Ode to Practically Perfect and The Guest House

I had a meltdown last weekend,
and, during that time, I totally
believed that nothing good would
ever come to me again.

This life may be, as Rumi says, A Guest House,
but it's a guest house with lots of guests and only one bathroom;
where another guest (who got up earlier) has clogged up the toilet
and the shower is already cold.

It's a guest house with no clean towels left by the time you get there--
(You should have gotten up earlier!)
And you come back to your room to find your bags have been packed
for you.

And, here, you were almost beginning to get the hang of things,
And you wish you could just stay awhile longer, even if you had
to weather another good ol' meltdown.

Just last weekend, to me, my finest hours seemed
over; I just knew that anything good for me in this life was finished.
that I would never again hear love's sweet call,
never create anything at all,
never see the fruits of my lifelong labors.

How can it be that I am in my sixties,
and sometimes feeling Invisible if no Other exists,
for me.
And, then, of course it happened.
Just when I was ready to say: "Oh, take me, already: There is nothing
more here, for me, on this planet."

Just when I knew my life was over, my friend called:
She-knows-this-guy-she-thinks-is-Perfect-For-Me.
And I looked him up on a website: don'tgiveup.com.
Sure enough, he might be perfect. Or Perfect Enough.

So, we were supposed to meet at a coffee shop (where else?),
but the coffee shop was closed, so we met at the sportsbar next door.
I got there first and I ordered a glass of wine,
And then I looked up at the clock--11 in the morning!!

These meetings make me nervous, even if I don't really know if I'll like the guy.
I wondered if he thought I was a boozer, just because I forgot the time
and ordered a big glass of wine.
He didn't seem to notice though. "Coffee," he told the waitress with authority.

So we talked for a while and then took a walk and said we'd meet again.
And he writes. We've been writing e-mails ever since.
And I'd like to tell you that meeting Practically Perfect doesn't make any difference.
But, I'd be lying.Though, maybe it's the "rush" of new-love I'm looking for.

Somehow, a part of me believes I've been born to find the
Other Half of my soul (whether or not Pretty-Perfect is that).
That, in doing that, I will have fulfilled my earthly mission.
So, even the possibility that he (the guy my friend thinks will be Perfect) is Him,
is all I really need.

That, and that my sons are good.
You can take me then, Spirit.
Of course, that's just when I won't want to go anyplace.
Just stay right here, taking it all in.

Just give me this one-more-time, oh Spirit!
One more try at being and finding The Right One.
No more pretending that those ones who are wrong are right.
I think, if I could find that, I might never have a meltdown again.

Oh wait! If I were sick or couldn't write or lost somebody dear,
I would be in Meltdown again, would I not?
Even with Practically Perfect at my side, stroking my hair or holding my hand.

I had a meltdown last weekend,
and, during that time, I totally
believed that nothing good would
ever come to me again.

Yes, this life may be, as Rumi says, A Guest House,
but it's a guest house with lots of guests and only one bathroom,
where another guest has clogged up the toilet and the shower is cold.
It's a guest house with no clean towels left by the time you arrive.
(You knew you should have gotten up earlier!)
And you come back to your room to find your bags have been packed for you.

And, here, you were just beginning to get the hang of it all.
And you wish you could stay awhile longer, believing Mr.Perfect could unpack your
bags and put your things away, giving you a longer and so very much more enjoyable stay.
Or, maybe, you'd unpack your own bags and see in the mirror, that Mr.Perfect was actually
a part of you all the time.