Laura's Letter to Ron
January 6, 2008

I can’t believe it – my friend died, passed from this life into somewhere I don’t know. Some sort of oneness I believe. His name was Ron. We called him Ronnie. He was a sweetheart. Never would do anyone wrong. He always did me right. He treated me better than any other man outside of my family ever did. He loved me. Even after we broke up, he loved me. We were friends. He would call on me. To share. To invite me to do things with him. He took me sailing after he first got his master sailing certificate. He trusted me to take the helm. I almost made us sail into the rocks beneath the Golden Gate. He’d check on me periodically. To hear about my latest adventure, my progress toward my dreams. He’d share his latest reflections. He was always encouraging. He just knew my ideas would work, that I could do it. He told me I skied gracefully. That he loved to watch me. He believed in me. I believed in him. I still do. I know that he is pure energy now. No holding back. Going for it without limitations. He was just like that. That was his gift. Seeing the positive, turning his back to the negative. He was funny. He’d make me laugh. During our first date in a sudden, uncontrollable fit of laughter, out of my mouth burst a spray of sake sprinkling over our assorted sushi plate.

Noting our series of uproars, a woman down the sushi bar leaned over and actually said, “I’ll have what she’s having” – I swear.

Then there was that moment driving to Tahoe when I realized he was different. He was talking about his dreams; he recognized the dream in me. And then the moment I fell in love with him. I was sitting across the table on our second date, doing as I always did at that time- watching for a divine sign. I looked into his eyes and I believed that I saw it. That look was it for me- I knew we’d fall in love. It felt perfect sitting at the candlelit table by the window looking out over the smooth, glowing, snow covered riverbank. The River Ranch was his home away from home. Later, we ventured into the frozen night, awestruck in the silent beauty of the High Sierras. Under the pitch black sky we embraced until our cheeks and fingers chilled to a bright red. I pushed him off the stone ledge, toppling down, landing on top of him like pancakes in the deep snow. That was the moment, I believe, when he fell in love with me. We later called it magical. When I got back to my hotel room I did a spread eagle onto the bed, sighing, “oh my god, I’ve found Him.” I slept so well that night. We were both suckers for fantasy; we shared our belief in fairytales. It didn’t last but it was among the truest of love while it was.  About the time we were breaking up, one day when I was taking the train to Stanford, I gazed out the window and I had the thought, “the one thing in life I’ve most hoped to experience was true love. Now, with Ron, I’ve had that. Even though it didn’t last, I’ve had that experience. The rest is now extra.” Now I know that true love is accessible not only in romance, but in connection with others as friends, as family.

The last time I spoke to him we proudly reflected on where we started and where we are now. I told him that I am so impressed by our relationship. That I think we are pretty amazing. That we’ve actually been able to develop a real friendship after the romance. I recalled how it all started. How I decided to take a chance accepting an invitation to go with a stranger to the mountains after just one date. I figured, well, at the least it would be a fun ski weekend with a funny guy and his friend. I knew there would be lots of fun and laughter. I reasoned that he seemed genuinely nice, so I went for it. And then look what happened. And look at us now. I’m so glad we had that conversation.  We often expressed our appreciation for each other and mutual respect. We encouraged each other’s quest for love and happiness from the unique understanding that we had of the other.

He was 100% positive. All good. He always made others feel good. It was one of his strongest gifts. He had so much joy. Dearest Ronnie, I hope you also felt that the rest was just more. Extra. That you were satisfied.

I think in just the last 6 months or so, when you were having all those realizations, that you did feel that you had arrived.

That more would be better, but that you had a good part of it. I am proud of you. You achieved goodness. I am honored to have you as my friend. And to have shared companionship in this journey of life. That doesn’t end. But now I will carry on with you by my side, by my inside, rather than across the pond, on the other end of the phone line or sitting next to me on the ski lift. Now I will ski in tribute for you. Black diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Back on Match.com I couldn’t have known how much that would catch your attention. You are my black diamond. Cherished. You challenged my growth as we explored connection, compromise, and determination.

Shared passions led us to swim under hidden waterfalls and to drop off steep, snowy cornices. You cheered me on. We explored love as lovers and love as friends. Now I will explore love as memory.

Your presence has become a part of me. And it is something I value. You have helped me. You are so meaningful to me. On your birthday, I’ll stay in that room and I’ll hike to a very high cornice. I will ski down it like you taught me to do. I will ski with you in parallel tracks. Flying on my One Luv’s you gave me, warmed by that jacket, the one you bought me because you thought I looked so pretty in it. It is a tangible manifestation of your many gifts that warm me.  Your encouragement, generosity, and lovingkindness live in me still. You introduced me to lovingkindness – I didn’t have a word for it before. From there I started putting together my course on the skills of happiness. You prompted my realization that I absolutely – urgently needed to learn how to accept. And to get it right this time. Nearly three years later I am learning more deeply about the divinity in letting go.

There are so many ways that you helped me grow as a person. And these things are part of me now. It’s like how you introduced me to The Dalai Lama and then provided me and my mother tickets to hear him speak. Now this knowledge is part of my daily vocabulary and understanding of life. Oh, the gifts you gave me are endless. You showed me the joy of shelling pistachios until the tender morsels filled my hand and then gently sticking them all at once into another’s mouth, eyes closed, to enjoy the salty, sweet nuttiness in a long chewing experience of pistachio bliss.  You helped me learn acceptance, to jump through that ring of fire of judgment, embarrassment, and nonacceptance. I poured out all my darkest secrets that day as we sat at your kitchen table. I felt such shame and then, to my amazement, relief. You still respected me. I was afraid you would reject me if you knew my insides. Instead, you embraced me. Now it seems silly that I could be so afraid. I was just telling the story of being human. You helped me accept my self. You helped me release.

Even after you saw me in pitiful rages. Completely losing composure, acting ridiculous like a terrible toddler in a tantrum. So unattractive, so unladylike, lost in my own fear and flailing in my mind’s distorted certainty of reality.  Even after all that, you forgave me. Not only that, but you still admired me.

Cherished me. Accepted me. Thank you. That is amazing grace. You may not have ever had your own children, not taken those vows with a wife, but those are just some of the many wonderful experiences in life. What is most important is that you did life well. You were all good. You attained goodness. You lived it. I am honored to have been part of your life. You continue to be a part of mine.  Now this world released you. To glide through the powdery white goodness, to sail freely without the friction of the earth. Baba would be proud.