Enough Is Enough

I sat next to him in the balcony of a London theater to watch Long Day’s Journey Into Night. He tilted his head and looked at me sideways. “You’re from the United States?” His British accent made me swoon. “It’s nice to sit by someone who also came alone,” he said. “My wife and I came to all the plays.” His eyes focused on the past. “We always came. Right up to the end.”

I wanted to hold his hand.

At intermission, he turned to me. “Can I treat you to a snack?” Together in the theater lobby we ate gummy ice cream out of little pasteboard cups with little pasteboard spoons.

“Do you love someone?” he asked.

What to say? “I recently left my husband. We loved each other, but…”

“Ah.” He licked the melted ice cream from his spoon, then held out his elbow and together we walked back to our seats. As the theater went dark and the curtain rose, he gently held my hand.

When the play was over he asked, “Can I escort you to your train?” We walked several blocks and chatted about the play. When we arrived at the station, he pulled me close and kissed me on the cheek. “Good-bye. What an unexpectedly delightful evening.” Then he turned and walked on to wherever he was going and I cried as I watched him leave.

The next morning, when I told my traveling companion about this magical evening, about my three hours of pleasure letting myself fall madly in love with a man forty years older than me, she blurted out, “Did you get his number?”

No. I didn’t. I didn’t want to squeeze one more ounce of glory out of that perfect evening, to bend it into a different shape. Those three hours were a confection that I remember distinctly even now, twenty years later. I cherish that evening just as it was, with no desire for it to be more. I wanted to relish the perfection of the moment. Holding his papery hand was the pleasure. Anticipating holding it again was not.

This is the discernment I want to cultivate: to know when I’m turning a gorgeous moment in time into a craving, grabbing it to wring dry.

What if I lived as if each moment were enough? This sunset is enough. This taste of salt on my tongue is enough. Sharing this cinnamon roll with my father while we talk about how early the snow came this year is enough. There’s beauty in it all just as it is. I don’t need more. If I slow down to take in what’s happening now, what breeze is on my face now, what warmth my mittens bring now, what pleasure a conversation about nothing is now, I will find myself drowning in the abundance of my life, not needing one thing more.

And when I enter an experience that is larger than myself, one that has its own shape and invites exploration, that wants to grow into a larger fullness, I want to recognize that, too, and follow where it leads.

No. I didn’t get that lovely man’s number. What we had was enough. It was everything.