Printer-friendly

28 June
Springfield, Ore.


It’s official.  Aubray and I are separated, and we are best friends.

I think I love her more than ever now.

You would have to know our long, sordid history to under-
stand why I would not exactly call this an “amicable” break-
up; rather it was an intensely painful, slow-motion breakup
that lasted for years, and it is finally over.  The acknowledge-
ment of its overness, mutual and absolute–and amicable to
its core—is an experience that is so far beyond joy that words
fail me.  It was that last door that God had flung wide open for
us to walk through together, and the other side is so bright
and vast and wonder-filled that I can’t feel anything but
thankful anymore.

That’s what made this such an amazing experience: we
walked together the entire way, and the end is complete,
mutual liberation.  

I knew it was coming; the only question was when. Coming
down Siskiyou Summit into Ashland was an odd experience.  It no longer felt like home.  The person I am now is not the
same one who went up the hill on a Greyhound bus the evening of June 5, and that was never more certain than it was
as I saw the southern edge of the Rogue Valley below and started seeing all the familiar sights.  It was very familiar –but
so is Indianapolis.  My residence in this familiar place was already more of a memory than a living reality.  I have become
that most blessed of homeless persons, who feels at home nowhere and everywhere both at once.

The first hour or so was tense.  Aubray and I hugged, and then we stood staring at the mess that was our room (nary a
move have we ever made together with anything but the most cursory preparations).  After a ridiculously long period of
doing that and not saying much, we decided to go get some trash bags in which to transport her clothes.  After doing
that and putting some air in the tires of our $500 Honda, she suggested we go for a drink (it was pretty hot).  You mean
like margaritas? I asked.  No, she chuckled, how about the Beanery?  Good idea, I thought, discretion being the better
part of alcoholic valor that it is.

So we sat down at the Beanery with our Italian sodas.  Our eyes met, perhaps for the first time all day, and thank God,
she was willing to start.  She said we ought to continue the phone conversation we were having about our marriage, the
morning I called her from Oklahoma.  Within ten seconds the ton of bricks disappeared from both of our shoulders, and
we realized we were doing what we had been threatening to do for years: split up for the good of our relationship.  I cried
a little again, but not too much.  We held hands across the table.  She said it was “fabulous” that I was doing these
Chronicles as well as finishing P & K, and that she wants to read them.  I pledged my financial support for her new solo
apartment downtown, and I hinted that I would give her more “legal independence” if or when she decides she wants it –I
should elaborate on that tomorrow.  For her part, Aubray granted me complete sexual freedom (oh great, how am I going
to handle that?!).  We agreed to make light of the situation whenever we talk about it, especially with others. (In the car
after, for instance, I said, “Let’s tell people, ‘It’s not divorce, it’s DiGiorno’s!’” –for those of you familiar with the frozen
pizza ad.)

Suffice it to say, no one need bother to weep for our marriage, or for either of us individually.  If weep you must, weep
always for humankind, and our frailty in ever-forgetting the unity of all beings.

I still view my part of the marriage as a legacy of failure, but I am beginning to understand it as kind of a “God-induced”
failure (truly there is no other kind in I AM’s eyes; the recognition is what makes it so in ours).  A stumbling block, you
could say.  I don’t want to develop this point fully yet.  Part 2 seems more like the place.








Next -- Chapter 19
Mount Ashland in winter from the hills east of town, the Rogue Valley
in a blanket of fog below. (www.oregonphotos.com)
Mount Shasta, rising 14,162 feet above sea level, just a few miles southeast of the
northern California town of Weed, about an hour south of Ashland.  The Greyhound
driver who picked me up three weeks prior to this chapter on my trip to So-Cal said
Mt. Shasta is the tallest mountain in the world from base to peak.  I don't doubt it
one bit --it is mind-bogglingly tall from the I-5 freeway.
(photo courtesy of www.miketodd.net)