	time	to
heal,	so	our	hearts	can	finally	be	delivered	from	the	past	and	released	to	the
fullness	of	what	love	can	be	right	now. When	you	see	a	lot	of	middle-aged	individuals	at	personal-growth
seminars,	it’s	not	because	they’re	done	with	love	and	this	is	their	only
entertainment	now. Often,	they	have	memories	that	might	shock	the	younger
people	around	them. Whenever	you	see	an	older	person,	you	might	want	to
subtract	40	years,	and	that	will	tell	you	how	old	he	or	she	was	in	the	’60s. But
the	new	midlife	is	not	a	time	to	simply	dwell	on	our	memories	of	love	and	the
demons	we	encountered	there;	it’s	time	to	develop	the	skill	to	send	the
demons	back	to	hell. Sometimes	you	wonder	if	you	missed	your	window. Ellen	Burstyn	writes
that	she	remembered	feeling,	
Now	that	I	know	I	am	ready	at	last	to	love	well,
I	fear	it	is	too	late. With	that	sentiment,	she	echoes	the	fears	of	many. Yet
that’s	just	a	typical,	last-ditch	effort	of	the	demon	to	deter	us,	a	common	pain
that	often	pops	up	in	our	heads	in	that	one	minute	before	the	miracle. Once	your	mind	and	heart	are	realigned—when	the	broken	self	you	became
in	childhood	is	no	longer	manifesting	broken	relationships—then	you’re
ready	at	last	to	love	again. Compassion,	integrity,	truthfulness,	generosity,	and
graciousness	become	key	elements	in	your	new	romantic	skill	set. You	come
to	see	what	you	did	wrong	in	the	past	and	to	forgive	yourself,	to	understand
other	people’s	actions	and,	where	necessary,	forgive	them,	too. You	are
humbled	at	last	into	your	purity	and	grace. In	the	Epilogue	of	her	book,	Burstyn	describes	how	she	finally	met	the	man
of	her	dreams,	and	I	finished	the	last	page	thinking,	
Now	I	want	to	read	the
sequel. I’d	read	hundreds	of	pages	about	the	horrors	of	her	past;	now	I	wanted
to	know	what	finally	getting	it	right	would	look	and	feel	like. Just	as	certain	foods	need	to	marinate,	our	romantic	skills	need	years
sometimes	to	come	together	in	all	their	richness. I	asked	Burstyn	what	it’s	like
now,	to	finally	feel	that	she	loves	and	is	loved	well. “What’s	different. ”	I
asked	her. “For	starters,”	she	said,	“there	is	much	more	respect	and	much	less
judgment. Conversations	don’t	escalate	into	arguments,	and	arguments	don’t
escalate	into	violence. ”	She	paused. “And	now	I	know	how	to	let	a	man	be. ”
So	in	our	youth,	we	often	had	love	but	didn’t	know	what	to	do	with	it. Then
sometimes,	after	what	can	be	a	very	long	time	in	the	romantic	wilderness,	we
find	love	again	or	love	finds	us. And	this	time,	we	
do
	know	what	to	do. Thatwilderness—that	fast—was	not	the	end	of	anything. It	was	our	romantic
salvation. Dear	God,
Please	reveal	to	me
the	glory	of	manhood,
the	beauty	of	the	masculine,
and	the	greatness	of	men. Amen
I	
ALWAYS	HATE	IT	WHEN
	I’
M	ASKED	TO	FILL	OUT
	an	official	form	of	some	kind	that
includes	the	options	“single,”	“married,”	or	“divorced. ”	I	always	leave	that
section	blank,	as	my	way	of	saying,	“That’s	none	of	your	damn	business. ”
I	think	I	feel	that	way	because	it	seems	too	personal. It	feels	like	an
emotional	identity	theft,	giving	someone	permission	to	make	assumptions
about	me	based	on	such	external	categories. (Calm	down,	Marianne. This	is	a
dental
	form. ) Which	is	not	to	say,	of	course,	that	whether	we’re	married	or	single	doesn’t
matter. It’s	just	to	say	that	the	deeper	issues	of	love	are	not	about	form	but
content. The	problem	I	see	most	often	blocking	the	romantic	impulse	is	a
stifled	sense	of	self:	Many	men	aren’t	really	sure	how	to	be	men,	and	many
women	aren’t	really	sure	how	to	be	women. Our	generational	detour	into	an
ambisexual	wasteland	was	part	of	what	emotionally	stunted	many	of	us	for
years. When	a	woman	thinks	that	she	can	overdo	her	“masculine	self”	and	a
man	will	still	want	her,	or	a	man	thinks	that	he	can	overdo	his	“feminine	self”
and	a	woman	will	still	want	him,	then	all	manner	of	confusion	leads	to	all
manner	of	pain. That	delusional	trend	has	begun	to	self-correct,	but	the
generational	wound	is	not	yet	fully	healed. It’s	one	of	those	many	areas	where
our	parents	sometimes	had	it	right—for	the	wrong	reasons,	perhaps,	but	in
ways	we	didn’t	realize,	they	had	it	right. My	mother	was	a	broad. If	she	had	an	opinion,	you	knew	it. If	she	didn’t
like	something,	she’d	let	you	hear	about	it. And	my	father	never	seemed	to
think	that	he	had	the	right	to	stop	her	from	expressing	herself. He	never
seemed	to	want	to. However	
…	there	was	a	limit	that	he	sometimes	set,	not	to
her	self-expression	but	to	any	discomfort	it	might	be	causing	him. My	father	never	called	my	mother	by	her	name,	ever. She	was	always	just
“Sweetheart. ”	But	every	once	in	a	while—not	frequently,	but	at	those	rare
times	when	something	she	was	going	on	about	was	stirring	tension	he	was	not
okay	with—my	father	simply	looked	at	her	and	said	simply,	“Sophie	Ann. ”
And	my	mother	stopped. That	was	it. She	grew	silent. It	took	me	many	years
and	tears	to	understand	what	a	lucky	woman	my	mother	was. For	a	woman	to	feel	free	to	be	strong	and	wild	and	creatively	rambunctious,
she	can’t	afford	to	be	with	a	partner	who	in	any	way	stifles	her,	invalidates
her,	or	punishes	her	for	being	who	she	is. That	being	said,	a	woman	is	blessed
by	the	presence	of	someone	who	can	say,	in	a	way	that	doesn’t	withhold	his
affection	or	undermine	her	confidence,	“Are	you	sure	you	want	to	go	that
far. ”
For	many	women,	our	deepest	craving	is	for	a	place	to	relax. We’re	like	the
water	in	a	swimming	pool. Of	course	we	appreciate	the	concrete;	all	we	have
to	do	is	just	be	the	water. A	woman’s	state	of	being,	not	doing,	is	what
magnetizes	love. And	nothing	is	a	more	powerful	state	of	being	than	a	deep
acceptance	of	what	
is. Too	often	we	inquire	about	a	situation,	“How	can	I
change	this. ”	when	we	should	be	asking,	“How	can	I	dwell	within	this
circumstance	in	the	highest	possible	way. ”
If	you’re	single	and	would	like	a	partner,	you’ll	only	attract	one	when
you’ve	mastered	the	lessons	of	singleness. Don’t	ask	how	you	can	“get”	a
man. Ask	how	you	can	be	the	coolest	woman	in	the	world—and	when	that
happens,	you’ll	enjoy	the	experience	so	much	it	won’t	even	matter	whether
men	notice	you	or	not. Which	means,	of	course,	that	they	will. I	did	a	lot	of	research	for	you	so	that	I	could	report	back	on	that. One	of	the	most	insidiously	self-sabotaging	questions	is,	“Why	can’t	I	meet
the	right	man	[or	woman]. ”	It	implies	that	there	is	someone	out	there,	maybe
in	Mongolia	or	someplace,	and	if	only	you	knew	where	he	or	she	was,	then
you	could	pop	over	on	the	next	flight. But	since	metaphysically	nothing	is	outside	of	us—everything	we
experience	is	a	reflection	of	what’s	going	on	in	our	head—there’s	no	point	in
flying	to	Mongolia	if	we’re	not	already	the	perfect	fit	for	our	ideal	partner. And	once	we	
are
	ready,	we	needn’t	go	anywhere	because	he	or	she	will
simply	appear. Whenever	people	have	stood	up	in	my	lectures—and	it	has	been	often—to
say	their	heartbreak	is	that	they	haven’t	yet	found	a	mate,	I	usually	find
myself	saying,	“Tell	me	the	truth;	I	know	you	know	it. What	do	you	do	thatkeeps	love	at	bay. ”
Often	the	room	gasps,	as	though	I’ve	said	something	confrontational. And
perhaps	I	have:	I’ve	asked	a	person	to	confront	him-	or	herself. I’ve	suggested
that	they	take	full	responsibility	for	their	own	experience. And	more	often
than	not,	after	a	pause,	I’m	met	with	an	honest	and	illuminating	answer:
“I	act	needy. ”
“I	attract	men,	but	then	I	start	acting	like	a	man	myself,	so	they	leave. I’m
not	very	feminine. ”
“I	get	jealous. ”
“I	get	angry. ”
“I’m	controlling. ”
“I’m	so	desperate	to	have	kids	and	men	can	feel	it. ”
To	which	I	usually	respond	with	something	like,	“Ah. Well,	then	isn’t	it
wonderful	that	your	great	love	isn’t	here	yet. You	can	handle	this	now,	so	you
don’t	ruin	another	good	opportunity. ”
In	other	words,	it’s	not	only	explainable	why	these	men	and	women	are
single—it’s	
good
	that	they	are. This	is	their	time	to	get	ready. Time	to	do	all
the	work,	internally	and	externally,	that	goes	along	with	preparing	yourself	as
the	gift	you	really	are—not	as	an	assorted	set	of	fragmented	emotions,
unhealed	neuroses,	and	broken	dreams	from	an	unforgiven	past. The	most	important	thing	to	work	on,	always,	is	the	nature	of	our	thoughts. Whenever	we	believe	that	a	situation	is	lacking,	we	create	more	lack.
The author argues that this is a misconception. She believes that joy and excitement are available at any age, and that it's a matter of understanding and embracing one's own desires and needs.
What is the author's perspective on the idea that joy and excitement are only available to the young?
The author strongly disagrees with this idea, arguing that women should not be forced to suppress their desires and needs. She believes that women should be able to express themselves and be comfortable in their own skin.
What is the author's stance on the idea that a woman's role is to be plain and unadorned?
The author believes that forgiveness is crucial for personal growth and the ability to move forward in life. She emphasizes the importance of forgiving oneself and others, and encourages readers to seek forgiveness and healing.
What is the author's view on the concept of forgiveness?
The author rejects this idea, stating that love is not a serious business, but rather a natural and essential part of life. She argues that people should not be ashamed of expressing their desires and needs.
What is the author's perspective on the idea that love and relationships should be taken seriously?
The author does not believe that age is a determining factor in relationships. She argues that love is not age-dependent and that people should not be limited by societal expectations.
What is the author's view on the concept of age and its impact on relationships?