The Day I Didn’t Meet My Husband

Timing, they say, is everything… well, timing and maybe a few other things.

Back in ’96, while on a visit to a clothing-optional resort with my second husband, I was standing, chatting with him, at the far end of the resort’s very large dining room. Over by the doors that led to the dining room from the lodge stood one of the owners of the resort having a talk with a man whose back was turned to me.

At some point I must have glanced over because the owner — a woman — gave me a wave and called out to us to come over and meet this unidentified person. My body responded to her invitation as if she had just asked me if I’d like to meet Jack the Ripper. I literally cringed and drew back; I was just short of doing that thing they do in vampire movies, where you raise your arms, crossed, in front of you to ward off evil energy, just in case.

My then husband was about to make a move in their general direction when I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him, sputtering at me, out the back door.

Later in the day my husband learned that the man who had so put me off was building a house on land adjacent to the resort and that it was a very “interesting” house. He was crazed to get a look at it, so I finally gave in. It was just a house, after all, and we’d be observing — I presumed — from some distance.

So, we headed out, in the car, to see what we could see and, by the time we got about half-way up the short but steep hill on which the house was placed, I could see the house and, once again, had a very immediate and visceral response… this time, to the house; this response, though, was quite different from the reaction I’d had to its owner. Inside the confines of my mind, at a pretty decent volume and in a fairly demanding tone, I heard, “I deserve to live in a house like that.” That internal message was immediately followed by another: “If you did, you’d be living there.” And with that sage bit of advice from some level of myself, I shut down. I had, suddenly, no feelings about the house or the man. For whatever reason, I sort of surrendered to the moment… so much so that I have literally no memory of the rest of that day.

Thirteen years after the aforementioned happenings, by then single and on my own, the man who had so put me off and I met again. I was footloose and fancy free by then, back at the resort and on my own recognizance. On the second day of my visit, I met current husband. He’d asked me to dance; I turned him down… twice. Not because I was put off by him but because, as I informed him, I had come there to dance my independence, to celebrate being alone and free. His response to that statement was to invite me up to his house for coffee in the morning if I felt like it. He told me where he lived.

He seemed pleasant enough. The fact that I’d ever seen him before never registered.

The following day, on a whim and in the mood for a walk, I walked up the very same steep hill I’d driven up years before with my second husband to have morning coffee in the very house we’d gone to see. It took some effort to get this new person to hear me knocking as he was both partially deaf and working out on a device that generated quite a lot of noise, but I was really thirsty by then and eventually he heard my efforts and let me in. We made proper introductions and then spent hours talking. That was in late May; we married in December. What was — and had felt — so wrong 13 years before could not have felt any more right.

My now husband has told me that my second husband and I did, in fact, visit the house, and that he had shown us around even though much of it was still under construction. I have no memory whatsoever of that ever having happened. None. My memory of the day I apparently visited the house I now reside in with my third husband ends with the ‘message’ I got while we were driving up the hill… that if I deserved to live in a house like that, I’d be living there… and now I am.

The woman I’d been well over a decade before was a hot mess, a hot mess in process of becoming better, but a mess nevertheless… still… something inside, at some core level I had no conscious access to, knew that I wasn’t ready for all the kindness, generosity, and goodness that the stranger with the house on the hill represented. I had a lot of personal work to do… a whole lot of work… but once I finally got right with myself, the timing was perfect. Timing can be perfect when the circumstances are as well.




Astrology-Informed Artist; Author of self-help books on healing with Ozark Mt. Publishers; survivor

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V Pendragon

V Pendragon

Astrology-Informed Artist; Author of self-help books on healing with Ozark Mt. Publishers; survivor

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