Finding the Sweet Spot

I have a favorite spot in my kitchen, an area where I end up. It's the place where I saute, where I watch the evening news, where I gaze out the window, where I often stand and eat my meals. I call it the sweet spot.

This summer two of my dearest friends (I call them "the girls") came out from New Jersey to visit. They gave me a writing journal - a purple-ish, floral, ribbon-tied book with an elegant pen. I dubbed it "Musings from the Sweet Spot," and propped it within easy reach on the counter between my radio and wine rack. But I haven't had any particular musings to jot down while occupying that space. I tend to hear my muse as I walk the beach -

.....until the other day.

Lately I have been re-figuring my days, trying to get a sense of how to shape my daily life since my job(s) have been gradually pared down from three to one, from three-quarter-time to half-time, to quarter-time, to no time. The summer economy at the coast has whittled away my employment; has shaken loose my self-created structure - my sense of order and purpose to each day. I have enough post-divorce support to manage for a while, I am not panic-struck, but I am uncomfortable with this "non-productive" freedom. I find myself needing to qualify; to quantify; to fill this space responsibly.

So, at the Sweet Spot I am contemplating - how should I re-do my resume....I need to start net-working....gotta make sure I keep up with the local bi-monthly classifieds....how's this gonna work, Carol.....

.....when I hear Love, in the tenderest tone say, "You have been spurning Me."

And I am struck - with awe at the gentleness; dumbfounded by the statement; curious of the meaning. I know this voice; instantly. I know this Lover; this One who woos me in the sunsets; cradles me in the soft sand, enfolding me in dunes like a warm blanket. I know this One, and I cry out - "Spurning You? Oh, I am so sorry! How have I been spurning You?"

Now, it's hard to explain how a nanosecond can contain chapters of meaning; how instantaneously scenes flash into cognitive view, connect to deep desires, and make sense. Some call it revelation. For there it all was - in Love's reply:

....."I love meeting you in The Writing; I love to hear your voice."

And there it was - in the flash of unspoken desires, oh how I wish I could write; how I wish I could live at the beach; how I wish I could find my voice. There it was in a burst of recall - the support of family, the affirmation from friends, most recently from writer Mike Burgess, "Carol, if you keep hearing you're a horse, then it's time to get the saddle." There it was in an explosion of purport - the years of journaling, the closed employment doors, the available house, the financial means, the beach spread before me like an avenue to my heart. In a gasp I knew - knew why I ached for my core; knew that I had shoved it away; knew that my core was a chamber designed for communion, to be written in the language of Love.

Oh, yes; I have spurned You. I have treated this gift of space and time too casually. I have tried to minimize Your voice, though You have yearned powerfully within me. You have ached for me; ached for me to express; ached for me to write. And I have been aching for You.

And there it all was....

....my Core; uncovered at the Sweet Spot.

Captains and Lovers

When I was a kid, an old 1947 black and white movie captured me - The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. I don't know how old I was when I first saw it, but it must have been on one of those dull Saturday afternoons when nobody could come over and play, and old TV movies were the best company anyway. It was a romance, a fantasy. The kind that young girls weep over. What made it heart-wrenching, and absolutely enrapturing, was it's impossibility. The lovely young widow, Lucy Muir, fell reluctantly but deeply in love with a ghost. And the ghost, crustily handsome sea captain Daniel Gregg, was unashamedly smitten with Lucy. And the setting of course, was the charming old sea-cottage of the Captain's, perched ever-so-perfectly above a cliff-y cove overlooking....the sea.

I think it was here where several romances began for me. Deeply layered metaphors that have both anchored, and set my heart to sail.

The sea - the beach, the ocean. As Lucy Muir walked the beach in her wind-swept tweedy cape and sensible shoes, her face searching the far horizon for her ethereal lover, I could feel the sea pulling her, and me. She was land-locked, mortal; but her heart yearned for what the sea offered. Something in the current, the horizon, the salty air intoxicated her, wooed her, incited her desire. The sea and her Captain seemed synonymous. As a youngster I could smell the ocean long before I saw it, and it was like foreplay - an emotional, sensual titillation promising ecstasy and relief. Lucy's romance with her sea-side existence was her stimulant and her comfort. It's been mine too.

And then there's the writing. The Captain inspires, almost demands, Lucy support herself and young daughter by writing his story, which he dictates to her. The memoir, disguised as a novel, is a success providing for Lucy to stay put. What a seductive image for me as a young girl already in love with words and ideas. Writing....ahh yes, why not? I remember my first writing-love. The first kiss. The first time, I knew. It was my senior year in high school - a British Literature class. A lot of the love affair, I'm sure, had to do with my teacher's skill - after all, how possible is it to get senior girls and boys excited about Shakespeare? But even so, I was in love.....the creative process, words on paper, shaping paragraphs, and the metaphors! Oh, Lucy.....in my most intimate desire, I wanted, like you, to walk the beach, live by the sea, and write.

But I think the most profound, deeply layered romance is tied to the Captain - the lover. The relationship between Lucy and the Captain was not a simple romance - he's a ghost, she's not. It's deeply textured and complex, and like any good love story, steeped with tension. They start off terse, adversarial - we know they are destined. They become coy, teasing; eventually meld into a satisfying companionship, and then abruptly are separated by the barrier of space and time. Lucy spends her remaining life comforted by a wispy memory that lingers like a vapor - she had experienced the love of her life and she was waiting for something; for someone. It's a story of seemingly unrequited love - yet, not at all....just, postponed eventuality. For, as an old woman sitting in her chair, looking out to sea, sipping her evening dose of warmed milk, we watch her hand drop the glass; we know she's slipped away, and then, we see her rise up, ethereal-like, young again, and reaching out, she grasps the hand of her Captain, and they walk away, in each others' arms, gazing joyfully into each others' eyes. (This is where the tissues get very snotty.)

I've re-watched this movie several times through the years, and it wasn't until a recent viewing, as I sobbed away, that I realized something. Identifying with Lucy, I surprised myself with a deep cry - who is my Captain? Is this impossible relationship with an unobtainable lover about the longing within my marriage? Or, is this yearning for a deep lover, who seemingly cannot be completely obtained until some ethereal moment, about God?

Today as I stood on my wind-whipped deck, the sea still frothing and foaming storminess, scenes from that old movie flashed back. Looking out to the horizon, I felt this impulse to cry out "Oh Captain, my Captain - come to me!" And I come inside, sit down, and write.



To watch the movie on YouTube go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsJFY92QSLY