I used to believe in a hirsute God. From his perch in heaven, He’d scratch His white beard and guide my life. He was calling me to be a nun. I was sure of it. Marriage, as modeled by the adults in my life, seemed fraught with pain. Convent life would be quiet, peaceful, and I wouldn’t be missing anything.
I used to believe that.
But when I was eighteen, on an enchanted evening from a across a not-so crowded room,, a law student with bedroom eyes asked me to dance. My vocation, which I used to believe was real, was gone – just like that!
My mother told me, that men were looking for virgins. The guy with the sexy eyes was. “Someday,” he told me, “I’ll marry someone like you.” But later.
Heartbroken, but still an incurable romantic, I believed that out there was the perfect mate destined for me. I finished school, moved to Boston and waited to be found.
There, I shared an apartment. I believed that my vivacious friend enticed so many men, because she possessed irresistible, Scandanavian magnificence. When her dates arrived a half-hour early to visit with me (her skinny, reserved, Irish roommate)I thought they were just being nice to an ugly ducking.
Not surprisingly, she got married. I continued to wait for Mr. Right.
Another law student, whose eyes were less wandering, had been at the party that night. We became friends, or so I thought. A few years later, he asked me to marry him. But because I believed that marriage requires knee-weakening, fairy-tale feelings, I said no. I used to believe that was a good decision.
By twenty-five, I was the embodiment of the always-a-bridesmaid-never-a-bride cliché, so I fled New England and my mother’s expectations.
Three thousand miles away, in San Francisco, I decided that God, bearded or not, was unknowable. I also reconsidered my belief about my looks. Some men, I discovered, found long, cool women attractive.
I believed my mother’s insistence that “the only way to be fulfilled was to be a wife and a mother” would let up. It didn’t. When she pushed for my life’s plans, I would answer with smart-ass, short-term comments like, “This winter, I want to learn to ski powder.”
II did, and I used to believe my Bavarian, ski-instructor boyfriend was the one. He wasn’t.
Despite my best efforts to track down Mr. Right, I found myself in my early thirties, with my biological clock low on batteries. I finally accepted reality. I was meant to spend my life alone. I believed it.
I didn’t.
Married with children, I believed that my mother had been right about some of it. Motherhood was fascinating, but a temporary job. Wife-hood was forever, or so I thought. I believed that we would grow old together, that someday, my husband would stop being a workaholic. We’d move to Southern California, and I’d pursue my writing and painting and all the creative things that marriage had forced me to only dabble in. We didn’t.
I did.
The unrequited suitor became a fabulously successful lawyer. Our friendship morphed into a Christmas card relationship. I used to believe that when I was old and a widow, and he was old and a widower we would find each other again. We did – briefly. He was divorced as was I. But our online conversations were about my long-ago rejection.
“Sorry, I was young and foolish then,” didn’t help. He remarried. I see them on Facebook. I used to believe I made a mistake. I don’t anymore.
I used to believe that the next man I fell madly in love with was my last some-enchanted-evening. It started out that way – a passionate, poetic, long-distance affair. I used to believe that my longing would become our happily-ever-after.
Then, I got cancer. I used to believe that would never happen to me.
When the nightmare of the treatment was behind me, I saw that another Mr. Right had been more fantasy than reality. One day, I told him that he was free to go. He did.
My mother was gone, but her voice and an old belief nudged me. Was there someone out there for me? Surviving cancer had given me a sense of gratitude and an eagerness for new beginnings.
Out there (the Internet) was a very crowded room. As I struggled to figure out who this divorced, post-chemo and radiation woman was, I dove into the world of older-men.com. I used to believe that the sheer numbers would ensure a match.
I met some Mr. Good-enoughs, but most of them looked like my childhood image of God. Men my age grow beards, take up motorcycle riding and/or want to “have sex three times a week.” Once again, I accepted that I was meant to be alone.
Recently, I met Mother Dolores Hart at a book signing for her memoir, The Ear of the Heart. The former starlet tells of leaving Hollywood to join a contemplative Benedictine order. Remembering my own brush with nun-hood, I identified with her struggles accepting the authenticity of her calling.
As I listened to her description of coming to a place of certainty, I believed just as certainly that I was always meant to be in the world. I also believed that I married the right man, because without him, my two wonderful sons and stepdaughter wouldn’t be in my life.
Just before closing, the moderator read one last question from the audience: “Do you think that the pursuit of art can be a vocation?”
Mother Dolores, herself a creative soul, contemplated.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe so.”
One day, when a doctor spoke the words, “You have cancer,” I heard a calling, so clear that I had to believe that my creative self had found it’s enchanted evening. The pull to move toward my passions was so strong that it was almost like falling in love. I knew in that instant, that Someone was guiding my life.
I used to believe that. And now I do again.
MARY-JO MURPHY
I used to believe that.
But when I was eighteen, on an enchanted evening from a across a not-so crowded room,, a law student with bedroom eyes asked me to dance. My vocation, which I used to believe was real, was gone – just like that!
My mother told me, that men were looking for virgins. The guy with the sexy eyes was. “Someday,” he told me, “I’ll marry someone like you.” But later.
Heartbroken, but still an incurable romantic, I believed that out there was the perfect mate destined for me. I finished school, moved to Boston and waited to be found.
There, I shared an apartment. I believed that my vivacious friend enticed so many men, because she possessed irresistible, Scandanavian magnificence. When her dates arrived a half-hour early to visit with me (her skinny, reserved, Irish roommate)I thought they were just being nice to an ugly ducking.
Not surprisingly, she got married. I continued to wait for Mr. Right.
Another law student, whose eyes were less wandering, had been at the party that night. We became friends, or so I thought. A few years later, he asked me to marry him. But because I believed that marriage requires knee-weakening, fairy-tale feelings, I said no. I used to believe that was a good decision.
By twenty-five, I was the embodiment of the always-a-bridesmaid-never-a-bride cliché, so I fled New England and my mother’s expectations.
Three thousand miles away, in San Francisco, I decided that God, bearded or not, was unknowable. I also reconsidered my belief about my looks. Some men, I discovered, found long, cool women attractive.
I believed my mother’s insistence that “the only way to be fulfilled was to be a wife and a mother” would let up. It didn’t. When she pushed for my life’s plans, I would answer with smart-ass, short-term comments like, “This winter, I want to learn to ski powder.”
II did, and I used to believe my Bavarian, ski-instructor boyfriend was the one. He wasn’t.
Despite my best efforts to track down Mr. Right, I found myself in my early thirties, with my biological clock low on batteries. I finally accepted reality. I was meant to spend my life alone. I believed it.
I didn’t.
Married with children, I believed that my mother had been right about some of it. Motherhood was fascinating, but a temporary job. Wife-hood was forever, or so I thought. I believed that we would grow old together, that someday, my husband would stop being a workaholic. We’d move to Southern California, and I’d pursue my writing and painting and all the creative things that marriage had forced me to only dabble in. We didn’t.
I did.
The unrequited suitor became a fabulously successful lawyer. Our friendship morphed into a Christmas card relationship. I used to believe that when I was old and a widow, and he was old and a widower we would find each other again. We did – briefly. He was divorced as was I. But our online conversations were about my long-ago rejection.
“Sorry, I was young and foolish then,” didn’t help. He remarried. I see them on Facebook. I used to believe I made a mistake. I don’t anymore.
I used to believe that the next man I fell madly in love with was my last some-enchanted-evening. It started out that way – a passionate, poetic, long-distance affair. I used to believe that my longing would become our happily-ever-after.
Then, I got cancer. I used to believe that would never happen to me.
When the nightmare of the treatment was behind me, I saw that another Mr. Right had been more fantasy than reality. One day, I told him that he was free to go. He did.
My mother was gone, but her voice and an old belief nudged me. Was there someone out there for me? Surviving cancer had given me a sense of gratitude and an eagerness for new beginnings.
Out there (the Internet) was a very crowded room. As I struggled to figure out who this divorced, post-chemo and radiation woman was, I dove into the world of older-men.com. I used to believe that the sheer numbers would ensure a match.
I met some Mr. Good-enoughs, but most of them looked like my childhood image of God. Men my age grow beards, take up motorcycle riding and/or want to “have sex three times a week.” Once again, I accepted that I was meant to be alone.
Recently, I met Mother Dolores Hart at a book signing for her memoir, The Ear of the Heart. The former starlet tells of leaving Hollywood to join a contemplative Benedictine order. Remembering my own brush with nun-hood, I identified with her struggles accepting the authenticity of her calling.
As I listened to her description of coming to a place of certainty, I believed just as certainly that I was always meant to be in the world. I also believed that I married the right man, because without him, my two wonderful sons and stepdaughter wouldn’t be in my life.
Just before closing, the moderator read one last question from the audience: “Do you think that the pursuit of art can be a vocation?”
Mother Dolores, herself a creative soul, contemplated.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe so.”
One day, when a doctor spoke the words, “You have cancer,” I heard a calling, so clear that I had to believe that my creative self had found it’s enchanted evening. The pull to move toward my passions was so strong that it was almost like falling in love. I knew in that instant, that Someone was guiding my life.
I used to believe that. And now I do again.
MARY-JO MURPHY