Dear friend,
It’s February, so I’ve been thinking about love. And its absence. For many years, Valentine’s Day was a sharp reminder of what I did not have. Shop windows filled with heart-shaped chocolates wrapped in pink foil, men on the Tube clutching bunches of roses, and the delicious-sounding Valentine’s tasting menu advertised at my favourite local restaurant would convince me love was something pretty much everyone else in London had got sorted.
Then, one year, the day felt lighter. It was a Sunday, and I spent it alone. But in sweet anticipation. Because two days later, I was going to a man’s house for dinner. He was a blue-eyed smart and funny Northerner who, after two dates, I’d decided I really liked.
The night before our dinner, his number flashed up on my phone. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to cancel tomorrow. My ex got back in touch, and we’ve decided to give things another go.’ He ended our short conversation by saying, ‘I have a feeling you and I would’ve got on really well.’
I was sure we would have. And so disappointed I’d never get the chance to find out. After a few days of feeling sorry for myself, I made myself get back on the dating site where I’d found him, and continued my search. In-between scrolling through thumbnail images of Londoners aged 35-45, I moved around the city teaching yoga.
A week after the cancelled dinner, I went to teach my Monday evening class at an insurance company in the City of London. As I walked past the beautiful stone buildings on Threadneedle Street, and past City workers flowing by in the opposite direction, on their way back to Bank Tube, I assumed I was anonymous.
A few days later, I received a text. It was from the man I thought I’d never see again, inviting me to the ballet the following weekend. I was wary. Had things with his girlfriend fallen through again, or was he playing us off against one another? But I accepted the invitation, as at the very least it meant a free visit to The Royal Opera House.
Several weeks later, once our lives had started to intertwine, he confessed he’d spotted me on Threadneedle Street that Monday night. And promptly hidden behind some scaffolding so as to avoid me. He was on his way to the gym, and didn’t want me to see him looking scruffy in his workout gear. As well as worried I was angry with him for cancelling.
It was that glimpse that propelled him to text me and ask me out again. His recently reignited relationship with his ex was obviously fizzling out, too. But he admits were it not for that sighting, he probably would have just gone back on the dating website.
It was one-in-a-million that our paths crossed. I only came to that part of London once a week, and he never usually did, as he worked in Canary Wharf and lived in South London. But he’d had the day off, so decided to try out a different branch of his gym.
Thirteen years later, we still occasionally reflect on that moment. Was it coincidence? Or fate? Of course, the latter makes for a more enchanting storyline. But we’ll never really know.
The circuitous route by which I got together with my husband is a good illustration of that saying, What’s meant for you won’t pass you by. Or, as John Steinbeck wrote in a loving letter to his son, If it’s right, it happens – the main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away. I’ve certainly experienced other examples in my life, such as buying my flat and having my son; both times it felt like all was lost, then, late in the day, the stars aligned.
Equally, there’ve been plenty of times I’ve really wanted something and it’s never arrived. Was that because it simply wasn’t meant to be mine? I’ll never be sure. The workings of the universe are too mysterious for me to claim I have any idea as to what really does or doesn’t go on in the unseen realms.
What I do know is that telling myself what’s meant for me won’t pass me by is something I find helpful, regardless of whether or not it’s the truth. Not because it invites me to sit back and do nothing, in the belief that it something’s meant to be, it’ll just fall into my lap. Nor is it helpful in the heat of disappointment, where I think it’s more beneficial to let ourselves feel whatever we’re feeling rather than plaster over any difficult feelings with a platitude.
But if I believe what’s meant for me will come to me, I can then more easily soften into the life I do have and appreciate its goodness, rather than gripping to a rigid storyline, where I convince myself life can only be good if x or y happens. I can still make an effort to bring what I long for into being, but do so without obsessing that this is the only possible way forward. And if, over time, it becomes clear this desired for thing isn’t ever coming, rather than forever feeling like I’m in the wrong life, telling myself that perhaps it wasn’t meant for me, helps bring me home to the one I do have.
Of course, this isn’t always easy to do, as longing is a powerful force. But, like anything, it’s a practice. And one I believe is important. Because life is short, and I want to do my best living the one I hold in my hands, not the unrealised one, tantalising me with its if onlys, and which pulls me away from all the richness that is here right now.
Love,
Annabel
If only the if onlys weren't such an automatic default! I have a lot of practising to do. Articles like yours are the perfect reminder. Thank you for this wonderful piece of writing, yet again, Annabel
I love this. And I love Steinbeck's quote too! I just read your comment about it appearing this morning as a confirmation and it made me smile at the endless mystery of life...