True Love

I’ve fallen in love three times this week…heart-skipping-a-beat, butterflies-in-my-stomach, take-me-I’m-yours love.

But I quickly realized I’m not in love with a person. I’m in love with language.

The first time I fell in love this week, I was receiving texts from an old friend who has reached out to say “hello.” Except while joking that he reminded me of Uncle Sam, he sent a text saying simply “I want you.”

It’s amazing how those three words held enough power to make my bones turn to jello and yank my stomach up into my chest with pleasure…not so much for this instance, but rather the thought that there could be such a man whose use of straightforward language was so powerful you’d have no doubts you were someone special. Forget the long-winded prose of the poets. I’ll take the man who mastered this technique.

The second time I fell in love this week, I was talking with an immigrant client about his business. He spoke with such a slow easy pace that I started to feel like Mowgli in the grips of the python Kaa. He was in no rush, and the longer I stayed and listened, I was in no rush either.

This time, it wasn’t so much what he said as how he said it. My heart rate sped up as my sense of time and distraction slowed, and when he stopped to think about an answer to a question I’d asked leaving the silence to work it’s own spell, my heart almost always skipped a beat. It was as if I were the only person in the world and nothing else mattered. Interestingly, I felt the same.

The third time I feel in love this week, I was listening to Peter Cincotti while I mowed my grass. He was on my shuffle list somewhere between Ceu and Pink Martini, which helped catch my attention. Suddenly those groups (whom I also love) seemed overly mixed and elaborately choreographed—beautiful in the way of a classical ballet, but without the raw emotion of, say, a bachata.

So to hear Peter’s simple piano-drum-saxophone backdrop and voice, filled with a sort of desperate excitement, I couldn’t help but pay close attention while he painted a picture with an unhurried, syncopated and direct message. It was, quite simply, the best of everything I love about language.

And when he stopped singing, I knew I had it bad…and it felt sooooooooo good.

Stormy weather

There’s a storm coming here at d’Anconia Square.

Normally, I don’t believe the weathermen, but this time I can feel it in the oppressive humidity. I can smell it in the dirt. I can see it as my roses bow their fragile petals down to the ground. I can hear it in the stillness where the birds should be singing their evening song by now.

And I can sense it as my dogs hover underfoot, clinging, even when I head out and down through the yard to dump the compost I’ve been collecting in my kitchen.

Or maybe they can sense the storm about to break loose inside of me.

It’s been my first quiet weekend in months. And as I find myself able to move about freely and quietly—long hours cleaning, long walks, long moments of not-quite meditation, and plenty of time to think—I realize I’m potentially a mess.

To start with, I have begun receiving flack for and therefore questioning my recent strongly-crafted conviction that this idea of one perfect job or skill or career for the rest of my life is utter nonsense.  I have always been and was always meant to be a jack-of-all-trades career person.  And in embracing this idea, I had finally felt freed.  Now I wonder if it’s just an illusion…like Disneyworld or Austenland.

Then there’s the final and stark realization that I could never be a nun.  But Oh, how I admire Sister Julienne from the Call the Midwife Series.  In truth, I’m probably more like Sister Evangeline, but I love those nuns and have harbored a secret fantasy that I could become one ever since I watched the first episode of the first season of the series.

Unfortunately, when in the final episode of the second season of the series Sister Bernadette traded in her habit for old-fashioned shoes and a doctor who adored her, I knew I would have made that choice too.  So I’ll save the sisters the trouble of having to keep my shoes in a suitcase for many years.

Which leads me to romance.  Not that I have it.  But that I have to finally admit, I do want it.  Just not the trysty, flingy, try-it-on-for-size kind.  More like the I-know-where-I’m-going-think-we’d-make-a-helluva-team-and-I-want-you-by-my-side-forever kind.  Super tough to do when you live in America, are divorced, and raising two teenaged daughters.  I’d given up hope, but not really, but not in an optimistic kind of way.

Then there’s this whole health push to lower my stress and be “mindful.”  Well, my mind is full.

Mainly of thoughts that I couldn’t be a nun; that Disneyland has the most unique trash system in the world; that Anne Elliot is probably my favorite Austen heroine; that I should have gone to the archery range today because it looks like its going to rain tomorrow; that perhaps there’s a business to be had in ship transportation tourism between America and Europe (think cruise ship meets simpler life at sea); that it might be unhealthy for me to make up stories about the fish, birds and wildlife we see as I walk my dogs along the river; that sushi might have been a better choice for dinner tonight since I’m not feeling thrilled about the spinach, summer squash pasta I made; that my Russian neighbors have a lot of people over today so is it some sort of holiday, and if so, what holiday and how do they celebrate it—perhaps with better food than my spinach, summer squash pasta; that I have too many mosquito bites for it being rainy, so could it be more poison oak? …

Basically, pretty much anything but “om” is on my mind.

Then again, I find “om” sometimes to be more stressful than, say, images of me and the dogs walking along a high clifftop in Cape Breton (or Ireland, I’m not picky) with the sea singing at our feet and the wind whipping my hair.  Now there’s a thought to hold onto as I feel myself spiraling and spinning and sinking in self-realization and self-absorption.

I hear the first rumble of thunder, low and full off in the distance.  I look for my dogs and find them both laying at my feet, snuggled in close as if both offering and providing protection.

And suddenly I know one thing for certain, I need to snuggle on the couch with the dogs and pop in the only movie for stormy evenings—Singing in the Rain.

 

Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky
Stormy weather.

Cause I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain
What a glorious feelin’. I’m happy again.
Laughin’ at clouds, so dark up above
The sun’s in my heart and I’m ready for love.

Mockingbirds

I often have songs stuck in my mind and heart. But, usually, I can trace them to their origins and tell you why they might be there. Recently a string of songs have woven in and out of my days and nights unexplicably, as if messages and reminders for something I’m forgetting.

In the dark early morning as I lay hoping against cough-induced wakefulness that I’d be able to fall back asleep, I heard the unremarkable Days of Wine and Roses. I say unremarkable because I’ve never enjoyed that song and neither wine or roses have entered my days lately, nor would I be able to enjoy them if they had. Had my neighbors been playing Boston Pops records while they smoked on their porch? Or had the immigrants who recently moved in two houses down been playing some music with influence from accordion or violin? Or had I just been dancing in my dreams again?

In the grayness of the afternoon as I stood at my kitchen sink watching the birds flit in and out of my flowering tree, I noticed myself humming Here Comes the Sun though the sky and the weather predictions contradicted this notion. I stopped and listened to see if perhaps it’s playing somewhere in the park or in a car stopped at the stop sign out front. But, no. All I hear are the birds. Could they be my Beatles inspiration?

In the quiet moments after I flipped off the news in disgust while driving home and just as my breathing returned to calm, it’s as if someone sang quietly in my ear, Touch Me When We’re Dancing. “Play us a song we can slow dance on. We want to hold each other. Play us a groove so we hardly move. Just let our hearts beat together…” And I’m off humming too. Where did that come from? Were the Carpenters featured on an inspirational billboard back there? Or were they playing at the gas station while I pumped my petrol?

The only thing I can say about the music is that it’s from the deep recesses of my heart and history…at least that’s what I would say if anyone would critique the age of my music. But by now, Gentle Penguin, you know I have an old soul, right?

Except that turns out to not be true very soon indeed. A stressful evening, frantic with rushing here and there, trying to be everything to everyone and suddenly a pause. I slip into it as if it were a hidey-hole though I’m as out in the open as any doe letting the rain fall gently to protect my solitude, thankful for the cool freshness of being silent and outside. That’s where Now Comes the Night finds me.

Now, I’m not religious, but I do believe in so very much more than what is seen and proved, which is why when I first stumbled upon this song just when I needed it, I christened it my Guardian Angel’s anthem. A reminder that though I may not be aware of it, I’m not lost. I stand not caring that I’m soaking, and I listen to the strains. They’re around here somewhere, I know it isn’t just me who hears.

Do you hear it? Or perhaps your music is different? Where does it come from? Because just now, I could swear I heard some serious cowbell in the midst of Carly and James asking us if we’ve heard, to listen now and understand…

Forever Blowing Bubbles

Feeling under the weather, I whipped up a homemade soup and some hot tea then curled up on the sofa before I ran out of steam. Not normally a TV watcher, I intended to put on a movie to take my mind off my aches and pains.

But as I prepared to hit play, there on the screen was an older couple casually Viennese Waltzing around a small stage with champagne-colored curtains fluttering in the archways and lit by wall sconces and a chandelier dripping with crystals.

Wait. Casual Viennese Waltz? What was that?

I watched and soon realized it was two people holding each other rather naturally and gently moving around in waltz one-two-three timing while smiling, talking, laughing and Viennese Waltzing.

That’s when something inside me snapped into place—“You don’t have to be a professional to dance.” The thought was so simple and stark it felt like it smacked me upside the head. I’ve lost so much energy to self-deprecation over the eight years I’ve danced because I’m not a professional. Suddenly, I realize that all along I quite possibly just needed someone to dance with. Not a professional who works to improve your technique, but someone who wants to move together with you to music while holding each other, smiling, talking and laughing.

The show continued with muted trombone strains on display in front of a full orchestra, dark-haired beauties creating delicate harmonies, and more accordion than I’ve quite possibly ever heard in one sitting. Yes, I was watching Lawrence Welk. And, of course, I was loving every second of it. I sat there holding my hot tea smiling without any effort and feeling suddenly utterly pliable rather than stiff.

Then a professional dance couple came on and performed a beautiful, showy Viennese Waltz. It was lovely. Truly a delight to watch. But the casual Viennese Waltz was still dancing in my soul.

Then, a change of music and the audience was on their feet casually Fox Trotting. All ages, sizes, colors. And casual Fox Trotting. I laughed out loud while some sort of mental blindfold was ripped from my perception. I had always wanted to learn to dance in order to be more graceful, but somewhere along the way, it had become self punishment, frustration, and self-directed anger…primarily because I wasn’t a professional.

Now, I realize the people on Lawrence Welk are professionals, but this idea of casual dancing—meaning, knowing how to and engaging in dance—hadn’t occurred to me somehow.

Now, I will be the first person to advocate for taking the lessons to learn the basics of each dance. It makes the dancing more enjoyable when you know what your partner may want you to do next. But perhaps, it’s just as important to find a dance partner with the same goals, whether they be competition and technique perfection or social enjoyment. I have always danced with partners who helped improve my technique, to perfect my movement. But I suddenly realized that’s not why I love dancing. It never was.

Of course, I see casual dancing on a regular basis at Big Band concerts, but somehow, it’s never clicked. Perhaps because everyone else has always had a partner. Sitting on my sofa feeling run-down, I didn’t have a partner and I was in no shape to dance, but when the Lawrence Welk orchestra played I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles, and took to the floor for another casual Viennese Waltz, it suddenly didn’t seem impossible that someday I could have a partner with whom I could casually ballroom dance.

Until then, I’ll keep a song in my heart.

Equinox

I know I’m a few days late.  The equinox has passed.

But all this snow has caught me in a whirlwind and spun me around and around and around until I didn’t know which way was north any longer.

Just as last spring, things are happening.  Strange things.

My dreams are random, but so pin-pointed I could walk across a tightrope on them.  People from my past are popping out of the tapestry like ghosts—some frightening, some dredging, some just curious.  My daughters are on edge.  My dogs are antsy.  And I’m trying so hard to hold my new-found calm.  I want so much to stay centered and calm.

And suddenly, I want a hundred other things too.  To declutter, to clean, to create, to walk, to cleanse, to stretch, to laugh and swing on the swing set behind my house, to sing out loud in public, to be kissed, to break free, to say no to everything else except a hot cup of tea and my mom’s homemade cherry pie.

I know this ailment.  I have spring fever.

I long for leprechauns, and fairy woods, and pirates’ coves, and sprite lairs, and giant adventures, and wolves in waiting, and geese with golden eggs, and princes in disguise, and breadcrumb paths, and moonlight with soft warm breezes.

I long for Alice’s flower song sung by the birds and the crickets and the bees.  I long for dinner on the deck and breakfast on the porch and afternoon meditation in the cool lush grass.

I long to try cartwheeling and swinging and shots on goal for spring soccer.  For long walks in the woods with my dogs that last all day, and paddles down the river that easily feel like flying.

The cobwebs in my heart have long since blown out, thanks to a long winter of hibernation and transformation.  I am ready.  Willing.  And able.

Bring on the Spring.

Dear OBB…

I’m living vicariously through Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love book, yet again.  It’s probably only the third time, but in two years it’s the third time.  How lucky she was to get to go and spend a year travelling with nothing more to do than to find herself.  I’ve been lost for years now, and I can’t even get five minutes of no responsibility.  It’s not even time enough to get seated in a meditation pose, let alone to try eating, praying or…and I’d rather not even talk about it…loving these days.

I know you understand.

Sometimes I wonder if you are my guru. In my most painful desperate pissed-off-at-the-world moments, I can think only of how I long to write to you and tell you.  Just as I think first of you when I’m in bone-crushing depths of sadness and loneliness.  And also when I’m at the height of my happiest moments.

Is it strange that for most of the normal, regular time this thought doesn’t occur to me?  At all.  It’s only in powerful emotion.  And then you are my comfort and my grace–just the mere thought of writing you.

I wondered about it tonight as I drove home from a particularly stressful day at a job I don’t care for to earn money for daughters who treat me like the maid and the money machine with equal disregard…and dare I admit it…disrespect.  Yes, they’re good girls.  But they’re teenagers.

What do I want?  What would I pray for if I had the time?  A good bottle of red wine, warm conversation about things that matter–with you and my friends Shaneh and Jorge and Monica and Shelly and Joanna and Besa and Dana–and no time restrictions or other obligations.  I would pray for something that gives me meaning and purpose every day, something to dedicate myself to so that the world my daughters and someday their daughters and my nieces and nephews and someday my great nieces and nephews and the girls on my volleyball team, the girls on my soccer team, the kids in my etiquette classes live in…so that their experience, their world is improved.

I feel most strongly about this poisonous corporate culture of America…work for money and money is king.  And neglect the relationships and people you care about because of fear that money IS king.  I hate this more than anything.  I see it as a sign of slavery.  So much prettier a face than chains and whips and selling souls…but not different.

But how does one prophesy against such a thing when it’s all our culture knows?

I spend all my time searching for information, reading about others’ transformations, researching data about the mighty beverage cultures, researching my own family tree for answers to why I’m so different and think so much and can’t just realize I am blessed!  I know I am, but with what?  Good fortune and good family are wonderful!  I just wish I could make life better for others, and find a reason worth getting up every morning to give all I have to.

And so I’m like the book-learned scholar in Coelho’s The Alchemist who makes it to the alchemy guru only to find that his books (which he has studied diligently for years) have taught him nothing worthwhile…he must start from experience.

That’s not to say I’m short on experience though either.  I’m just weary of it.  It doesn’t seem to LEAD anywhere.  But where do I want to go?  “I don’t much care” I hear myself saying which of course summons the Cheshire Cat for his inevitable response “then it doesn’t matter which way you go.”  “No, no, no,” I say hitting my forehead for my ignorant response, “I want to get SOMEWHERE!”  To which the Cat replies “Oh, you’re sure to do that if you only walk long enough.”

Sigh!  I quit walking my dogs about a month ago.  It’s cold here all the time, or gray, but mostly cold AND gray.  I do less and less well in extended cold and gray.  I mostly want to suck my thumb and sleep or hide under my covers…or worse—watch TV.

I am addicted to a BBC comedy.  The longest running comedy of all time, in fact.  It’s called the Last of the Summer Wine and it’s about a handful of retired men who spend their days scheming and joking with their village neighbors.  The women gossip about or with or for and make casseroles or take tea with those they hate but love and cherish.

Suddenly, I wish I was old.  I wish I was retired and lived with people who wanted the most from life and were finally free to find it.  People who had paid their dues and had no more need for an apology.  Or I could find myself suddenly wealthy and untied from responsibilities so that I too could spend months doing nothing but seeking myself.

But that seems to only happen in fairy tales.  And I’m not a fairy.

As always, I hope you are well.  And thank you.  Thank you from all that I have for listening.  And caring.

-Monica

Farewell Patty Party

The Andrews Sisters are now gone.  All of them.

On Wednesday, January 29, Patty, the youngest and usually considered the “front girl” died at age 94.  I heard about it within the same hour I heard about the burning of the library at Timbuktu.

I have been in a “depths of despair” that would have made even Anne “with an ‘e'” at Green Gables proud.

You see, the Andrews Sisters quit singing together in public early the year I was born.  I never heard them live, though I hear they were THE most entertaining of all the girls in that era.  But money and men got in their way, and they lost sight…or perhaps, sound was what they lost.  Either way, it was all lost to me.

I’ve emulated them a hundred times over, learning Patty’s vocals, then LaVerne’s and finally Maxene’s (because I probably sing hers best, but they’re not the most exciting).  They’re the reason I sing along in harmony with my favorite music…much to my daughters’ chagrin.  I love their sound.  And I recreate it with everyone, Brittany, Gaga, Demi, and (my favorite) Maroon 5.

Now, officially, they’re really gone forever.  Except on my Pandora station named after them, and my iPod FILLED with their music and music from their era.

American Songbook, it’s called.

I heard about Patty Andrews within minutes of hearing about the burning of the Timbuktu library.

And I admit freely, I had nightmares that night.  The end of the Andrews Sisters and burning libraries are scarier than any monster.  I feel as vulnerable as a child in the darkness with scary whispers coming from…the closet?  Under my bed?  Elsewhere?

Books and music gone on the same day.  How can that be?

But not all is lost.  Even now I’m listening “Well Alright” by the sisters while I read about the librarian and security guard of the Timbuktu library who smuggled thousands of the most important texts out of the library in the days prior to the burning.

I wonder if my brother—a librarian—would feel the same responsibility to the books under his care.

All of my sibblings–two sisters, two brothers–were librarians.  Not me.  I went straight into writing, skipping the caretaking part.

Did they love books the way I do still?  I don’t know.  But I want to reach out to them and shake them and make them promise they’ll care for important books.  My brother, who is still a librarian, would likely tell me I’m being too dramatic, like Anne with an ‘e’ from Green Gables.  But that’s part of my charm.

Like my love of the Andrews Sisters.

My sisters won’t sing with me.  I’m sure of that.  Nor my brothers.  But that’s okay, I wouldn’t ask.  We don’t get along, probably because of choices I’ve made.  And they too.

So I guess to redeem the day, the best I can do is polka to the Pennsylvania or Beer Barrel with my daughters.  Then settle in for a read together.  Grimm’s Fairy Tales, I think.  But we’ll end with a happily ever after.  And a Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, for old times sake.

Movement

Something about the twinkle lights in the darkness of this winter have prompted me to look to the stars.  Draco sits low on the Northern horizon while Flying Fish follows the Bird of Paradise who follows the peacock up into the heights.  Even though fixed in space, I can’t help but imagine their flight around and around, finally free of the bonds of Earth.  Unlike me.

While I watch I pull out my iPod and ask it to play my starred songs.  Soon America, Bread, Bill Withers, Jim Croce, the Eagles…are serenading me.

First my foot taps, then my legs sway.  Soon I’m standing and moving gently with the rhythm.  Carefully on the slippery snow-covered deck.

Imagine.  Nothing to kill or die for.  And no religion too.  Imagine all the people living life in peace.  And dancing.

At this moment, I believe it.  I sway as if I were possessed by the music—not evily, but as if  my body owned and made the music, the rhythm, the rhyme, the melody, the harmony, and the lyrics.

My ballet workouts appear as graceful arm movements that make me feel as if peace lives within me.  My ballroom dance training appears as long lines and angles and make me feel as if beauty were part of that peace.

When Time in a Bottle follows, I long for a Waltz partner.  Right here, on my deck under the star-studded sky.  There never seems to be enough time to do the things you wanna do once you find them.  I lose my fear of slipping and move the way my body knows how.

If I had a box just for wishes and dreams that never came true…

I look alternately to my large Maple and my rooftop I twirl in One-Two-Three fashion in time to the music.  “Small steps,” I hear Keith tell me without moving his lips while we spin and I keep my face pointed up in the limelight.

I keep on Viennese Waltzing as Billy Joel sings me a song of a Piano Man.

I wonder why dance has died in our society.  Even here in my jeans and North Face on my deck at 10 on a Friday night, alone with my dogs, I feel romantic and enticed and the best of myself.  Of course, as a dancer, I know that moving in time with another body is probably the best communication you can ever have…except perhaps for music.

Billy’s piano man steals the spotlight with some strong strains on his ivories and I feel the crescendo build in the music and the movement.  Then move right into something softer “Make It With You” I can’t help but stop dancing now and sing the harmony I know so well.

Even so, I can’t stop moving to the music.  I really think we could make it good.

I’m too sexy? Or too far gone?

“Come on now,” my friend said one evening after berating me for being single so long, “You just need to bring out the sexy you every once in a while and things are bound to happen.”

But I don’t feel sexy any more.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t feel ugly.  I just don’t feel sexy.  And I wonder…does a person lose their sexy if they don’t bring it out after so long? Or perhaps we age out of sexy?  Or perhaps it’s more dependent on environment and company?

If I think back to the last time I had out my sexy, it was nearly two years ago with Shrek.  That was a wonderful summer, and my Irishman knew out to draw it out of me seemingly unbidden.  But since I returned to my home in Ohio, I’ve been absorbed with responsibilities of an active business, mothering my now-teenaged daughters and community volunteerism.  Admittedly, this hasn’t left much time for finding moments of sexy.  And neither work, nor my daughters, nor my community beckon to my sexy side.  My responsible side has hogged all my time.

So do I still have any sexy in me?

I talk with some of my female friends.  For the most part, they are older than me.  And for the most part, they agree, sexy is an important part of their lives.  So it’s probably not age.  As silly as it sounds, I’m more than relieved to know I’m not too old for sexy.

But maybe circumstance is key?

They are all married or in serious relationships.  They also either don’t have children or their children are fully grown and out of the house.

A few days later I find myself with a rare half hour in the middle of the week without any children or responsibilities.  So, naturally, I sneak upstairs and open my closet.  Running my finger along my hangers, I search for something sexy to put on.  Business suits, sweaters, business dresses, business skirts, more sweaters, business pants, a rain jacket, a couple hiking/travel jackets, my quiver of arrows, my kayaking life vest, more business suits…

When I turn to examine my shoes, I finally find some sexy.  Four-inch purple platform heels.  Three-and-a-half-inch snakeskin Mary Janes.  Three-inch lipstick-red peep-toes.

But what did I ever wear them with?  Jeans?  A dress?  A skirt and tank top?  I can’t remember.  Where did I ever wear them?  A disco, a ceilidh, a moonlit stroll along a beach?  I can’t remember that either.  I only remember they’re from the summer of Shrek.  My last sexy.

My time is up.  I’ll have to find sexy a different way.  My closet doesn’t have the answer, and I need to be at my daughter’s basketball game…not an appropriate spot for sexy.  Just like work, where I spent my day, is not a place for sexy.  And later, walking the dogs…not sexy time either.

So maybe it is about environment and company.

Or maybe it’s been too long since I exercised my sexy and it’s gone dormant, or it’s gone.

I mention my fear to a confidant.  “That’s Ridiculous!” she exclaims laughing good naturedly.  “Sexy isn’t about your clothes or your age.  It’s a state of mind, a choice, just like wanting to be happy, or choosing to be angry.  You merely need to decide to BE sexy and voila!”

Voila huh?

I take heart.  Someday my sexy will come back.  I’m not too far gone.

love…not LOVE!

My daughters think I’ve lost it.

“Scrubbing the floor is love?! … You’re weird.”

Yes, I believe that’s what they said after reading my last blog post.  But that’s okay.

“I didn’t mean ‘love’ as in ‘L♥VE’!” I retorted as I chased them around the house making gushy kissy noises until we all were laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.

But truly, Gentle Penguin, I didn’t mean it that way.

I know love is that sick-to-your-stomach-“will-he-call”-panicky feeling that leaves you doubting in technology while being short with everyone around you because they aren’t him.  I just prefer scrubbing the floor, that’s all.

Okay, okay, okay!  I’m still just kidding.

Love is a grand and glorious thing!  I agree.  I wish love to everyone.  But why does it have to be the totality of life, as if when you don’t have it you’re only partially alive?

Why must it be that when I tell people I’m single, or that I love things like singing in the shower, drinking tea EARLY in the morning, and hanging laundry on the line the inevitable “someday your prince will come” song begins to emit from their pitying words?

Can’t a person be single and not in a perpetual state of waiting?  Or in a state of un-wholeness?

It seems like every day some message says no.  (And perhaps several times on Valentine’s Day.  And Sweetest Day.)

But I have to stop then and ask “what would I do differently to change this, my lonely life?”

Nothing.

My life isn’t lonely.  True, I have lonely moments.  But I have lonely moments when my daughters spend the weekend at their dad’s house.  And I have lonely moments when my dogs are at the groomers.  Shoot, I have lonely moments when I don’t have a pen in my hand!

But it adds to my life.

My life isn’t defined by a gaping hole that is romantic love.  It’s filled with dancing, and beautiful music, and writing, and tea time with friends, and laughter with my daughters, and treasure hunts, and exploring vineyards and wineries in Ohio with friends and cousins and aunts and my brother, and long walks in the woods with my dogs, and fulfilling work, and hobbies, and letter writing and joy and peace.

And love.