I just got off the phone with my ex husband’s wife.

 We talked for an hour and thirty-nine minutes.

It was fun.  

Fun you ask? 

Yes, fun. 

You see, with all the pain and difficulty of divorce –it’s been years now–  there once lived the old awkward imaginings of who your former person will be with when it’s no longer you.. as well as all you may fear that she IS that you are NOT…

But somewhere a long way back that all fell away.

Instead it is such a GIFT (ok, yes, gift can be a cheesy word and I usually hate it in this sort of context but it fits here) to have the pleasure of feeling continuity –even distantly — with that old mate. And tonight that happened through a little conversation.

We talked, about what I’m not sure if it matters…about her paintings, his work, my work…she’s headed to Bali. I have a friend that lives there. And then something of the dynamics between them, but nothing too private, something about the differences in our personalities…even a bit about what I imagined she could give him that I could not. But it was easy talk. Nothing ground breaking.

Except in a way, it feels special.

We agreed we wouldn’t be marching out and buying ‘best friend’ charm bracelets.  But to connect like that — for one hour and thirty nine minutes — somehow enriches my current life. Is this, you ask because we had some sort of utopian separation?

No.

There was plenty of mess and missteps. But what is life if not mostly lots of mistakes?

But eventually the dust settles. It all plays out.He still is him. You, still you.

And while I  no longer have or wish to have my former husband as the primary witness to my life, nor he to mine, I still love him and always will. And it makes life all the richer to know the woman who cares for him now. It broadens my heart to know her, and to know him through her. It feels like some weird version of having passed a torch. Life isn’t easy, and we don’t always work out what we need to work out in this lifetime with just one person. I spent over a decade with that guy. So to feel a delicate and very real thread from the life I once had to the life we each now have separately, is something else.  

In a culture where it seems longevity in primary relationships is a rarity, to connect like that –however briefly — fills me with joy.It makes the world feel a little more whole, more full of love. Knowing there’s plenty to go around. And that two woman can talk about their lives having nothing to do with the man that links them. But also it feels something like a new fangled odd ball but no less real sense of family.  

I’m thinking of buying one of her paintings.

You see, they are very beautiful.  

So  who really wants to write about what happens next? 

You see,  a cumulus nimbus cloud isn’t just some puffy poof of magic. It’s a whirling dervish of wind, ice, tremendous force and competing currents. It moves fast, pulls hard, and will take your breath away. I know of this paragliding pilot who got sucked into one — was hauled up to 30,000 feet, frozen, passed out, and then spit back out, tumbling toward earth, only to crash-land unable to move. And they say it was in the end her inability to move, which saved her.

Note to self.

Experts say had she made any sudden movements upon impact she would have kicked into cardiac arrest. Apparently, sometimes doing nothing to fight big forces saves you.

 2^nd note to self.

So with my own nimbus visit, I couldn’t say I was frozen, nor even passed out. But I   had one HECK of a time trying to figure out which way was up. Just as quickly as the sky opened –wide, deep, and quick –just as suddenly the sky closed up shop. You see where I’m going here.

Falling faintly. Faintly falling.

Although it wasn’t so faint. I just like the sound of those four words. They capture that sense of losing elevation. 

My cloud,  my kite, my sweet little tornado got up off his knees and suddenly needed to talk about freedom.

Nimbus drawing up.

Wait a minute.

Couldn’t we just grab a light bite to eat?

Have a nice rest in the tall grass?

Nestle into my neck, just so?

Find some middle ground here between the rest of our lives and never again?

Can I offer you an olive?

A tissue?

Maybe wait for you to get over that nasty cold?

But to a stirring cloud perhaps these questions are as useful as that paragliding pilot asking that nimbus for a time-out.

“Listen, Mr. Cloud, could we each just take a moment, a nice deep breath?  You see my head is spinning, I’m having trouble keeping my thoughts straight…and I’m noticing some ice gathering on my goggles…What the FU…is happening here????? Hold onnnnnnnnnnnnn….Let me catch my……”

But the cloud keeps moving, replying with a:  “ Crash, bang boom.”

Wasn’t even mean-spirited of that nimbus. There was just no stopping it.

Strong forces, you see.

In my case, inside that high velocity-cloud-chaos it wasn’t so much about literal windshear,  but a bramble  of words  – trying to make sense of the extreme change in weather. But if the opening in the sky was rather unexplainable –wide, quick and deep — why should my nimbus’s close be any different? 

Sometimes you just can’t fight the forces of nature –not to mention the being thrown  and  the spitting out part. I mean, what could that woman do at 30k feet? No time for analysis. Maybe all you can do is hold on. Follow it out. And hope for a soft briar patch to land in. A feather bed seems like asking too much.

But man, that crash landing hurt like hell.

Wary of sudden movements—I am oh-so  gently taking my heart into  my OWN hands. I am warming it, trusting with time, and a lot of gentleness, a steady open beat will return. For now it makes sense to speak to it in the softest of tones. And I am extra mindful of what flies, pulls and draws overhead.

Maybe I’ll take up caving. 

Well, I fell in love with a kite. Or maybe a tornado. Or a cumulus nimbus cloud. I’m not sure what description fits best. It all happened so quickly. Like trying to read a road sign wizzing by at 200 miles an hour. Plucked me up off the ground and into the sky. Thermals spinning me up, up, up. And it was beautiful. Barefoot poems. Laughing. Shy, smiling kisses. I saw his heart, felt his heart through his big eyes, felt his lithe body moving through space and toward me. Elegant muscle, tight sinew. Tall bones. He opened wide and quickly and deep.

And he got down on his knees and said things you shouldn’t say. Not that early, anyway. I told him not to make jokes like that with a woman my age. I thought my response funny. But it was also true. And then he said it again. Something about me lit him up. Made him feel something alarming and disarming. And then he kissed me some more. And his poems. Oh his poems. Not your average verse, but-barefoot-in-the-street-he’s-offering-me-his-everything-poems. Shot right from his heart to the center of my own. Throw in a couple of speeches about practical matters about what all this would look like, and I was done for. He was beautiful. And even more beautiful on the inside than the out. As if I could believe that were possible.  

I couldn’t take in any more beauty, any more enthusiasm –overwhelmed with unexplainable, unexpected, unprompted love heading my way. So I asked him to come with me to smell candles in a department store. I needed something to bring me back to earth. And comfort-eating was out. Too many butterflies. 

Well, that is my thought today anyway. Up early, I hopped into my suit, waxed my board, and headed out. Sat on the beach and watched to set my best course. Picked out my line. Picked up my board. In I went.

I then proceeded to spend the next forty minutes just getting hammered. I paddled next to this striking bald guy, looking way more organized than I. I kept wishing he would just paddle away from me, as I prefer to take my beatings in solitiude. Less humiliating somehow. In a break in the sets I lulled myself into thinking I had gotten to the outside. I even sat up on my board like my work was all done. But then a different set began again. How stupid was I? Which meant I had lost my obvious chance to more easily head clear to the outside. And so the hammering began again.

Funny how it can look like absolutely nothing from the beach.

And finally I thought, you know what? I’ve learned this lesson before. It doesn’t have to be this hard. I’ve lost my clear line to the outside and am stuck in the mush. I’ve drifted north with the current and that 100 yards –in this case –does make a difference. I’m going in, and if I have to start over again, so be it.

So I did.

Well, today was fantastic. Surfing with Peter in the rain. First the long board then I had a semi-graduation (if you can call it that) to the shorter board. Then paddled to the outside. Big surf. Big surf to paddle out through. Not like Laird Hamilton big, but big. Peter said, bigger, fit looking guys wouldn’t have made it out there. And pointed to four guys who hadn’t made it out. Not to be an ego maniac here, but Peter doesn’t know the size of my will. Fuck those bigger guys. Mostly we paddled out for the sake of paddling out. As some of the waves had a six foot face, and I’m still happy EXTREMELY happy with a three or four foot face –tops.

But I got to practice everything…Mostly the turtle roll and bailing off the board. But I also got to ride big swells on my board and learn about the currents and the tides and rips, and paddle at an angle to try to catch the waves.

And the rain is going this whole time. And I’m watching the pacific this whole time. And I’m thinking I am so so so lucky to be alive. To write and to think and to get to ask questions, like, well I mean what IS a riptide really anyway?

And then I caught one a big one –and it freaked the living shit out of me – and I bailed. Peter said I shouldn’t have bailed but ridden it on my belly all the way in. Probably was great advice –obviously not taken –as that wave spun me into a flexed somersault that I didn’t even know my back was capable of. I’ve never had the greatest backbends in yoga. Maybe today cracked something open. Holy hell, I thought, I hope this is NOT what it feels like to blow a disk.

And of course that was the last ride of the day. But the ocean was so deep, the swells so broad, the plunk plunk of the rain on the surface so sweet. Who knew that writing a second draft of a book about love, and relationships, and the culture of self-help would lead to something as fabulous as this? I never did, I assure you.

I want to know who wants to get married at the Radisson Inn. I mean, I really want to know this. You are sitting around with your betrothed, your beloved, brainstorming about the big day. And you say, “How ‘bout the Radisson in July?” And she says, “Honey that sounds perfect! I always wanted to get married at the Radisson.”

I’m sorry. I just don’t see it. Not to mention I’ve been here five days and I still haven’t figured out where the reception rooms actually are. When I get bored of memorizing, I try to mix it up by doing laps around the hotel, as well as laps through the hotel. But I’ve yet to stumble onto one banquet hall. But the rooms MUST exist because I see tired groups of men loitering in the lobby with nametag badges hanging around their necks that say things like ‘Steve Hauf – Dessert.’ Does Steve sell dessert? Make dessert? Write about dessert? These are questions for which I have no answers.

My point is, this is an extremely ugly place to get married. Period. I think if we surveyed a panel of experts, all would concur. And it’s not a money thing, as I can think of ten more affordable places to get married than here. It’s a question of romance. This is about as romantic as the Shell station where I pumped my gas earlier. The most romantic thing happening here that I can see is the Serta his and hers adjustable mattress. But I’m pretty sure they don’t offer those at receptions.

I saw my first Radisson bride and groom on Saturday. I learned later I had a friend who attended the wedding. The boss’ kid. Apparently they had some really embarrassing last name, which caused my friend to struggle with how to address the new couple on the card. I can’t remember it now, but it was something like, Mr. and Mrs. Sicko. I swear, something that startling.

But maybe Mr. And Mrs. Sicko have good old memories of the Radisson or the restaurant next door which offers spirits and Asian fusion food with ‘very adult’ tastes. What does this mean – ‘adult tastes?’ Anytime I see the word ‘adult’ on a sign I assume there’s porn inside. But I’ve never heard of an ‘adult’ restaurant. Have you? I peeked through the windows on one of my laps around the hotel. I did spot zebra striped valences on the windows…so maybe it IS an ‘adult restaurant’ peppered with a hint of porn. Zebra or leopard can mean just a little bit naughty, right?

I have three days to get to the bottom of this.

So my little one-person show is heading to New York this week. Crazy. The term one-person show is definitely a misnomer as its existence depends on so many people: Nell, my pr friend, my genius graphic designer friend, my two girlfriends directing me (basically telling me…that was funny, no that other thing wasn’t…and you’re doing that weird thing with your hands again…) Lemon who edits my work and my new unbelievably talented writing teacher. Without them I would definitely not be on this crazy adventure. I feel the excitement I remember growing up, just putting on the 7th grade school play or a skit at camp or something. But this is far more surreal as I’m a full grown adult. Who gets to have this much terrifying fun and still call it a job?

So before my actual departure, I’m holed up in the Radisson Inn in Longmont, Colorado, Odd, right? I’m with Isabelle, my Portuguese Wonder (Water) Dog. We’ve been gypsy-like for months, mostly staying with friends, some camping to help the show budget –Seattle, Washington; Newport Beach, California; Aspen and Salida, Colorado –great places to land as I try to piece this show and a writing life together. But it’s a well needed break to have total privacy here, to have space to work, work, work. Not to mention they have Serta personally adjustable beds.

By now I can teach anyone how to pack a good suitcase. But the beauty of the Radisson Inn this week: my room can be a disaster area and I won’t be messing up anybody’s guestroom. I try to be a tidy guest with my friends –but here I’m making a giant, fantastic mess. Script revisions, query letters, contracts, business cards, summer clothes, blueberries (on sale), cucumber brown rice sushi roll in the fridge, and a case of Pacifico. I only wanted a six pack but they had run out. I’ll give the extras to the Radisson guys downstairs who say hello to Isabelle every time she tromps by them with Froggie in her mouth to go outside to go the bathroom.

So the weekend is all about re-memorizing. The show has changed a lot. You’d think when you write something yourself, it would be easier to memorize, but I haven’t found that to be the case. Plus when you have trouble with a particular passage, it’s tempting to just rewrite it, which definitely shouldn’t always be an option. Just because it’s hard to remember, doesn’t mean it’s the wrong way to say something.

So for now, I’ll pack it in. I just want to send out a big thank you to every single person who’s helped me – for the great morning yoga class, to the folks at Daily Candy, to the staff of the Midtown International Theatre Festival. I feel lucky to be a part of this.

Welcome to Pull the Curtain.