In the decade of marriage to another man before I met Buck, new year’s eves were sad little emo moments where I would write in my journal things like, “I am so lonely. I feel disconnected. Will I ever be really in love? Will anyone ever be madly in love with me?” Variations on this theme repeated each year.
My questions were answered in a big, bold permanent way one late September day in the eighth decade of the last century when Buck and I nearly had a head-on collision at a professional luncheon in Tampa, Florida.
I don’t lay claim to knowing much. So-called incontrovertible facts seem to be the weak and shifting sands of social and political spinmeisters. I’m one small woman in a large piney wood, but I know how to love and how to let myself be loved. This may be all I know, but it is more than most ever learn or experience. And I’m grateful for whatever force brought Buck and my small boats together on the vast ocean of random possibility.