In Search of Wild, Naked Spaces
A Journey From Blindsided to Clear Sighted
photo: On the shores of Brittany, where days slow down and life comes into focus
One of the more bizarre statements my husband of 21 years made in defense of his infidelity was that I pushed him toward another woman because I bought a king-sized organic mattress to replace our 15-year-old queen. The old mattress, an expensive Tempurpedic, was purchased to help with a lower back injury sustained swinging a two-year-old on my hip. Its synthetic “unparalleled pressure relief and motion cancellation” design had become an oven for my raging hormones. In the heat of menopause, I woke multiple times at night to drenched sheets. My mind would spin for hours with to-do lists and worries about everything from employee shortages in our business to how to pay for the car repair to fears our teenager might be hurting herself to escape the burgeoning world of Snapchat and the demands of college prep. “We just don’t snuggle like we used to,” he said.
On a pre-Thanksgiving hike in 2019, he spoke the words that shattered my world, “You always told me to tell you when I’ve met someone, well, I’ve met someone.” At that moment, the space between us on the dusty autumn trail filled with the intense energy that makes the hair on your arms stand tall and your heartbeat fast and erratically.
The same could be said of the energy our two bodies emitted when our “spark” became a flame in the wilds of Patagonia, where we were young, working as climbing, trekking, and rafting guides for international adventure travel companies. But this spark was dark and dangerous and full of fury. The energy that filled the space between us scrambled our brains as we tried to make sense of words that could never be taken back.
“Were you blindsided?” the counselor asked when we went through the recommended prescription to attempt to comprehend how our relationship imploded. “Yes, I was blindsided,” I replied.
At the time, we were living in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where he worked as a mountain guide who traveled the world climbing peaks and living off the abundance and generosity of his 1% clients. I juggled a full-time management position at a local ski area. Together we created a wildly successful tree-to-tree zipline and obstacle park, and we finally had some money in the bank. I had a pack of girlfriends to laugh and drink wine with, two kids who challenged me but no more than the average, a luscious yard, a comfortable home, and plenty of delicious healthy food; I skied, mountain biked or hiked through the woods every day. It was the kind of life that people in cities working in an office only dream of or experience a few weeks a year.
My life was complete as a mom, an activist, a manager of people, and a friend to probably too many. I had very little “space” in my life that was my own. My husband left home for months at a time, his career his top priority. I kept the ship on course, scheduling all the doctor appointments and summer camps, managing our finances, and maintaining the traditions of the family table alive. I trusted him when he was gone, his clients always recounting how much he bragged about our family and me and how in love he was with us.
The kids and I missed him when he was gone, but when he returned, there were always these weird days of drama when he tried to fit himself back into our space, routine, and lives that carried on in his frequent absence. I think he imagined us as a pile of sea otters who would tumble and play in a bundle of fun and love, but instead, the dull realities of running a business and a home and a family pushed him away.
Yes, we had sex, not much, but it was comfortable and easy and satisfying in my mind. We both pleasured ourselves when we felt like it, but at 57, I know it’s hard to believe, but it just wasn’t a priority for me. Honestly, I got as much (or more) pleasure out of spending the afternoon creating a homemade pasta dinner with a bottle of red wine and an evening of storytelling with our dogs at my feet.
As we separated, I decided to do it as gracefully as possible. I looked long and hard at my responsibility in the demise. My husband claimed he craved more close contact; he’d fill his space with me all the time if I’d let him. At the same time, I realized I craved my own space with no one demanding anything of me.
And then Covid hit, and we suddenly were piled back on top of each other. He was living a few blocks down the street and would pop over whenever he pleased. He shared in schooling, which meant hours at my home because he was couch-surfing with friends (not a great space for online middle school for our son). Moments of joy from the warm sun on my cheeks would turn to agitation on summer days when I’d be out on a bike ride and one around the corner to see his Sprinter van in my driveway. Before I saw him, I’d feel his presence like a spattering electric fence in a storm. Day after day. I tried to keep the space between us, but he’d hang around for family dinners and wouldn’t take my hints until I’d snap.
During Covid, as wide-open spaces of Wyoming closed in on us, the king-size bed became a refuge where I slowly unfurled until I slept like a starfish, spreading my wings. In addition to the agony of organizing entwined lives and closets into legal jargon and suitcases, my elderly father under my care almost died of Covid; I quit my job and moved into a new house. I re-invented my world as my dreams slipped through my fingers like so many others. As the month went on and the reality of the immeasurable loss we incurred, my husband begged me to rebuild what he threw away, but too many pieces of the puzzle were rearranged or missing by then.
Astrologists, scientists, conspiracy theorists, and theologists have all predicted the chaos and upheaval of the past few years — who is right and wrong is irrelevant. What’s relevant is the reinvention of our families, societies, personal lives, and our planet as we grapple with broken relationships, pandemic panic, political division, climate change, and religious wars that continue to rage.
To say being single at 57 is unnerving is an understatement. It’s been almost two years since I had naked contact with another human, by far the longest stint since I was 17. I daydreamed about what life would be like with another person throughout the divorce. I oscillated between disgust of all men to lusting over some hot dad at a lacrosse game to looking at my best girlfriends and imagining what it would be like to kiss them.
One particularly astute friend even asked me at a pre-covid Christmas party, “So, will you kiss a girl?” Indeed, I think back to when I was a teen in the 80s and was intrigued by many women but never had the guts to go for it. “Yeah, I’m thinking about it,” I smiled. I changed my status on Facebook Dating to “looking for anyone,” but that only lasted a week. Mostly I kept myself too busy to face the challenge, and thanks to Covid, few opportunities even presented themselves.
This summer, as we all got our vaccines and dipped our toes in summer music gatherings in our one street town, the opportunity to travel abroad fell in my lap. A cousin invited the kids and me to join her in France, where she was restoring an old manor on the southern shores of Brittany. We visited castles and fortresses where men dreamed up never-ending ways to inflict torture and agony on each other for centuries while keeping their women under lock and key. On the D-Day beaches of Normandy, we learned how and why tens of thousands of troops slaughtered each other to liberate Europe from Nazi occupation in defense of fascism, racism, and antisemitism.
Along these beaches, thousands of sailboats cruised the cliff-strewn bays carrying great grandparents eating fresh oysters and drinking Rose while giggling children watched the sparkling waves with awe. I finally had an ocean between myself and my husband. My obligations to care for my father and search for new jobs were on hold. I slept 10 hours a night without waking, wrote a poem every day, and lazed around eating chocolate croissants and drinking creamy coffees surrounded by flower gardens in ancient stone villages.
One afternoon, while negotiating a zig in the zag of a skinny roundabout in our rental car with Siri saying “turn right” and my son shouting “left,” I snapped and started yelling. “Stop! Shut up! Stop!” I can’t even remember what else. My lizard brain took over, and I lost my shit. In words I say so often to my kids, my reaction was not appropriate for the situation. My 12-year-old son gave me a stricken look as if I’d just slapped him across the face. Tears streamed from my eyes and steamed up my sunglasses until I pulled over and apologized.
When we returned to our Airbnb a half-hour later, I checked my Gmail, and there was the notification I’d been waiting on for months — a letter from our lawyer saying our divorce was final. I looked at the time my lawyer sent the email — 5:21 pm, the exact time I lost my shit in that French roundabout. Dang.
The very next morning, as I slept like a starfish, I had a vivid dream — the delicious kind you drift in and out of. A tall, chiseled man I’d never seen before had taken my hand and led me away to a boat, where I rested my head in the crook of his arm and melted into his stiff muscles. There may have been some fingers brushing the bulge in his pants, and at one point, we kissed, but it never went past that. He was leaving on a ship. He shooed away a few gorgeous young women who came to bid him goodbye; he wanted only me by some unbelievable twist of fate. I awoke with surprise — I had not had a steamy dream since before that autumn walk when my husband shattered my world. I didn’t know if I still had it in me. Blissfully, I drifted back asleep and back into the kind of space where complete trust in another allows you the simplest pleasure — to mingle with another as your wild, naked self.