Dance me to the end of love

25 Mar

 

 

Some months ago I wrote here about going to my husband, from whom I’d been separated for some time, after he’d suffered a massive stroke.

With a bizarre assortment of clothes flung distractedly into a bag and no toothbrush, I took the train because all the flights from my part of the world were full.

I had no idea what to expect. He won’t know you, they told me. He doesn’t know anybody. He can’t speak. His right side is paralysed. I’ll come with you, a friend offered, so you don’t have to deal with the shock by yourself.

I accepted her offer. Once I never accepted anybody’s offers of help. I had no idea how to. I knew from early in life how to get through things on my own when there wasn’t any choice. I knew how to trust me, when I couldn’t trust anybody else.

At first, accepting help felt like betraying myself. I confused it with weakness. It wasn’t until I found at the age of 40 that I had cervical cancer and was in serious trouble, that I began to tentatively say, please help me. And everybody did. I’ve not much to feel grateful to that cancer for, but it did cause me to change, and let people love me.

When I walked into A’s room, he was strapped into a wheelchair. I pulled up a chair beside him and took his hand, the one still in working order. He looked at me for a long time, balefully, I thought. I found this look reassuringly familiar. Although he stopped wanting me long before I stopped wanting him, he never seemed to keep that chronology in mind and on the occasions we met after our final separation, acted aggrieved, as if I’d been the one to leg it. Well, I had, but only because I finally understood his desire for me was gone, and how can you stay around for that?

I say desire, which is usually and wrongly understood to be primarily sexual, but I mean it in a much broader sense. He never stopped wanting me sexually, nor I him, but it got to the point where that was all he wanted of me, while I still trembled at the whole of him.

Sometimes I finally get to thinking of the past,
We swore to each other that our love would surely last
I kept right on loving, you went on a fast
Now you are too thin and my love is too vast…*

 

It was 2006, and I’d been in Mexico for months without him because, on the surface of it, timing. We exchanged dozens of acrimonious emails in which he berated me for going without him, and I hurled back heartbroken accusations to the effect that for more than twenty years he’d only been a tourist in my life when what I’d wanted was a dedicated traveller. He then wrote that he supposed I was fucking some rich Mexican with a hundred-dollar haircut, or maybe I’d gone back to my old ways and was enjoying a senorita in some lesbian resort on the Caribbean coast, to which I replied, too exhausted to try for wit or even something vaguely cutting, what’s it to you, anyway. Leave me alone. I’m not talking to you anymore. A lengthy, angry, miserable silence ensued.

Not long after I returned home A emailed me from Singapore. I’d no idea he’d planned to be in Singapore when I left him in Sydney, but I learned how to do geographicals from him so it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Meet me in Thailand, he wrote. My life is stupid without you. I’ve transferred the frequent flyer points to your account. Don’t argue, please. Don’t turn your face away from me. Meet me in Chang Mai. We’ll go down the Mekong to Luang Prabang, like we always said we would…

I didn’t want to go. I’d done a lot of hard work separating myself whilst in Mexico. I thought I was getting closer to being over it. I knew that if I was ever going to have the life that I wanted, I had to walk away. Twenty years are long enough to try to work things out.

But I went.

It was unspeakably horrible. There is little worse than travelling down the Mekong in a long-boat without seats, crouched on your backpack beside a man you’ve been married to for twenty years who made passionate love to you the night before but in the morning, can hardly bring himself to talk to you. I listened to music on my headphones. I listened to the Brahms & Mendelssohn cello concertos, over and over and over. I’m listening to them now, as I write this. To this day, I can’t hear a cello without a tempest of feeling starting up in me.

I have a photo A took of me standing on the desolate, windswept airstrip in Northern Laos that was used by the Russians during the Vietnam War to supply arms to the Viet Cong. In the background the denuded hills, stripped of their fecund jungle by US chemical warfare, and all these years later, still not healed. In the foreground, a woman, grimly enduring the worst loneliness of her adult life.

 

We kept going through the whole damn trip and I have no idea why I didn’t just catch the first plane home, except I was too crippled by misery to take any positive action on my own behalf. Every time we made love, and inexplicably, we continued to make something, I did so in an altered state of anguish so intense it acquired a kind of sublimity. Knowing that though it was so finished I was still unable to refuse his touch, indeed, I wanted it as badly as I ever had, made me feel as debased as any addict begging on the street for enough money to get me a fix.

When I left him at the airport in Bangkok I knew without doubt it had to be the end.

Grief expresses itself very physically in me. I have to howl. I have to wail. I have to curl in a foetal ball on some dirty floor somewhere. I can’t care about what I look like, or brushing my teeth, or changing my socks or washing my hair. I can’t eat. I can drink, which does not, in the long run, help at all.

Eventually, after a long, long time, I started on my new life without him in it. I achieved ambitions, enjoyed my family, and my friends. Yet sometimes, compelled and not understanding at all by what, except the most pathetic, abject longing, I wore my wedding ring. I met potential lovers, and quite soon realised that if I expected to be in circumstances in which that might happen, I put on my wedding ring to make sure it didn’t. Desire abandoned me, a lost cause. I threw myself into my celibate life and got so used to longing, I didn’t even notice I was feeling it anymore.

I even managed to conduct civil encounters with A, in places such as the Botanical Gardens and Bondi cafes, and when he touched me, kissed my lips or took my hand, I gently removed myself from him. I could have gone home with him, back into our bed, I felt the stirrings, I knew I wasn’t entirely dead to passion, that I could go there with him again, but I knew I’d likely die as a consequence, one way or another.

 

I spent many weeks at his side, after his stroke. He knew me straight away. I fed him, wiped the dribble from the side of his mouth that doesn’t work anymore, held his hand while he alternately raved and cried, licked up his tears with my tongue. One day, as I leaned over him to adjust his bed, his good hand found the buttons on my shirt and struggled to undo them. I realised what he wanted, and did it for him, releasing my breasts so he could touch them again. He closed his eyes and fondled me, moving his hand from one breast to the other, as if amazed there could be two of them. I felt no sexual desire, rather an overwhelming desire of another kind: to give him this pleasure, this comfort.

For a couple of weeks, he would signal for me to give him my breasts at every visit. I wore clothes that made this easy, and discreet in case we were interrupted. And then he grew too tired. He began to slip away into another place where I couldn’t be. He still knew me. He just didn’t have the strength to care anymore.

I said goodbye to him, as I knew I must. I sat with him for a long time on our last day. He slept through much of it. Once he woke enough to stroke my face.

I won’t go back. There’s nothing left for me to do there. I always wanted him to die in my arms, or me to die in his, but that was never one of his desires.

I’ve put my wedding ring away now. For such a long, long while I couldn’t contemplate desire. I had to keep it far away from me, I had to hold up the palms of my hands to keep it at bay, because desire only meant him, and saying its name reminded me only of the loss of him.

As I finish this, I realise I have listened to the Brahms & and the Mendelssohn concertos over and over again this morning, and it has been all right. This morning, a momentous one in my life, I’m looking at the time we had together, A and me, and wish I could have learned sooner how bad it was for me. I wish I hadn’t lost so much of my life to something that was never going to be what I wanted. I wish I hadn’t squandered so much love, and so much effort, trying to make something that simply could not be.

Although it was never his intention, the man who showed me how to be a scholar, thrilling me with his intellect; the man who guided me into sexual desire, thrilling me with what he showed me I could feel, that man also, quite inadvertently, taught me how to I want to love, and be loved. Though that love was never to be realised with us, I see today, at long last through clear eyes, that it is A’s greatest gift to me.


Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love *

*Leonard Cohen, Tonight will be fine

*Leonard Cohen, Dance me to the end of love

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62 Responses to “Dance me to the end of love”

  1. Team Oyeniyi March 25, 2013 at 3:38 pm #

    Made me cry. Hugs.

    Like

  2. 8 Degrees of Latitude March 25, 2013 at 3:49 pm #

    Sweet Jesus, Jennifer, you made me weep. That’s the most powerful piece of writing I’ve read in a long time. I’m reblogging it so others can have the privilege of reading it too.

    Like

    • helvityni March 25, 2013 at 4:03 pm #

      Honest and heartfelt, Jennifer, for me this is your best piece of writing…
      It comes from the heart and will touch hearts.
      And what a lovely ending; my favourite Leonard Cohen song…

      Like

      • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 7:22 am #

        Thanks Helvi, I can’t deie which is my fave Cohen song I love so many of them

        Like

  3. Mindy March 25, 2013 at 4:09 pm #

    Everytime you amaze me with your strength and forgiving. He is a lucky man to have one such as you in his life.

    Like

  4. spacekidette March 25, 2013 at 4:09 pm #

    Wow. On so many levels. xxx

    Like

  5. ernmalleyscat (@ernmalleyscat) March 25, 2013 at 4:40 pm #

    Beautifully written. I felt my own response to your story change as you told it.

    Like

  6. Rhonda Hase March 25, 2013 at 4:54 pm #

    Great writing Jennifer ! It must be hard to bare the soul!

    Sent from my iPad

    Like

    • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 7:24 am #

      You are still reading my blog while you’re on holiday in Prague!!! Is it snowing still? xxxx

      Like

      • Anonymous March 26, 2013 at 6:57 pm #

        No not Prague but it was snowing all the way from Vienna on the train. It is still very cold. There is evidence still of the effects of communism here a lot different from Austria and Germany which seem to be thriving. For Easter we are going to Cesky Krumlov with the organisers of the conference.

        Like

        • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 9:47 pm #

          Have you got warm enough clothes? Those Kathmandu things I gave you are warm but not super warm. Guess you’ll buy more if you need them. I’ll email you xxxxxx

          Like

  7. Elisabeth March 25, 2013 at 5:10 pm #

    It never ceases to amaze me, the mixed experience of love and hate combined in those who teach us so well but who in the end can also cause us such pain. A beautiful, heartwrenching post. Thank you.

    Like

  8. El (@bluntshovels) March 25, 2013 at 5:14 pm #

    Stunning piece, Jennifer. Tears on the train home. Sending hugs.

    Like

  9. atomou March 25, 2013 at 5:21 pm #

    Divine writing, Jennifer.

    And this proves it: The Muse is a lover, who, like the owner of a Pub, helps both, the one with the unfathomable pain as well as the one with the unfettered joy.
    Hearts and tears sing to both.

    Like

  10. samjandwich March 25, 2013 at 5:21 pm #

    Is longing really pathetic and abject, or is it in fact the most powerful emotion of all, turning you involuntarily inside-out and providing a stimulus for teaching yourself about what is most important to you, and to what lengths you are able to go in its pursuit?

    Like

  11. 8 Degrees of Latitude March 25, 2013 at 5:53 pm #

    Reblogged this on 8degreesoflatitude and commented:
    Get a tissue before you read this. But read it.

    Like

  12. Carolyn Hastie (@Thinkbirth) March 25, 2013 at 6:04 pm #

    Wow, Jennifer, this piece of writing is inspired – I know that place too and your crystalline prose is both artistically compelling and touching – it reaches that emotional deep place where the tears flow. I couldn’t stop reading and I didn’t want it to end … and how beautiful the end… Like Helvityni, that is my favourite Leonard Cohen song (and I adore his music/poetry!). Thank you for sharing this part of you.

    Like

  13. paul walter March 25, 2013 at 6:11 pm #

    Oddly I reckon the “abject” comment a good summary.
    Relates to the human condition.
    I doubt whether you “wasted” time on the man, because if you had walked away before giving it your best shot you would have horse whipped your self for not living up to your own standards and valuing your own self respect.
    Second best would not have been good enough for you and you wouldn’t have discovered your strengths and limitations.
    I dare say you don’t walk on water either- does it make you weak or a fool?
    Of the pair of you, his time is gone, perhaps he miscalculated some where along the line in a way JW didn’t.
    By contrast, you are free to start afresh with a clear conscience and little baggage, that is what you gained for being true your own self in the meaningful way.
    No gain without pain.

    Like

    • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 7:26 am #

      Exactly, PW. You always get it 🙂

      Like

      • atomou March 26, 2013 at 9:21 am #

        No he doesn’t! He never gets ANYTHING I say! 🙂

        Like

      • paul walter March 26, 2013 at 3:27 pm #

        Thank you, too. It always amazes me how an exceptional person can operate or multiskill for want of a better word even including during times when the pressure is on. Remarkable!

        Like

  14. MsPraxis March 25, 2013 at 6:12 pm #

    Oh Jennifer.

    Like

  15. gerard oosterman March 25, 2013 at 6:51 pm #

    What a pity it didn’t work out when there seemed so much that did work. Great writing and hearfelt. Love seems so fickle and as changeable as a weather-vane. So often it is the howling North Easterly sending things off course. We all will be lucky to end up on a balmy island of love and serenity, a gentle breeze, the corrigated ripples of sand listening to an incoming tide.

    Like

  16. hudsongodfrey March 25, 2013 at 11:44 pm #

    I spent some time today wondering what I could say to you about this. It demands and answer of a kind I think because you will know that I frequent these pages and could hardly have missed it.

    Empathy is a better word I think than sympathy in circumstances such as these, where while we are dealing with loss and regret I celebrate the fact that your writing conveys that subtlest of abilities to distinguish between the two. Who of us who have lived any kind of life would not have a bunch of regrets that we cling to in the knowledge that we might not give them up for the whole world. To regret the pain of love is to have loved is it not, and who would give up love?

    You have bravely but confidently in your own abilities conveyed that remarkable set of tensions and in so doing I am sure made us all cry. Perhaps a few tears of self pity if we’re honest, or in fear at the starkness of confronting the truth that the past cannot be changed. But in our time we were fucking magnificent and time can’t rob us of that either.

    Thanks I imagine would have been enough.

    Like

    • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 7:28 am #

      HG. Thank you xxxxx

      Like

    • helvityni March 26, 2013 at 10:35 am #

      “Perhaps a few tears of self pity if we’re honest….”

      Hudson, for a mere man, you are so bloody perceptive 🙂
      Maybe, that’s why Jen, I and others, like Leonard so much, he is not scared of showing his vulnerability…

      Like

      • hudsongodfrey March 26, 2013 at 11:16 am #

        It is why I think most of us who like Leonard are drawn to him.

        I postulate, in my spare time, that the enduring attraction of music is a deeply emotional one. We’re connecting through music with emotional centres in our brains that aren’t always nourished as perhaps they should be in our lives. Traditionally unable to show our emotions as we blokes are, there’s little wonder that big tough truckers are often fans of the kind of country music which if played backwards results in the return of your truck, your dog, your girlfriend and your dead mother.

        I like Leonard too 🙂

        Like

        • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 12:59 pm #

          I know you’re right about music HG. At times when I can’t bear any emotion I can’t listen to music.

          Like

          • hudsongodfrey March 26, 2013 at 3:54 pm #

            Ditto, very much so.

            Like

      • paul walter March 26, 2013 at 6:40 pm #

        Errkkkk..(Harrumph!!) A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Spurs clink on way back to horse, pulls down ten gallon hat, adjusts crotch.

        Like

  17. Mannie De Saxe March 26, 2013 at 12:43 am #

    Dear Jennifer,

    We do live in a strange world where we are not sure from one day to the next where it is going to lead us.

    I was married for 31 years and we separated in 1985. I came out as a gay man in 1988 at a demonstration against Margaret Thatcher when she was busy introducing that infamous clause 28 which was one of the most homophobic pieces of legislation around at the time.

    I became a gay activist and also started reading the gay papers, one of which was called the Sydney Star Observer. One of the regular columnists was a young woman called Jennifer Wilson.

    In 2001 my partner Ken Lovett and I moved from Sydney and Newcastle to live in Melbourne and I started building web pages and later a blog, so blogs became one of my interests. I discovered a blog by someone called Jennifer Wilson who I had thought was the one I remembered from the 1980s, but when I read in your earlier blog about going to see your former husband who had had a stroke I thought I must have made a mistake until today when I read you very heart-wrenching piece and was deeply moved by what you had written.

    I am still in a somewhat bewildered state myself because my ex-wife who refused to have anything more to do with me after 1991 because I had become a gay political activist died on 4 March 2013, and one of my 3 children from all of whom I am estranged bothered to notify me of her mother’s death.

    Your story has certainly affected me more than I can say. I am 86 now and my partner is 90 so I suppose we react in some strange way to news of deaths and disasters because our generation is disappearing at a rapid rate and there are not so many of us left any more and our mortality becomes an issue all the time.

    Thank you and best wishes,

    Mannie De Saxe

    Like

    • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 7:30 am #

      Mannie, thank you. I’m not the Jennifer Wilson who you remember – I never wrote for the Star Observer. I’m so sorry your family seem never to have come to accept you. I’d love to hear more of your life’s story sometime.

      Like

      • MORRIS DE SAXE May 18, 2013 at 9:55 pm #

        Hi Jennifer, here’s some more about Mannie’s life:

        It is sad that Mannie is so bewildered. His ex-wife, my Mum, didn’t refuse to have anything to do with him because he had become a gay political activist: she knew he was gay from early in their marriage.

        He used to upset her, after leaving her in 1985, by sending her birthday gifts by mail (they lived a few km away from each other) into the 90’s but often not contacting her for long periods, perhaps to offer some company in her loneliness, while he pursued his new life.

        Thinking this was cruel of Mannie, she decided to ask him not to contact her any more, as he basically was rubbing his new found gay life in her face, while she suffered depression and loneliness.

        Mannie’s child notified him of her death in March 2103, because she thought that when a person has been with another person for three decades, they would, if they had the usual human decency as you demonstrated in your own story, want to know about the death of a person with whom they’d shared so many experiences and indeed, had three children and three grandchildren.

        Mannie estranged himself from his children (as opposed to the other way round) after he and his partner splashed their relationship across the Sydney Morning Herald one morning in a column called The Two of Us, and, when one of the children pointed out that this publicity was perhaps hurtful to his now elderly ex-wife, as she had not re-partnered, Mannie and his partner, Kendall, decided they were deeply offended and hurt and in a fit of peak, cut off the three children totally, alhough the criticism had only come from one of the children.

        Mannie suggested his family never came to accept him – this is completely wrong – all his children accepted him and his new partner; indeed, they used to visit the couple in their Melbourne home with the grandchildren, but in the end, he expected that they should share all his complaints about his ex-wife too, trying to assuage his guilt at leaving her when they were already in their 60’s.

        He didn’t realise how lucky he and his partner were to have accepting children, and that therefore, they owed some tact to the children and the ex-wife too. Indeed, Mannie who writes of gay hate crimes, and his partner, rejected Mannie’s own gay son!!

        Mannie must have been so confused to read of your decent response when you found out your ex-husband had a stroke – because this is how mature people behave – sadly, Mannie didn’t understand this respect for the ex-partner, never resolved his guilt at marrying a heterosexual woman, and continued to try to blame others for his actions.

        In contrast with your own gratitude for what your ex-husband contributed to your life, Mannie was never able to acknowledge what his ex-wife contributed to his. His overwhelming and unresolved guilt caused him to cut himself off from everyone who loved him.

        His bewilderment at your own story is understandable, given your very different behaviour.

        Like

        • doug quixote May 19, 2013 at 10:16 am #

          All that comes as no great surprise, Morris. I think some people become, how shall we say, post mature?

          Like

  18. doug quixote March 26, 2013 at 8:22 am #

    The very best speeches, the very best stories are those which come from the heart. Like Lincoln in his Gettyburg Address or some of Churchill’s speeches. Or even when a much abused Prime Minister turns on her antagonists.

    Bravely written and well done Jennifer.

    Like

    • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 1:01 pm #

      Thank you DQ. I count myself very lucky to have an audience willing to read something like this. 🙂

      Like

      • paul walter March 26, 2013 at 6:43 pm #

        I agree with DQ, that we readers are fortunate to have a thread writer capable of original, perhaps variant insights and the ability to communicate them skillfully.
        Stuff of life, as Socrates or Epicurus might say.

        Like

  19. Comadrona March 26, 2013 at 9:39 am #

    You could have been writing my story. There is nothing so bleak as realising you have spent decades in hoping for something that was never meant to be. From the moment I knew my husband was a withholder (in the first few months of our relationship), I should have backed off and licked my wounds, then moved on. Instead, I made our marriage happen and have paid the price since. I imagine he would say the same thing about me. He professes to love me, but the day-to-day interactions are far from loving. My dearest wish now is for peace and quiet – I have no ambitions for anything more in my intimate dealings.

    Like

    • Jennifer Wilson March 26, 2013 at 1:03 pm #

      I’m sorry. I don’t know you, but I’m sorry it is so bleak. Jennifer.

      Like

  20. paul walter March 27, 2013 at 9:20 am #

    No, its real. We cotton wool ourselves in sentiment and pleasant living, but once in a while we need to remember “real”. Disappointment and pain are parts of peoples lives tucked away in psychic attics and we seem shamed to admit we got caught out or overwhelmed by events, which happens when we’re complacent, at least in my case.
    People seem embarrassed by their scars, but why not bear them with pride as marks of shared experience and authenticity?

    Like

    • Elisabeth March 27, 2013 at 9:59 am #

      I agree, Paul. ‘Psychic attics’ as you put so beautifully, like psychic basements where we hide away our most painful and I’d suggest shameful experiences. The best thing we can do with shame, which is one of those most difficult emotions because it so demands concealment, is to speak about it. It’s amazing how much speaking of the things that shame us reduces their impact.

      Like

      • paul walter March 27, 2013 at 10:57 am #

        Bingo Elisabeth!
        You clarified it perfectly. Any thing else I’d say would be utterly superfluous.

        Like

    • helvityni March 27, 2013 at 10:34 am #

      We think that we are the only ones who have encountered pain and disappointment, we think our experiences are unique.

      When we open up and start talking about our ‘misere’ , we’ll get an avalanche of the same or worse from the others…:)

      Bloody hell, I’m not so special after all, they are all suffering….

      Like

      • paul walter March 27, 2013 at 11:01 am #

        That’s as pertinent as Elisabeth’s comment was- someone used the term “terminal uniqueness” and relates to Elisabeth’s “shame”.
        “Secrets keep us sick”, as another friend said.

        Like

        • hudsongodfrey March 27, 2013 at 11:37 am #

          Shame may keep us sick, I have secrets with which I am justifiably satisfied as well. Just a thought.

          Like

      • Hypocritophobe March 27, 2013 at 11:28 am #

        As Paul W said a few days back,”we are all damaged goods, in our own way”.
        Sometimes the very term carries a stigma,which the ‘damaged’ ones impose or perpetuates upon themselves, or at least there may sometimes be a trepidation in ‘letting ones guard down’.
        The rapidly accelerating society we live doesn’t help with the healing and dealing(with it) process, because all to often we are disconnected from things that matter.
        Nature for one.The big one,IMO. At the point we see ourselves separate or superior to it, we begin to decompose and lose fragments of our intuition.That’s why when we come across people who are so honest and open about what ‘we’ would personally shelter, we find ourselves taken aback.
        It’s amazing how many people begin to melt their shells when they find themselves side by side with nature and out of their comfort zone.
        The velocity of our technical evolution often sweeps away the opportunities for families and friends to re-connect, as well.
        We find ourselves hurtling along these days.Never letting go of our shiny new “I-umbilical cords”, lest we miss a stock-market update, or trendy Tweet.
        Cest la vie.
        Que sera
        Doh

        PS
        I also realise that if I said this to some people they would hear me in Martian or think it was all just witch craft or wizardry.
        PPS
        I think by now most of us know that JW is a generous soul in every sense of the term.Her shared words have flicked a switch or struck a chord, within us at some point in time.
        In doing so she helps with that ‘reconnection’ process.
        That makes her a ‘real’ healer.And she has a deadly sense of humour,too!
        As always, Thanks again Jennifer.

        Like

        • paul walter March 27, 2013 at 12:18 pm #

          No, it’s actually a bloody good post, not Greek at all..

          Like

        • Jennifer Wilson March 27, 2013 at 5:51 pm #

          🙂 xxxxx

          Like

  21. hudsongodfrey March 27, 2013 at 12:53 pm #

    I think it may go deeper than nature to something else that we can’t deal with in a more temporal sense.

    Taking people out of their comfort zone has a limited impact on people, but after three days in Kakadu we found ourselves having to warn people who’d been petrified at the outset against the stupidity of dangling their toes in crocodile infested waters.

    The error it seems may be one of being lulled into a sense of false security that manifests itself as a kind of basic belief in our ability to have and do as we please. Whether it’s the drive to get more stuff or just to behave as if nature makes special exceptions for us. That’s why I think time and regrets really may serve to confront us with realities we can’t substitute for something we simply might happen to prefer.

    You can become inured to a great many dangers, whether by conscious or subconscious choice. I don’t know that we’re ever immune to love or to family much as might like to be at times. Nor as Helvi rightly points are are we likely to be unique in this.

    I think it’s just nice when we’re able to connect on that level where unavoidable realities coincide because of Jennifer’s lovely writing 🙂

    Like

    • hudsongodfrey March 27, 2013 at 12:57 pm #

      P.S. this was in reply to Hypo’s post about Helvi’s post.

      Like

  22. Hypocritophobe March 28, 2013 at 6:38 pm #

    Other healers
    http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2013/03/22/3721996.htm?site=alicesprings

    Like

  23. SAMI November 28, 2013 at 6:29 pm #

    My name is Sami, I went to Dr Tako about 2 months ago as I was desperate. I had been to many, many spell casters, here in the UK and in India, spent a fortune. I knew as soon as I started talking with him, he assured me that he would and indeed could help me, I talked all my situation through with him and he began working for me. I have to say, hand on heart, the next morning when I woke up, I felt great, as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders, I phoned Dr Tako and he said he wasn’t surprised as he had done a working that night, and something had “lifted” already from me, well, again, hand on heart, things in my life went from strength to strength after I spoke with Dr Tako and she started the work, I would have no hesitation to recommend him to anybody, get him on his email address:drtakolovespells@gmail.com.

    Like

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    hello!,I love your writing so much! share we keep in touch extra about your post on
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    Mayybe that’s you! Taking a look aheead to look you.

    Like

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