SINGULARITY

This week I was with friends for the evening. One of our circle is walking her own divorce. I don't know her well yet, but already I recognize how her process is so similar to mine. She's a young mother with a lot more poise and sense of self than I had at her age. She's been sharing in our group how she's working through the issues that come her way, and the I've noted how even as each of our relationships is individual, patterns can emerge. After betraying her and leaving suddenly, her former husband now seems to be making overtures--almost as if he's having second thoughts. She told me a few weeks ago about how he seems to want to hang out at her house after visiting with the kids, asking about her dinner plans. "Isn't that interesting?" I ask her and she laughs and nods.

When I saw her again the other night she reported feeling for the first time little bits of satisfaction in being single. She gave an example of being shed of some minor irritations that she had in living with him over the years. Now that he's not there, her mornings are free of that jarring, little bump. I was so glad to hear that she is finding the gifts of her divorce. Her face was shining as she told us, and I remembered that same satisfaction. "I am finding some good things in my singleness," she said. "I don't know. Maybe singleness isn't the right word." "Can we say, singularity?" I asked.

It strikes me now that if J had been making moves toward reconciliation before I discovered my singularity, I might not have found it at all. I don't know if she is harboring those kinds of hopes or wishes, but if she is, she is a stronger woman that I was. As she spoke I did a mental check. Now that J has come home, have I lost touch with my singularity?  I find myself still keeping spaces in my life and in my home to nurture my own individual self. When J was gone, I would often sleep up in the little guest bed in the attic, especially in the winter. Our bed is in the cold part of the house, and without the extra body heat of another person, the sheets were like ice. The attic became my little grotto and the single bed up there was cozy and welcoming, with no memories to haunt me, no grief. Now, when I can't sleep, I take a book upstairs and climb into that bed, stretch out, and revel in my own skin. Sometimes it feels like my spirit stretches out and fills that little room with the slanted ceiling, shining into the darkness. I don't think I've lost my singularity, but I must remember to check in once in a while. It's one of the most valuable gifts of my divorce, and I don't want to lose it.