The Poet

May 08, 2022

I am on a zoom call with my Scottish friend, May. I’m giving her an update about the Turkish man, who was due to arrive tomorrow, but has bailed.

I tell her so.

“Are you 100% sure?” she asks.

“Well, no. But I sent him a video yesterday, and he didn’t respond until this morning.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘good morning.’”

“The bloody nerve!” she laughs.

I show her the video, which I’d taken on a boat trip I’d been on with friends. It was a 360 showing of the scenery and the people I was with, starting and ending with my face. I wasn’t wearing makeup, my hair was flying in all directions, and the sun lit up every wrinkle and line. I almost didn’t send it.

“But if he got scared off by the sight of what I actually look like, he’s not worth my time,” I explain.

“Are you sure that’s what actually happened?”

“Well, no.”

“Could it be possible that he’s just freaking out a bit, too?”

I met May in New Zealand, 8 years ago. I was in the beginning of my midlife crisis, of the leaving of my marriage, my life, my home. Anxiety attacks were happening weekly.

In a mad grasp for sanity, I’d decided to go live and volunteer at a Buddhist meditation retreat centre in the middle of nowhere. May was the office manager there, and one of the only two other people who would living on the several hundred acre property with me, with no phone reception, and the closest “town” an hour and a half drive away.

As soon as I booked the ticket, I knew I’d made a huge mistake.

And I was sure May was going to be a crusty old woman who would make me feel even more worthless than I already did. I cried for the entire flight over.

She picked me up at the airport. I was shocked to discover that she was around my age. She had a bounce in her step and said, “I just have to stop and pick up some beer and some face concealer on our way back to the centre.” We talked non-stop for the entire car ride back, and continued for the 6 weeks I spent at the centre. They were 6 of the best weeks of my life.

May is my people.

She’s coming to visit in July, and I can’t wait.

I explain to her now, on zoom, that the Turkish guy doesn’t seem the freaking out type.

“We’ve spoken or texted almost every day for the last three weeks,” I say. “I felt like he was trustworthy. I was so excited to meet him, until now.”

At which point a text from him comes through.

“Is everything okay?”

May leaps in and coaches me to write a kinder response than the WTF one I instinctively want to write. I explain that I’m weirded out that he didn’t respond, and that I’m nervous about meeting him tomorrow.

“Ask if he is, too,” May instructs. I press “send” through gritted teeth.

He responds right away. I read it out loud to May.

“Yesterday I had a 5-hour meeting that went until really late. I wanted to give you some space while you were with your friends. I’m so excited to meet you. I watched your video 8 times. Are you okay? Can you tell me what triggered this?”

“What triggered this?” she shrieks. “You’re meant for each other!”

I say a lot of swear words in a row.

“He sounds kind of amazing. What’s his name?”

I tell her.

“What does it mean?”

“No clue,” I say, picking up my phone, and tapping it into Google Translate.

I throw the phone across the bed.

“It means ‘poet’.”

The poet arrives the following day. We meet by the sea. I take him to the dock I sit at every morning with Django, and we do not stop talking for 7 hours. We go for dinner and then drive up to a lookout near my place, where we sit in the trunk of his jeep and talk and talk, until I just lunge across and kiss him.

This goes down well.

We spend most of the next day together too, eating breakfast with his brother, working across from each other at a cafe, meditating at the beach. And another long evening a couple of days after that. It’s like we’ve known each other for years, but at the same time are stunned to have met. I share stuff about my upbringing, my fears, my freak-outs. He’s a lot more vocal about how he feels about me than I am about him. I am okay with that, for now.

It feels like when you take a volatile chemical and pour another chemical over it, which neutralizes the whole thing.

His brother and he were already planning to drive back to Istanbul today, and since I’d planned to head back there this week, too, they offered me and Django a ride. I’m in the back of their car as I write this.

I don’t know what to think. This the last thing I was looking for. But after nights of sleep deprivation, my brain is made of marshmallows and my throat is on fire, and I’ve surrendered. We’re past the point of “I don’t want to get hurt”. I’ve jumped out of the plane. Because when you find your people, or people who could be your people, that’s what you have to do.