The story of Union

He asked me, “Why do you want to be with me? You don’t even know me? If you knew me, you wouldn’t love me.”

Yesterday, sitting at the beach, I thought about this question again. Why do I really love him?

I remember when I looked at the small tree in his home. I said it is a very cute tree, and he said it’s because you have an eye for it. You have the eyes to see how cute the tree is. Then he told me the story of the exact same tree he had back in İstanbul. “Before I moved out of that place, the tree grew this tall,” he showed me the height with his hands. How cute, I thought, we are talking about a tree like his old friend. I see how he cared for that tree and appreciated it.

I sat down there at the beach yesterday and wrote all the things I loved him for.

He had an eye for all the beauty in this world; he inspired me so much that how I write changed, my truth was coming through stronger. I started to sink into the moment of the place that I wanted to describe, calling in my relationship to that place one more time before I release this creation out into the world. I understood how to care for a place and how to honor it.

I remember how he had a very good grasp of describing the small town of Kaş near Antalya. He told me Kaş is like between Antalya and Bodrum, and I thought to myself That’s right, not as dry as Bodrum but not as lush green as Antalya, almost like a transition place. Over the last summer, I started to notice more as I traveled back and forth between Bodrum and Antalya. With him, my love for this region grew. My love feels so huge that it feels like I'm not sure if I can contain it. I am not sure if my cup can hold that. I loved how right he was, I loved saying “that’s true, you are right”. I loved seeing the truth through him.

As I was writing all the reasons I loved him for, in my journal, my shoelaces caught my eye, and they bothered me. They were too long, so I just tucked them in on the sides, and it didn't look that good. I remembered he said our shoes looked very similar, which made me think, How does he do it? I am sure his shoelaces weren't like this, and if they were, he would have a practical solution for that, too, just like how he made everything he touched prettier and more aesthetic. He found all the good solutions. This was not really about how he picked his clothes that were fitting for him, how he cut his hair or how he designed his house, both serving him and beautiful and cozy, but it was about how he moved through the world; these things were just a mere reflection of him, it was about his essence, who he was as a man. I saw him through. It makes me think I am a better person because of him.

Women need men's genius, and men need women's.

As I looked at my shoelaces, I started crying. I noticed I was a bit afraid. Will the crying stop eventually, or am I going to be turning into an emotional wreck? Then something happened that I had to change my spot. It was as if the universe orchestrated this scene for me. In the new spot, I could hear music playing that I really liked. I started dancing, then I saw a DJ playing this. At that moment, I was surprised: So, now my grief doesn’t swallow me whole? I realized I got sober to what had happened, and I could hold both the beauty of this experience and the grief that comes with it.

I thought about him a little more, wondering how he could make everything more beautiful with his hands. How could he make a very simple meal so delicious? Just salmon and potatoes in the oven. How he put up every piece of furniture and the other things very carefully. The plants here, the table there, a painting from Van Gogh fits just right here. Just like that, he touched every corner, giving shape to every intricate detail in that place, and made it home. I imagined he could explain how he built, mended, did all the things in his house, and I would listen to him with all my ears.

I could see now why the grief was so big. I did not only experience him, but he was also connected to something bigger than himself. I remembered he sent me the photo of his coffee mug and how a very clear yin and yang symbol took form from the little leftover coffee at the bottom of his mug. As I touched him, I touched something bigger than both of us. I touched the holy yang, and now I understand why yin goes first.

I think I knew him.

Thank you to my teachers, Qiddist Ashe and Maura Flinn, at the Holy Well. Especially the union courses and my conversation with my dear teacher, Maura.

Here is the poem that I wrote back in March last year while taking the Union Foundation course.

Holy yang, I hate you! I love you! I cry, and I laugh all at the same time. Thank you for holding me through. You hug me and kiss my forehead, and I beat your chest with my fists.

I ask you why you brought us here, and you know why. You are wise, and I hate you for that, I adore you for that.

F*ck you! I love you!

P.S. Yang refers to the masculine principle of the psyche here.