dancingthroughchaos

“I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.” Arwen; The Lord of the Rings – JRR Tolkien

I don’t have many regrets in my life but I do regret sending that letter. 

The moment I pushed it through the letterbox and heard it flop onto the doormat on the other side of the door, I knew it was a big mistake; I was just too proud and too embarrassed to ring the bell and ask for it back.

I haven’t had that many break ups in my life, but that was a bad one.  I was eleven years old and the consequences echoed through my teenage years.

My disquiet started when I was nine.  He sent me a Valentine’s card which was a three-fold design.  The first part pictured a slightly desperate looking figure holding a flower and bearing the words: ‘Valentine, I love you a lot’.  Sweet.  Unfolding the next part, it continued, ‘…if you let me down…’; to the final panel: ‘I’ll go all to pot.’  And there it was, the full card opened out in the shape of a pot.  With a handle.  Apparently it was a chamber pot.  Not quite so sweet.

Not to worry.  I was smug.  I had a Valentine’s card and not from one of the spotty individuals in my class with their feeble wannabe 70s haircuts and trendy school shoes.  Mine was from a friend I had grown up with and with whom I spent many hours playing board games and table snooker, riding bikes and playing French cricket in his back garden.  Awesome.

But – and here’s where the cracks started to show – when the next February came around I received another card from the same source.  ‘Result,’ I hear you say.  But not so.  It was the identical card.  To this day I’m not completely sure why that was a problem, but with the arrival of double figures perhaps I felt I was worth just a little bit more.  I didn’t want a re-run; I wanted something more representative of me.  It felt as though a job-lot had been purchased and that therefore little or no thought had gone into its purchase or the message it bore.  It seemed impersonal.  How many others had received the same one, I wondered.

Romance, at the grand old age of ten, appeared to be dead.

I’m ashamed when I think about it now, because what happened over the course of the next year was that a series of rumours and lies were drip-fed into my itching ears by someone about whom I should have known better.  She rather wanted my special friend to be her special friend, and in my juvenile resentment I listened when I should have walked away. 

Ultimately that letter was written which should never have been sent and which subsequently caused hurt on all sides.  I was eleven years old for goodness sake.

I’m sorry, but not entirely surprised, to say that we were pretty much estranged for the next seven or eight years which was a shame, because those teenage years are supposed to contain far more episodes of carefree adventure and responsibility-free hijinks.  I was compelled to find mine with other companions.

But, dry your eyes dear reader, because when I arrived in the next decade I reviewed my path and, mortified as I still was by my own rank stupidity, I concluded that I should take ownership of my part in that sad and sorry misadventure.  I hoped that by doing so my overly sensitive conscience might be salved somewhat and that guilt would slide off into history and stop bugging me.  I truly felt that I’d carried that action around in my emotional baggage for nine years too long.  So, I sat down in my student digs and crafted a letter with a degree of explanation, a heart-felt apology and a request for forgiveness.  

Having seen our friendship unravel thanks to a letter, I was fairly reluctant to embark on another, but I didn’t know what else to do.  This was, of course, before the advent of personal phones, email etc, and I had to address it to him ℅ his parent’s house since I had no idea where he was.

I duly stamped and posted my missive after praying that it would be received in a magnanimous manner, and felt a measure of relief.

No reply ever arrived; no acknowledgement of receipt.  I’m not sure what I expected or even hoped for, because of course, none of us can go back; we all have to go on, and by this stage our paths had diverged considerably.  But, at least I could go on rather lighter in the emotional baggage department; and I did.

Reader, I did not marry him (!) and this Valentine’s Day I find myself 6,000 miles away from my husband, but content that I have already enjoyed thirty-five fourteenth of Februarys with him as my number one admirer and companion.  We’ve weathered a few storms, travelled many thousands of miles, parented four grown-and-flown children who are eye-wateringly different, and each a delight to us.  We’ve learned to forgive one another and love through thick and thin regardless.  We’re still learning to understand one another since we are poles apart in the way we process pretty much everything, but we’re much better at laughing about it these days.  He’s not the man I married, just as (I hope) I’m not the woman he married; we’ve matured, mellowed and shaped one another as we’ve walked the road together and I’m eternally grateful for his kindness, patience and grace.

I’m not holding my breath for flowers or a card of any sort this year, but there’s another 364 days for those to arrive, and better yet, to have him back here with me.  No letter required.

Meanwhile, whether you’re a partaker in the shenanigans of Valentine’s Day, or avoid it like the plague, I wish you well, encourage you to have face to face conversations even when they’re difficult, and exhort you to set your face for the coming of spring which cheers the heart of lovers and loners alike.