The world changes in an instant

“Will you tell our story?” she asks me.

“Sure,” I say. And I start to write it. It’s February 2. I write it and rewrite it and rewrite it.

And on February 3, I abandon it.

It sits in my blog drafts for months.

Finally, on September 15th, I’m writing her an email—as I’ve done a couple of times before and been doing every day since August 22—and I’m reminded of this blog post.

You wanted me to tell our story. And so I will.

I write in the email.

“Thank you,” she says.

“I love you,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “Finish the blog post.”

How we met

We met when we were in elementary school, I wrote. I fell in love with you the minute I saw you, I continued. You were the first girl I ever kissed. You were the first I ever…

“That’s not the way it happened,” she says. “We didn’t know each other until after college…”

“You tell it your way, and I’ll tell it mine,” I say.

“You forget that I have no way to tell it right now except through you,” she says.

“You have our daughters,” I say.

“They’re busy,” she says. “And you know this is your job. And you know you are procrastinating.”

As usual, you were right.

How we met: take 2

The universe, as we know it, began 13.75 billion years ago. About 9.35 billion years later, planet Earth was formed. About 500 million years later, life appeared. Evolution took about 4.1 billion more years to produce the two of us, and here we are. Or were. Or are.

“How did we ever find one another?” She asks.

About a year ago, we started asking each other that question regularly. We’d sit on the back porch and remember our lives together and how good we’d been for each other.

Out of all the billions of people who live and have lived, you found me, and I found you.

And here is how it happened in this universe. Scientology. Liz Ausley.

I was working at my first job out of college when a friend I’d made—a guy named Ed Anderson—told me about Scientology. He’d come across it while he was in college, and he’d taken an extended course one summer in Washington. Before he started the course, they’d given him an IQ test. After the course, another one. His IQ had increased substantially.

“Sure,” I said. “They gave you the test and reported the results. How do you know your IQ had really gone up? Maybe they manipulated the test.”

“I thought that was possible,” Ed answered. “But I’m sure it was real. I’d always been a good student, but I was a grind. I had to work hard to get my grades. After that summer, school was effortless. I didn’t need to study. I just got stuff. It wasn’t a matter of just feeling good. I was smarter.”

Being smarter sounded good to me.

I’d gotten my degree from MIT in three and a half years, made Dean’s List without too much studying. I was smart and lazy and the idea of taking a course that made me smarter was appealing.

I went into the Scientology organization in New York, poked around, read some books, talked to some people, and finally took my first course—the Scientology Communications Course. It blew me away. I thought the course's construction was brilliant, and the results were astounding.

Communication is fundamental. Everyone knows that. But the course taught me the most fundamental part of communication—the basic skill you need to develop to improve your communication: it’s just being there. If you’re not there you can’t communicate.

Well, you can—sort of. But the more present you are, the more effective you are at initiating communication and the better you are at listening—because listening is part of communication, too.

In the course’s first exercise, you practice being there and doing nothing. You face another person, just look at them, and do nothing. It’s harder than you might think.

Then you practice being there even if the other person is doing things to make you react.

Then, you practice communicating and notice if you are over-communicating—too loud—or under-communicating—not enough energy to get the message across.

Then you’re taught acknowledgment—letting the other person know you’ve received their communication and ending that cycle of communication. And half-acknowledgement—letting them know you’ve received the communication and encouraging them to continue.

The skills build from there. Very simple stuff and surprisingly effective.

At work, I found people responding to ideas I’d proposed dozens of times before as if they’d never heard me—and they hadn’t. I hadn’t been present or had undercommunicated.

On the streets of New York I found myself communicating with strangers. I’d always been hesitant starting a conversation and now I found it easy. And people communicated back to me.

So, I ended up quitting my well-paid job and going to work in the Scientology organization full-time for practically nothing.

I decided to study to be a professional Scientology Auditor and the place to do that was at the World Headquarters of Scientology in East Grinstead, England.

“Where you met me,” she says.

“Where I met you,” I answered.

She’s written the longer story elsewhere. I’ll tell the short version.

She was friends with Liz Ausley, whom she’d met at Goucher College. She was in Greece with her friend Nina when she got a letter from Liz. She told you that she’d found the truth and the light in Scientology and told you to get over there. You took off and went to East Grinstead to rescue her, and you ended up having some experiences that blew you away, too. You went back to the US, got some money, came back to England and took the fast route up the “Bridge”to reach the state of “Clear.”

“You had attested to the state of Clear the day I met you,” I tell her. “You were Clear 669.”

“Clear 669?” She asks. “How do you remember that?”

“I remember all kinds of things,” I answer.

(But just to be sure, I did a little Internet research and found Issue 33 of “The Auditor” which confirmed my recollection.)

“I remember the moment I first saw you,” I tell her.

I had been taking courses at the London Scientology Org and staying in Tunbridge Wells with friends from Scientology New York, John and Rosalinda Mustard. John and Roz had met Liz Ausley and thought she and I might hit it off. They drove me to a party at Cooper’s Wood, a house where a bunch of Scientologists, including you and Liz, rented rooms.

I saw her before I saw Liz. She was sitting in a chair, wearing an olive-green turtleneck, a miniskirt, and the calf-length boots she’d bought in Crete. I see the turtleneck in my memory imagine. The rest I remember from other times. I see her long hair, flawless skin, and beautiful eyes. Liz has no chance.

She has even less chance after I meet her. I guess she’s smart and lively enough, but her habit of pulling her false front teeth out of her mouth is—offputting?

As soon as I can politely disengage, I go over to talk with her.

“I remember that the two of us ended up in the kitchen together,” I tell her. “I think we were cleaning up or putting out food for the others at the party. Being of service was the idea, but I don’t remember the details. And talking.”

“And we made love,” she says.

“Not that night,” I tell her. “I’m not that easy.”

“Tell them what happened next,” she says.

“Another time,” I say. “We’ve got plenty of time to tell all our stories.”

“We do,” she says—and sighs.

"Of all the people in the world,” I say.

“Of all the people in the world,” she says.

We smile.

“OK, hon,” I say. “Let me find an image.”

I give ChattyG the text of this post and ask it to create an image. Meh.

I look for images of her. And find one that I like.

“OK, sweetheart, I’m done.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Publish it. Finish the email to me. Then let’s take a walk.”