Dating Myself

In New York City it feels natural to venture out and explore by oneself. New York itself is probably the best companion a person could ask for. There is that churning, musical, warm, burnt chestnuts and garbage and hot dogs and break dancing and jangling bangle bracelets and fast walkers and babies and tourists energy that you can roll around in until it absorbs. And before you know it you're so completely full of the companionship of the city that you laugh to yourself. You've found the antidote for a lonely heart.

Knowing how beautiful a solitary day in New York can be, I may have entered into the process a bit jaded when I attempted to date myself in Boston.

First of all, with the devastation going on in Haiti right now and the abject status of my checking account, I have no capability of donating money to _____ charity. When you're walking alone in Harvard Square or on Newbury Street it seems that you are metaphorically re-painting your forehead with a huge red bulls-eye. I dodged and ducked and rolled and ninja back flipped my way around the cobble stone streets desperately avoiding the pleading voices of the bright blue vested task force of solicitors. I am sorry, but I just donated to St. Jude's and the Red Cross and I really...have... to go now I pleaded internally. I really needed something uplifting to happen to convince me that dating myself in this city could actually happen and it wouldn't lead to my feeling vulnerable and helpless.

I walked towards the first parish church with few expectations, but great hopes.

The line spilled out the door. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes (and a few wonderfully supportive husbands) eagerly awaited entry. There was a buzz of lightness and hope that transported me back to my city of birth. There was an energy I do not often feel in Boston that made this venue itself into a living breathing being, a perfect companion for the night.

We were all awaiting entry into a room where soon Elizabeth Gilbert, best-selling author and one of Time magazine's 100 most influential people in the world would soon stand. She worte Eat. Pray. Love. A book that has touched me in ways that words will not do justice. During the question and answer section last night, after Liz, with her radiance, and her statuesque Nordic presence, and her soothing controlled voice, and her razor sharp wit, read to us from her new novel Committed, which I will be purchasing as soon as my stafford loan refund check gets deposited into my account (scornfully laughing over here), one of her readers made the comment we all wanted to, allowing everyone in the church to exhale with satisfaction.

He said, "A few years ago I was exiled to Panama and was in a very dark place. I was told by good friends that I needed to read a book that healed and they told me about your book. Your book, your words, healed. So thank you." The audience erupted in applause because many of us, myself included, who had just broken up with a great love, and desperately wanted to find herself again, agreed. He then said, "And my question is...How do you know when you're healed?"

The audience erupted in laughter. As did Ms. Gilbert. Who responded, with the eloquence and grace of a figure skater, knowingly positioning herself for a triple axle, "I don't know if being healed is a reasonable end goal for any of us. Being good enough might be a bit more doable. And I think I knew I was getting there when I stopped waking up at four in the morning sobbing every day. I was like someone walking away from a firing squad, amazed that I still had all my limbs in tact."

That was a paraphrase. But you get the message.

Last night I experienced an hour of highly concentrated love. I was in the presence of a magical woman who has touched the 7 million readers of her memoir and the many people those 7 million people shared their purchased copies with.

By the time I had inched my way up to the book signing desk and handed her my worn and dog-eared copy, I knew not what to say to this marvelous creature who has made it her life's mission to express her truth from start to finish, through written word. I wanted to tell her how she made me stare my sadness in the face and conquer it. I wanted to tell her what a blessing she has been to my life. Or about my desires to write and my fears and preoccupations. But it all seemed so inadequate compared to a sincere smile. When we faced each other, I put my hand to my heart and softly said "Thank you for writing." and she replied "Thank you for reading." And swirled the pen over the title page.

I walked out of the church feeling light and full of love. Maybe Boston will be a better companion than I had anticipated.