This is the Last Day of Our Acquaintance

This song floated into my head today. It's such a beautiful song, just heart-wrenchingly sad, and a good one if you're in need of an end of relationship cathartic release:

This is the last day of our acquaintance

I will meet you later in somebody's office

I'll talk but you won't listen to me

I know what your answer will be

I know you don't love me anymore

You used to hold my hand when the plane took off

Two years ago there just seemed so much more

And I don't know what happened to our love

I'm happy to report I didn't feel sad when it started to play inside my head today -- and that the lyrics were quickly changed to "This is the last month without my man."

So excited about that! Hopefully this beautiful bald balladeer won't mind if I mix it up a bit. Will you, Sinead?

I Want Your Hands On Me

The other day I texted a photo of myself at the beach to my man and his reply was "I want my hands on you." Yeah, I'd like that too, but it isn't going to happen this week.

It might not surprise you to learn, however, that it inspired a song... my internal jukebox fired up this repetitive but apt number:

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Put your hands on me

Put your hands on me

Put your hands on me

Put your hands on me

Put your hands on me

Put your hands on me

Put your hands on me

And then I heard it again this morning as I braced myself for my massage. Yep, you read that right. But it wasn't your typical massage - it was a 3 1/2 hour lomilomi massage -- and I had a short but significant list of things I was hoping to work through. Work turned out to be the operative word.

It was really hard work. Lots of breath practice, breathing into tight spaces that she kept uncovering with all this really vigorous bodywork and stretching, lots of tough feelings arising. Ouch. Although it didn't feel good, I have to trust that I released some things that needed to be released and that the experience will help me move through some of the stickier places in my psyche and everyday life.

Afterward, I went for a swim in my beloved ocean, but even that wasn't exactly the respite I'd hoped. The surf was really strong and once again I felt like I was getting pushed a little harder than I wanted to be pushed and I had less control than I'd have liked. Getting tossed around out there, I reminded myself what my massage therapist said this afternoon -- maybe I don't need as much control as I thought I did.

A few minutes later, I emerged, and miraculously, I still had both pieces of my bathing suit. I also had a smile on my face for the first time all day...

Nothing Compares 2U

This powerful song from one of the most phenomenal female vocalists EVER (in my opinion) has been on my mind for the past several weeks, but it just hasn't exactly fit. It's a little too melancholy, a little too waaahhh it's over:

It's been seven hours and fifteen days

Since you took your love away

I go out every night and sleep all day

Since you took your love away

Since you been gone I can do whatever I want

I can see whomever I choose

I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant

But nothing

I said nothing can take away these blues

'Cause nothing compares

Nothing compares to you

As opposed to my feeling which is more along the lines of: waaahhh he's not here anymore.

Last night, though, as I sat eating my dinner in my favorite fancy restaurant in town with a friend, it ran through my mind again. The restaurant in question is one I haven't been to in probably about three years -- it was the place my ex-husband and I most often went to celebrate special occasions. The food is sooo good -- why did I stay away so long? I don't know, exactly. I couldn't bring myself to go there on a date (I also didn't really date any dudes who suggested it), and somehow in my mind it was reserved for a romantic dinner.

Not so. I'm here to say that I enjoyed the food, and the ambiance, every bit as much as a divorced woman out with a good friend as I did when I was there with my husband. Her company too, was as engaging as I would've had with my current love. So, Sinead, I guess I would say I hear what you are saying, and I've totally been there, but I'm not there anymore -- thank god!

Of course, when I got home and had only my full belly to keep me company, I was feeling the waaahhh a little more again...

Troy

This year the start to the summer didn't feel the same to me as previous summers have, and I wasn't sure why until late this past week. Normally I'm so excited when the weather gets warm, so excited to sit in the sun and to swim in pools and lakes. And it isn't that I haven't been enjoying these things this year, it's that I've sort of been in a state of denial the whole time that it really is summer -- like it is happening and not happening at the same time. And that's because it is -- it is happening for me, but it isn't happening for my friend Mary.

Last August Mary, my cousin's wife and the mother of two of my Aunt's grandchildren, was training for the Ironman -- on a long swim in a local lake -- when she started swimming erratically and then stopped swimming altogether. She was rushed to shore by fishermen, met by paramedics who revived her and raced her to the hospital, but her brain had been without oxygen for a few minutes. We all kept vigil at the hospital for what we were stunned to learn were the last three days of her life. She was 38, and, in many respects, in peak physical fitness. We later learned that she had myocarditis, an infection in her heart.

We were friends for 20 years, and we shared a lot of songs, but the one that is coming up for me now is one that is as raw and angry and hauntingly sad as we all felt (and still feel at times) in the wake of Mary's death. When we were in college, we all loved Sinead O'Connor, but Mary REALLY loved her -- and she would often blast this song in the house that we shared at that time. Sometimes we could hear her scream along with Sinead:

You should have left the light on!

Losing Mary leaves a big hole -- and this summer, at least, the hole feels especially large because the other two friends of mine from college with whom Mary and I used to have an annual reunion don't seem to be interested in doing it without her. I understand, in a way. It's hard to do things where you feel really confronted with the loss -- that's one of the reasons (there are others) why I'm not going to the 4th of July celebration at the family farm where Mary is buried. I just wish my friends and I could come together as we did when she died -- it made it easier to bear. My acupuncturist says that grief is an inherently lonely process. That there is just a lot of it that has to be done internally. As my friend Sarah would say: Sigh.

I'm glad to have Sinead's company -- listening to her makes me feel close to Mary. You too can hear the bravest, most beautiful bald woman I know rocking her kick-ass song at a festival; you can also check out the video. And you can be sure that I'm leaving the light that Mary left behind on...