Can ancient history teach us anything worth learning? Of course it can. We all know from personal experience that getting some time between you and your past will give you a fresh perspective on the meanings and motives behind the events and the people you encountered in days gone by. Really ancient history teaches us that however much times may change, the business of being human remains essentially the same.
So let me reveal to you a little bit of my own personal ancient history. I'd like to tell you about the very first time I got my heart broken. The young lady I fell for was named Patsy. Patsy Beam, I think. Or maybe it was Beem. I can't say; I can't recall the right way to spell Patsy's last name because we fell in love when we were in First Grade at Lovett Elementary, a public school on Chicago's far west side. The year? 1947.
It was the same year that the UFO crashed in Roswell. And the same year they formed the CIA. But those are a couple of other stories. Or are they?
Whatever. Patsy was an adorable little blond who took a fancy to me at the same time I fell for her in her little blue cap and jacket. I can't recall how things got started. But I do remember the climax: we attended different classrooms but would meet at every recess. Finally we found our way into a cleft in the school's walls that faced into the playground. There we stood in the shadows at the back of that cleft, and we hugged each other. We even talked about kissing, but neither of us felt like we were ready for that, so we didn't. And never did.
Just as well. Before the end of the school year, Patsy gave me a copy of a black and white photo of her in her jacket and cap. I kept it in my back pocket and carried it everywhere. By the time my summer vacation had half passed me by with no chance to meet Patsy, I wandered back to the playground and pulled out her picture. As I stared at it and tried to remember how she had felt in my arms, the photo dropped out of my fingers. A small gust of wind blew it into a well dug around the outside of a basement window set into the school's wall. Unfortunately for me, the well was deeper than my arms, and was protected from vandals by series of parallel iron bars embedded into the concrete. I couldn't reach it to recover it. My only consolation was that her photo had landed face up.
In the course of the rest of that summer, I went back to stare down into the window well. Summer rains and sunshine gradually caused the photo's image to fade. And that fall, my parents announced that they were sending me to a different, Catholic school where the nuns were more rigorous instructors. So I never saw Patsy again.
As silly as it may sound to you, I can remember thinking again about Patsy for years, even up to the time I was about to enter high school. I would wonder about what ever became of her, how she looked growing up, how she had physically changed at the same rate that I had. My pain at losing the chance to even say a final goodbye to Patsy faded within a few weeks into longing, which faded over months into loneliness, which finally gave way over the years to other distractions and finally passed into forgetfulness as other romances and heartaches took the place that Patsy had first introduced me to.
Just like Patsy's photo had changed into a bleached, barely clear image, my feelings for her finally faded to just a faint set of memories. Now, six decades later, struggle as I might, I can't for the life of me recall anything about Patsy, her appearance, features, or comments she'd made to me other than what I've told you about here. So, my most important lesson for you that's drawn from my own ancient history is simple: time heals. It even transmutes feelings. Now, instead of longing, I look back on my experiences with Patsy with a fondness and happy sense of simpler times.
But I still have retained some curiosity about her. No longings for closure remain. I'm not about to turn into a Facebook-based stalker. I'm totally happy to have found my soulmate for life. But if you should happen to know Patsy, please: give her my best, if for no other reason than a warm sentimentality. I think that's how all of our ancient but unhappy love affairs really should finally end.
Yours truly: Old Man Mike Riley
A dozen years ago, I wrote a book on recovering from lost loves. Two years later, the publishing giant Random House issued a new version, titled How to Heal a Broken Heart in 30 Days. Ever since then, this edition has stayed near the top of the sales rankings for books of its kind. Over one hundred thousand readers have used its counsel, in any of seven different language translations. Its persistent popularity led one Random House editor to call it "a minor classic." Now I want to share my newest insights and ideas, as well as your own ideas, in articles posted at my blogsite at rx4heartache.com.
Providing quality reviews, articles and writings on love, dating, relationships and marriage online.
Source: http://matchmakingforbloomers.blogspot.com/2012/08/heartache-archeology.html
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