You’ve heard me refer to The Woman in America
a few times, right? Well, here’s the rub.
She and I have corresponded by e-mail and spoken on skype. I’ve
been mean to her a couple of times, and she’s been mean back rather more often.
But that’s all good, because being mean to somebody (by which I mean the
go-away-and-never-darken-my-doorstep-again sort of mean) usually indicates a
combination of honesty, fear and insecurity, all of which are essential to a
vibrant relationship (well, they are if you’re a bit weird like me.)
The fact is though, she’s been a major part of engendering
in me a profound process of self-examination and subsequent realisation that
has clarified much of my understanding of, and attitude towards, the whole
subject of the masculine:feminine connection. Don’t you think it’s pretty
incredible that somebody you’ve never met, and almost certainly never will
meet, can be such a jewel in the crown of learning? That’s big, right? The
Woman in America
is a genuine VIP.
It’s maybe a trifle unfortunate that all this new found understanding
has come too late to be of any practical value, but life’s like that. And, hey,
there are more lives to come, no?
(Sorry to descend into the triter end of the vernacular, but
at least I avoided ‘who loves ya, baby?’ Except in parentheses. Which is OK.)
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