There are times when my connection to others feels stronger and brighter in the still darkness of solitude than in the company of other people.  A recent blizzard, though it turned my home into a veritable mountain cave, heightened that sense of connection.

I am nearing the end of week two of my children’s impromptu winter vacation.  They have not been in school since January.  Two weeks ago, a storm planted nearly two feet of snow on a very unprepared city.  No snow plows.  I could not leave my house for five days.  We nearly ran out of food.

On the fifth day, while washing dishes, I looked out my kitchen window and noticed someone shoveling my driveway.  It was Jimmie!  The man I broke up with many weeks ago braved thirty miles of snowy roads to reach me and shoveled for hours before coming inside and offering to rub the tension from my sore shoulders.  I tried to return the favor, but the flu had severely tightened my muscles, and after he massaged them, I could barely move.  He invited my family to his house, as we were eager to get out, fed me soup and made me a warm bath complete with candlelight.  He played cards with my boys while I soaked in his jacuzzi.  Seriously royal treatment after many long, hellishly demanding days.

His generosity opened my heart.  Yet, we still failed to connect.  Conversations remained shallow.  We are so different.  I found myself feeling intensely lonely for the first time in a long while.  I longed for the company of past loves who touched me deeply.  I remembered one in particular who eschewed my generosity (he found it unattractive) and complained that he was not in love with me, and I was pained to finally understand where he was coming from (although in contrast, I find generosity very attractive).  The sad thing is that I nevertheless sorely missed him.

After one day of freedom, it snowed again, and my boys and I returned to life in a bunker.  I’ve been contemplating the relationship between love and connection, generosity and intimacy.  We can be intimate without love and generosity, and we can be loving and generous without building true intimacy.  Romance seems to require both.

I find both, ironically, in solitude.  At night, when I feel the warm, loving pleasure of the cosmic river current, which happens every now and then, I think on someone I care about.   A note on why:  Four years ago, I began to notice that many of my emotions were actually feelings coming from someone else.  Grief over a lost pet, rage, lust, disappointment, infatuation.  When people close to me experience strong emotion, it doesn’t matter how far away they are–if they think about me, I feel it.

The reverse is also true.  Empathy is universal.  Noticing it among all the other noise is the only rare thing.  Therein lies something one can offer, a capacity for healing.  Empathy is not just a perceptual act but a conduit for sharing love, bliss, and well being.

I savor that warm, loving pleasure, and I think strongly on someone, or everyone.  Through unconscious empathy, I imagine they must feel some of it.  They may not know where the warmth is coming from or why they suddenly feel good and perhaps they will attribute it to something else, but they will feel it anyway.  In a single, quiet moment, regardless of where I am or who I am with, I can love fully.

Some guidelines I set for myself:

• When I think on the person I love, I don’t envision the two of us together.  I simply see them and only them.  They fill my awareness.  I’m not “sending” love from myself to another person.
• I let go of the expectation that the empathic sharing of warmth and well being will lead to any future experiences.  I remind myself that I am already engaged in the deepest love, and nothing more is needed.  Ever.

I thought about Jimmie and conjured feelings of love.  I thought about others once close to my heart and gave them tremendous love.  In that still space, like the sparkling night air after a heavy snowfall, even the slightest whispers of one’s heart are heard and received.  It is the most divine conversation I know.

Which makes me think, I heard the whispers of my past love’s heart, but he didn’t realize it, and he felt unheard, unseen, and unknown.  I wish I could tell him… I was conversing with you in quiet ways when you thought I wasn’t looking.  I saw into you more deeply than you realize.

Which makes me doubly wonder, in what ways might Jimmie hear and receive me better than I realize?  During our relationship, he strongly criticized me for taking risks and encouraged me to find some sort of employment and quick.  I ignored him and succeeded in earning my PhD.  I was suprised to learn that in recent weeks, he quit his job!  Eager to start his own company, he expounds on the beauty of risk, the brevity of life, and the desire to dream big.  Despite everything he said, I inspired him.