On the starry summer nights of my childhood, I loved running, jumping and catching lightning bugs between my cupped hands—then peeking through the dark hole formed by my thumbs to watch them illumine a bright neon yellow while softy tickling my skin with their itty-bitty feet. In fact, each time I held one, the sensation tingled through my arms and into my heart, activating a reflex to loosen my grip and release the fragile critter back into the night.
My love affair with lightning bugs continued for some time and so I dreamed of ways to actually keep one of these beloved creatures as a pet. Then one day, I asked my mother if I could have one of her empty tomato sauce jars, to which I punctured holes in its golden twist-on lid. Immediately after sunset, I dashed out into the backyard and captured the first specimen in sight, delicately leading him into my jar before sealing it.
I set the jar upon the patio table and watched the bug fly around in it for several minutes, enjoying my private light show I’d so cleverly created. I even named my new pet “Tomato.” Yet it was not long before my mother found me and asked about what I’d just done. From our short discussion, I came to understand that if I loved Tomato, I’d have to set him free, and after mindful consideration, I then did so joyfully.
Now, fast-forward twenty-five years to this moment, as this childhood lesson is rushing back to me in a flash of insight. Only this time, it’s not about my relationship with insects, but rather with human beings—men to be precise. Reflecting on my last three romances, I finally recognize how I unconsciously treated these dear beings just like Tomato by attempting to encase them in my idyllic romantic construct, a glass jar I’d been spinning for so long, I simply could not see it anymore.
Ahh, my first “real adult” relationship: a marriage that could not have started off more “storybook” if Hans Christian Andersen had written it himself. Immediately after my college graduation, a stunning twenty-one-year-old from Switzerland willingly landed in my glass jar, which I sealed with an eloquent marriage ceremony. We lived within my jar comfortably for about one year until expectations built to a crescendo of such intensity that we began escaping through the tiny breathing holes—him to other women, and me to the office, the therapist and the gym in desperate attempts to keep myself attractive to him. After three more years feeling devoid of love, I unscrewed the lid and crept out, though he remained inside for several more months, attempting to lure me back in with promises that “things will be different” if I’d only give him another chance. I didn’t believe it, and so abandoned the relationship via a speedy divorce. Still, I was not free of attachment to my idea of “the perfect romance” and so the image of my fantasy drew me right back into the jar.
The second man I invited in was older, with the promise of more worldly experiences under his belt. This sharp-talking Wall Street gent entered my jar for the equivalent of one date, at which point I was convinced I wanted only this man in my jar forever. So skilled was he at flattering me in all the right ways, yet he made it clear that he didn’t share my definition of romance and in so doing, shattered my jar before taking off. Still, I didn’t believe him, assuming everybody, somewhere deep down inside them, wanted the same brand of love and romance I did. For nine months, I rationalized that he just feared commitment, that he didn’t know what he wanted, yada yada—and I believed that somehow I could learn him about “love” by gluing back together the glass jar he’d destroyed. This because he occasionally appeared at the scene of the shards and distracted me from my misery with talk of sex. So I kept on fumbling in my pile of broken glass for months until—aha!—I discovered the only way out of this mess: to invite another man in.
This third effort proved a charm! My new relationship instantaneously “fit” into the glass jar of my dreams—perhaps because at this point, I’d become crystal clear about what I didn’t want in my jar. My partner and I lived so happily inside the jar that we explored every cubic millimeter of it together. When not holding hands like children, we were lifting each other up on our shoulders to new horizons and heights. We got our fingerprints everywhere while crawling and climbing up the sides, lovingly catching each other when we slipped and slid together along the periphery. Then one day, we shined the glass from inside and clearly saw through it. Just to be sure, we peeked out the air holes and realized there was no more reason to contain our love within the jar—because the jar had served its purpose and it was time for us to spread our wings and fly out.
Although I had the urge to fly, I felt so afraid—I didn’t want to leave this perfect jar, yet I was overcome by the beauty of this man as he morphed before my eyes into a free being. He flew out first, leaving me with no choice but to allow the pain of a newly broken attachment to just be there inside me until I finally found the inner strength to let go of it too. I cried for days, comforted only by the divine wisdom of Tomato the Lightning Bug and my mother’s words: “If you love him, set him free.” In reality, I recognize that none of these men were ever “mine” to set free. Yet in choosing to see them as free and flying off toward their destinies, I now find myself free to do the same—no longer suffering in a glass jar of romantic attachment wherein my love can no longer be contained. Oh, and um … he did come back!