You Are My Sunshine...

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come. ~Lord Byron



It started with Ed. My quest to listen, to watch for signs, to find…my soul mate.


I stood at the coffee counter in the customer service area of my office. I heard a voice behind me. The beautiful husky tone, the charming Latino accent. I knew that voice intimately. And why not? I invented it. It was the voice I’d imagined my fictional Italian hero, Salvatore, to have.


Slowly I turned toward the voice and there he stood. Salvatore, in the flesh. Gorgeous. Well over six feet, dark-skinned, dark-haired, well built. He wore glasses, which shot my libido into orbit.


In a move completely out of nature for me, I forced myself to speak to…Salvatore, whose name turned out to be Ed. Not much. Just a casual how are you doing? Fine, thanks.


I was in love.


It was a sign. I mean, after all, Salvatore is my quintessential Latino man—not particularly handsome as handsome goes, but gorgeous in his virility. One hundred percent M.A.N. Glasses, accent, coloring, voice, build. Made to order. The man of my dreams. Ed was my soul mate, I was sure.


Ed and I, over the course of time, began to talk on the phone. Long, wonderful, sensual, conversations. Seems he was Puerto Rican, a perfect romantic, every woman’s dream of spicy teasing, the promise of tender lovemaking, the anticipation of being adored in those deep brown eyes. It had all been so magical, I was sure it was meant to be. I was madly in love.


Just like Mrs. Ed. Yes, alas, there was a wife Ed neglected to mention.


To hell with soul mates, then. What a bunch of crock.


No more listening to my inner self, no more tuning my senses, no more opening myself up to finding my ‘mate’—as they do in the shape shifter books.


If only it could BE so convenient. Why, hell, if I’d only been a shape shifter, I would have immediately known Ed was not my soul mate. I’d have realized, by his scent if nothing else, that he was indeed not my destined partner for life.


I’ve encountered a few more soul mates since Ed. And with every case of ‘mistaken soul mate identity’, I find myself less and less hopeful of finding ‘him’.


With every wrong choice—which always began as the perfect choice—I felt more convinced such a thing did not exist. Such perfect mating, perfect love was just fiction. Only happens in the romances. Those damn shape shifter, vampire folks who smell chocolate chip cookies in the air and home in on their life mates. Give me a break. As if.


You want to know something? It sort of hurts. It’s an ache. This unfulfilled quest. This curse of writing romance but not being able to live it.


But.


Yes, there’s a but. And it’s a beautiful pause in my reign as the self-proclaimed Queen of Pity.


The other day, I browsed Facebook and stumbled on the page of a fellow author, Rick Reed. It was Rick’s birthday. One post on his wall jumped out at me.



It was a birthday post from Rick’s partner, Bruce. It was so simple, so sweet—a photo of Rick and their dog, Lily. I don’t remember the exact wordage of the little birthday wish, but I DO remember, with sunshine bright clarity, that, along with the wish, it said, ‘To Rick and Lily. They are my sunshine.’


That little bitty sentiment made me cry when I saw it. For one thing, because I could very well see how Rick—who seems to be a genuinely sweet man—could be the sunshine of someone’s life.


But the main reason it touched me? Because, all the sudden, from that simple but hugely eloquent little statement, came the realization to me that maybe it’s not all about mating, of throwing out your vibes into the unknown of the Universe in hopes of crossing paths with a mate of my soul.


Maybe, just maybe, it’s about just plain ol’ walking right into the sunshine of another person, of being their sunshine, of making them smile, making their life a beautiful place in the sun—just by being there.


I knew, then, that my longing is not so much about marriage, the perfect man, me being the perfect woman for that perfect man. Not about romantic Latino men, gorgeous Italians, perfect bodies. Not even about soul mates.


But it’s about being the smile in another person’s life, whether it’s your spouse, your lover, whether it’s opposite sex or same sex. Being a warm, comfortable body to melt into when you wake from a bad dream. To hold you tight when thunder and lightning scare you. Having that hot cup of coffee ready when you come home from a long day at work. That person who will sit beside you while you take a bath and let you gripe about your day. The person who shares the remote. The man or woman who lets you have time to yourself to write, who tolerates your cat, who will vacuum the floor or fill the dishwasher. The person who is allowed to see you without your makeup. Who you’re not embarrassed to brush your teeth in front of.


Maybe I’ve overcomplicated this process of finding the love of my life.


Robert Frost said, Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.


That is very simple. No body scents to have to recognize, nothing fancy.


Tim Robbins said, We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.


And he’s right, I guess. If love is truly like Rick and Bruce and Lily, then all one has to do is be their own sunshine, make their own sun. Fresh-squeezed, beautiful, yellow and bright sunshine.


If it’s meant to be, the love of our lives will walk into that sun, and we will become each other’s sunshine. If it’s not meant to be? Shine on anyway. Sun is good.


You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’ take my sunshine away.