My Million-Dollar Donkey (30 page)

Meanwhile, I paid all my bills from the settlement, including the studio debt because Denver, now filled with anger, claimed she had done me a favor by taking over and the associated debt was mine to address. What I wanted most was to perhaps purchase a little home for myself as Mark had done, or take a vacation and meet an exciting new man, but instead I choose to buckle down and clean the slate. I was slowly reclaiming the dignity of respect that comes with making responsible choices, something I had long since lost and deeply needed. Life was joyless during this period, but not embarrassing.

Mark then announced that now, after years of making excuses about why he could not pause to attend to his bad hips, he would be using his new wife’s health insurance to get hip replacements. I felt circumstances were critical enough that we both had no choice but to dig in to support the kids and undo the damage our experiment had caused financially as well as emotionally. I understood more than anyone that his operation was long overdue, but his timing seemed one more act of aggression and a way to skirt taking responsibility for the mess he had created. If he had waited this long, might he not wait one more season and get the family stable first before turning his attentions and resources to his personal welfare yet again?

Mark’s surgery provided him an excuse to avoid work or responsibilities for eighteen months, during which time he could not pay his own bills much less contribute a single dollar to his children’s welfare. A few months later, he and his new wife bankrupted both their debt and all the escalating bills they’d built up excitedly pouring cash into their new home and attending to their health. For once, I wasn’t the one facing the calls and discomfort of angry creditors because of gratification spending—a small consolation. But still, Mark’s irresponsible decisions depressed me for reasons I couldn’t explain.

Later, when he finally recuperated and was fit to work, he announced he was going to devote his life to his own dreams and aspirations. He’d decided to become a full-time basket weaver for a living. As a self-proclaimed “artist” he would not be able to devote any of his resources to school tuition, clothes, or any of the typical expenditures that come with raising kids. His new wife, on the cusp of turning sixty, emptied her retirement savings to fund a craft shop so Mark could make baskets and brooms for a living. In a letter to the kids he explained he no longer believed in Christmas gifts, nor did he feel obligated to spend money raising them just because society claimed a man should. At long last he had a life partner who supported him and loved him for who he was, so he was going to focus on himself at this stage in life. He asked the kids to understand and joyfully support his right to do what he loved and to view his decision as an example of bravery.

Being once removed from the crisis
du jour
should have softened my sadness, but the grief I felt over Mark’s choices and the convenient way he rewrote our history clouded my brow and made me stare off into the distance, lost in thought, more often than not. Most painful was his proclaiming that he had finally found someone to love him for whom he was. Love was the motivation that made me willingly shelve my own artistic, dreamer traits to create a solid foundation for his to flourish for the last twenty years. He didn’t recognize it then, or now.

People said to me, “There but for the grace of God ...” as if to remind me that escaping that downward spiral was a cause for celebration. But as each month put more distance between us—not time and space, but the clarity that comes with removing yourself from patterns long enough to see them clearly—I couldn’t help but view the story of our past with raw honesty rather than through marital blinders. I had been infatuated with my husband’s good looks, his charisma, and his childlike humor. I’ve always been a helpless romantic, so no wonder I had created a storybook tale of two dynamic, creative people on a life journey that defied traditional paths and chose to dismiss any signs to the contrary. For years I justified my husband’s selfishness and the inequality between us out of blind loyalty, convincing myself I had married an
artiste
, which for some reason made him exempt from adult responsibilities or expectations.

When I told my best friend, someone who had witnessed all twenty years of my marriage, that Mark and I were getting a divorce, I expected her to be shocked. She shrugged and said she was sorry to hear the news, but not surprised.

“How can you not be surprised? I’m surprised. I never dreamed we could fall apart and things could get so ugly.”

“That’s because the problem with your marriage was obvious to everyone but you. Ginny loved Mark, and Mark loved Mark, but no one loved Ginny.”

Hearing the words spoken out loud was devastating.

From that point on, I mourned my marriage, not because of what I lost, but what I now understood I never really had. Most of all, I mourned my lost innocence. Some days, when my heart felt empty and family memories made me ache for happier times, I sorely wished I’d been just stupid enough to preserve my blind delusions until death did us part. That certainly would have been easier in some ways.

But “easy” has never been what I want from life. I want substance.

Months later, I sat at a Starbucks sipping a cup of coffee before heading in to work. My new business was painfully, slowly, but surely beginning to build and I felt the first stirrings of contentment that accompanies being engaged in authentic work. My future looked promising, at least in a meager way, and I felt secure because for the first time in twenty years I didn’t have to fear someone I loved exploiting or abusing my love or the resources I worked hard to establish. I was sending Kent money to help him get through college, and funding most of Neva’s needs. Denver had gotten engaged, and though she and I still were not speaking, I sent her what money I could scratch together to help with the wedding, deeply dismayed at the fact that my daughter had no choice but to fund a budget ceremony all on her own. I made every sacrifice I could to assure my kids didn’t feel destitute and vulnerable, all the time hiding my ever present fears of what was to become of us if I couldn’t keep up with the financial demands.

When I learned my mother in law had passed away, I sobbed for days over the fact that I wasn’t invited to the funeral. I also was not invited to the family celebration of my son’s graduation, nor were Christmas cards responded to from my former sister in law as twenty years of friendship was shelved. I received searing hate mail from Mark’s new wife, my former friend, and when I dared take exception to the rude correspondence, Mark claimed her offensive letter was “his proudest moment.” After twenty years of sharing a warm, intimate connection with the Hendrys, the ease with which I was dismissed and made to feel grossly unwelcome broke my heart.

As was often the case in a quiet moment, my mind slipped away to the world I so dearly missed. I imagined Donkey chewing slowly on a carrot as I ran my hand along his back, my children laughing as they picked blueberries and watching the antics of our dogs. I remembered the rumbling sound of Mark’s tractor in the field as he plowed over daffodils and tree trunks and how handsome and romantic I thought he was when covered in sweat and sawdust. I wondered where his orange hard hat was now, and if this too had gone the way of all the other personal items that held such meaning for me, items I had witnessed him insensitively selling on Craigslist, in garage sales, and at the local thrift stores without my approval. I wondered about Denver, if she was happy and healthy. I pined to be a part of her life and worried that her anger towards me would leave lasting damage on us both. I thought of my sister-in-law every single day, deeply concerned about how she was handling the loss of her mother, and feeling badly that the divorce would rob her of holiday traditions and family activities we had all come to know and love. I was feeling sad, missing my children, drowning in that familiar ache of motherhood-interrupted, a sadness I seemed to carry with me all the time now.

I had long since come to the conclusion that the five years I spent in the country had been a mistake, the great millstone of my life, an unworthy and unproductive garden. I, the formidable woman whom everyone considered so accomplished, talented, intelligent, and caring, had failed. I’d worked diligently, made a fortune, given heart and soul to my family, and yet ended up with nothing whatsoever to show for my life. I wasn’t missing the money. I was missing the things that count most—the love and respect of my children and the family closeness. I missed being in love with a man whom I blindly assumed cared just as much for me in return. I even missed Mark’s endless issues because they were all associated to my purpose. Without a self-inflicted crisis to troubleshoot, I didn’t know what I was meant to do each day. I missed being the unrecognized factor that kept our family functioning, because I understood the importance of my sacrifices even if no one else did.

A daily mantra ran through my head
. If only I’d never moved. Never taken a risk. Never trusted Mark to take the reins of our life. Never dared pursue a life that put his devotion to family to the test.

My meanderings were interrupted by the trill of my cell phone announcing a text. I put my coffee cup on the table to grab the phone, hoping to discover a message from one of my kids, but this message came from a number I didn’t recognize. I put on my glasses to read the text.

Hey Ginny, I just got a new phone and they are showing me how to use it. Guess what? I can text now, thanks to you. I wanted you to be the first to see. Thank you. Thank you. I miss you. I love you. You are the best friend I ever had. Kathy.

Kathy was still reading! She was
texting!
And she was texting me. I glanced around at the well-dressed Floridians milling about, people reading the paper, working on a laptop or playing with their cellphones, and was hit with the realization that in a town far away lived one woman who understood something as commonplace as reading and texting was, in truth, an amazing gift. Because of Kathy and all I had endured, I understood the miracle of life’s simple gifts, too.

I wanted to whoop right out loud. I placed the phone on the table so the message would stay illuminated, unwilling to let the words fade to black on my phone or in my mind.

Was moving truly a mistake? Can I honestly say I didn’t have anything to show for my life just because I loved a man blindly and grabbed at a brass ring and missed?

I kept Kathy’s message on my phone for many months, the inspiration I needed to live again. The origami project of my life had come unfolded, and the time had come to take that flat, overworked piece of paper and begin folding in the edges to create new angles and creases until something beautiful and interesting took shape once again. I needed to stop crying and start creating with the seasoned fingers of an artist who understands that starting from scratch reveals infinite possibilities.

So I set to the work of reinventing my life again: older, wiser, and armed with the lessons of the birds, the bees, and a million dollar donkey to guide the way.

From Thoreau’s Journal: 22-Jan-1852

“I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one... But why I changed? Why I left the woods? I do not think that I can tell. I have often wished myself back. I do not know any better how I ever came to go there. About 2 o’clock in the afternoon the world’s axle creaked as if it needed greasing, as if the oxen labored with the wain and could hardly get their load over the ridge of the day. Perhaps if I lived there much longer, I might live there forever. One would think twice before he accepted heaven on such terms.”

So what did I do after the season of my life with Mark passed, other than suffer for a long, long time that unexplainable phantom pain that lingers after an infected limb is amputated to save a life?

I planted a new garden. Literally.

Six years later, I live on 7 beautiful acres and run a holistic yoga retreat center. I work harder than ever, but have been rewarded with a business that is successful, monetarily, as well as in regard to personal fulfillment and contribution to the community. My relationships with my children, parents and friends has not only healed over time, but grown stronger than ever before. Kathy and I communicate regularly over Facebook.

I visit my eldest daughter, still in Blue Ridge, from time to time. The town finally passed the liquor law and, as codes loosened, a Starbucks and several other franchises moved in, filling the town with so much traffic and tourist friendly attractions that Blue Ridge today barely resembles the scene of this story. Timing is everything, I suppose, because I’m quite sure the new improved Blue Ridge is not a place I’d choose for my grand life reinvention, had I a chance to do it all again.

The first few years of my recovery I worked diligently to grow my business while living in a small apartment that looked over a concrete parking lot. My longing for deeper connections, nature and space was almost unbearable, and while I was left with some deeply negative associations to country living, I didn’t hesitate when the opportunity to move back to a more rural environment presented itself. I now dabble with hobby farming on a smaller level, enjoying the pleasures of canning, winemaking, animal husbandry, and nature crafts for pleasure, rather than combating with the natural world as my lifestyle model.

The first thing I did on my 7 acres was plant a large Chakra meditation garden. I took great joy in putting whatever color or type of plant I wanted in any place that suited my whim. Each day, before attending to life’s endless tasks and responsibilities, I pull a few weeds, prune, plant new flowers, and pause to see what needs to be nurtured to keep the garden thriving. Afterwards, I wander amongst the plants with a cup of coffee to savor the poignancy of nature’s remarkable ability to renew itself in the constant cycle of death and rebirth.

Everything I loved and lost has come back to me in a natural restructuring of life. The lessons gained from my adventure, however hard, fuel my happiness today. Even so, I still miss my donkey.