“A lover’s a
liar, To himself he lies. The truthful are loveless, Like oysters in their
eyes.” – Kurt Vonnegut, The Cat’s Cradle
The weekend before my Year of Arabia
began in tears (uncharacteristic for me). Ironically, they were caused by an
Arab man. I considered revising my start date due to this inauspicious beginning,
but I proceeded, for better or worse. Our whole long, messy history is too
complicated to go into (and I don’t trust myself at the moment to relay a
balanced version of the events) but suffice it to say that it did not end well.
End however, it did. He is agreeing to an arranged marriage. He had his
reasons, but still, in the end, he was a coward in a variety of ways.
Typically, when my heart hurts, I
jump on a plane. Nothing, and I mean nothing,
helps the heart like the feeling of wheels up on a 747. I’m 35 and I’ve
certainly suffered my fair share of broken hearts, but no matter the quantity
or quality of tears I’ve shed at airports around the world, and no matter how
determined I am to hold onto the pain, the most devastating aspects of the sadness
seem to stay firmly rooted to the earth. The airplane thrusts me, involuntarily,
up and away from them. Just as I can’t will the plane back to earth, I can’t
keep my level of heartache sufficiently elevated. Thus, for me, altitude and
heartache are inversely related.
But now I am going nowhere. I
will, in all likelihood, be here working through October. Stuck on the ground
with all of my pain.
Determined to pursue my goal for
the upcoming year, I contacted a few friends from the Middle East. Just a few
quick texts. A ‘good morning’ to a Libyan friend here in Portland. A ‘good
evening’ to an Israeli friend in Tel Aviv. Nothing ground breaking, but talking
to friends when your heart hurts is good in and of itself.
