Ten Lessons In Love

By Miles Olsen

Miles Olsen's pure, clear voice brings readers into a world where loss, loneliness, vulnerability and failure are not obstacles to love but are messengers of its unlimited wisdom.

An autobiographical story, Ten Lessons In Love looks with fearless intimacy at the beauty within the ordinary, sharing snapshots o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Natural light
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781777465247

Book preview

Ten lessons in love

Miles Olsen

Copyright © 2023 Miles Olsen

All rights reserved

The events and conversations in this book have been set down to the best of the author’s ability, although some names and details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7774652-4-7

One

A week before Kevin died, we had a conversation I will never forget. He had been in a bleak place for months leading up to this moment, and after years of struggle and isolation, something in him seemed to have broken.

When I get through this, Miles, he said, I need to change my life. I need people. I'm too alone, and it's killing me. I'm not sure how to go about it, but I've removed myself from humanity for too long. It's been a mistake - a huge mistake. I took my isolation too far, and I regret it.

His words had a heaviness and remorse that were uncharacteristic of him. Something had happened that humbled his usually unapologetic, defiant personality. His fragility as a lone man had become terrifyingly clear - he realized he needed something more than himself. He realized that without connection, without actively stepping into the river of humanity, he was a tree torn out of the earth, uprooted and cut off from his source of life.

I don't know how to go about it, he continued. Maybe I have to get a random job that connects me to lots of people? I have no idea what to do, and it honestly terrifies me. But something absolutely must change. Please, do not let me forget this.

But before that change could happen, Kevin was gone. He chose to end his story and took his life before the next chapter could begin. 

In the aftermath of his death, my world felt like a bomb had gone off in it. I stumbled in shock and confusion through the wasteland left in the wake of an enormous loss. I felt crushed by a world of grief, pounded by waves of confusion, guilt, and sadness that I could not anticipate, reason with, or ignore. It was like reality broke, the heartbeat of life skipped, and someone fundamental was gone. Nothing about it made sense, and all I knew to do was take time to feel everything, talk with a friend on the phone when I could, read books, and go for walks. It felt like life would never be okay again - the grief seemed like it would go on forever. 

In this state, I had no interest in the trivial pleasures or worries that usually occupied my attention. Things like love, sex, and worldly accomplishments felt pointless - social acceptance and the fear of judgment seemed disgustingly unimportant. The idea of giving such things any amount of mental space was absurd. We all die - who cares?

I felt an apathy, almost a nihilism, that was somehow liberating. I realized that most of what I typically worried about and focused on throughout daily life was meaningless. Losing someone in such a tragic, sudden way shook me awake to what mattered. And it was sobering to acknowledge that almost nothing I normally gave power or attention to in life mattered.

Over time, the waves of grief began to mellow. The space between them started to stretch out longer and longer. And in those spaces, in those moments of calm, I began to look up at the wreckage of my life. During one of these moments, I remembered that conversation with Kevin. I remembered the regret he shared with me about his loneliness and the urgency in his voice. 

He had chosen a path of chronic, self-imposed isolation that, in the end, he called a mistake. As I surveyed the isolation and emptiness of my own life at that moment, I knew I had made the same mistake as him.

For years, I embarked on a path that mirrored Kevin's in many ways. I pulled away from my family, friendships, romantic relationships, and career to focus on emotional work, introspection, and a kind of inner healing with reckless abandon. I had felt emboldened, encouraged, and supported by Kevin's friendship and presence. He was always a few steps further than me - he was the comrade cheering me along.

Gradually, I followed my friend's footsteps into a desert. I walked away from nearly all participation in the river of humanity. It was a lonely path, and it was uncomfortable. But there was always an assumption that the desert would transform once we healed enough of our trauma - once we had done the inner work. A new, pure life would blossom. Like-minded people would arrive. Something completely different would take shape. But it never did. 

Things seemed to get only more bleak and empty as the years passed. I devoted more time and energy to emotional work. I stepped further away from people. And while something beautiful grew in me, my world became increasingly lonely and empty. I purified my life to the point of desolation. I stepped away from imperfect connections until almost nothing was left, except for Kevin. And then he was gone. 

Now I was alone, and the isolation he described as a tragic error was something I had to face - a mistake I was still living. I had been on what I thought was a path of healing, yet this is where I ended up: My life was in shambles. I was broke, confused, and mourning the suicide of my closest friend. The more I tried to fix myself, the more my world seemed to disintegrate.

In the period that followed Kevin's death, these were some of the reflections, questions, and conversations that poured through me. I didn't know what to think or do, but the moment I found myself in was sobering. I was lost and alone, and it was dawning on me that I, too, needed something much more than myself. 

Two

Several months after Kevin passed away, I ran into my old friend, Pandora. We crossed paths when I was walking along the ocean on a sunny spring afternoon. It had been years since we last saw each other or spoke, and there was a mutual sense of excitement and curiosity as we said hello.

After exchanging a hug, we sat on a bench by the water and took turns sharing updates about our lives. I described everything happening in my world, including the grief and isolation I was living through.

Something was immediately comfortable and easy about talking with Pandora. There was an awkwardness and distance between us due to the years that had passed since we last spoke, but I also felt the warmth of an old, trusted friend. And, at that moment, I desperately needed a friend.

During a break in our conversation, Pandora looked into my eyes and said: Miles, I've been worried about you for a while. The last time I saw you was maybe two or three years ago? You looked so run down. It was like your spark was gone - you felt like a withering, wilted plant. The joyful, inspired person I used to know wasn't there anymore. You seemed so deflated, so unhappy. It was hard for me to witness.

I wanted to understand what Pandora was talking about, so I asked her to explain what she had seen in more detail.

I'm not sure the best way to describe it, she continued, "but it looked like you were dying inside. The Miles I knew as a boisterous, fun, passionate person had shrivelled up. You stopped believing in yourself - you stopped letting yourself just be. It was like your light was going out, and it was getting worse each time I saw you."

I couldn't quite wrap my head around what Pandora was saying - but it was something she would repeat many times as we rekindled our friendship over the coming months: She had been concerned for me (and I got the sense that she still was).

After that initial encounter, Pandora and I began to meet for walks along the water regularly. There was a lot of catching up to do, as many things had happened in the years since we’d last been close. 

One afternoon, we sat on top of a driftwood log on the beach as I described my recent experiences with dating and women. Something I said sparked a thought in Pandora, and she interrupted my story with a sudden idea: She wanted me to meet someone - an acquaintance that she was convinced I would get along with. 

There's something about you two that seems like it would just click, she explained. You have got to meet her - you two could be good friends!

She reached for her phone and searched for a picture to show me.

Here, she said, handing me her phone with a poorly lit photo of a young woman on its screen.

That's Maya. It's not the best photo, but it gives you an idea of what she looks like - it gives you a sense of her vibe. As Pandora spoke, she looked intently at my face to study my reaction.

Maya was beautiful, and as much as I could tell from a photo, she looked like a sensitive, introverted, deep person. I didn't understand why Pandora was so excited about connecting the two of us. Still, when she asked if it was okay to pass my phone number along to Maya, I had no hesitation before saying yes. I had been saying no to life for so long that it felt like I had to start saying yes to something.

I'm not suggesting you two should date or anything, Pandora added. She is quite a bit younger than you and at a very different place in her life. But I think you two should meet. She needs friends as much as you do, and there's something that I think you two have in common.

About a week after that conversation on the beach, Maya called me out of the blue. I was surprised to hear from her and wide open to talking. After an awkward start to the conversation, we ended up speaking for a couple of hours. We chatted about our lives, loves, challenges, and dreams. I remember very little of the conversation except for a glowing warmth in my chest that started about thirty minutes in and grew stronger and warmer as we continued talking. By the end of our conversation, the feeling in my chest was almost ecstatic. 

I also remember Maya saying that our chat was not normal for her, that we spoke with a kind of openness and honesty she felt she needed more than anything. But she also said that it terrified her.

The conversation ended with us excited to get to know one another better. I encouraged Maya to reach out whenever she wanted to chat again or meet up in real life, and we said goodbye. 

As I got off the phone, the glowing, warm feeling in my chest became almost overwhelming, and I decided to lie down on the floor of my apartment to bask in it. I wondered if this blissful sensation was a symptom of my becoming infatuated with Maya or if it was just what it felt like to talk openly with a kindred spirit. It didn't matter - I didn't need to understand it - it felt like heaven.

That evening, I sent Maya a message thanking her for the conversation and repeating my invitation to talk or hang out any time. It felt right to leave it in her hands to decide when we would connect next (and to let her know that I was wide open).

A month passed after that conversation, and Maya didn't respond. Now and again, Pandora would ask if Maya had gotten back to me, and the answer was always the same: Not yet. After a while, we both assumed I would never hear back from her. This, it turned out, was its own kind of medicine. 

I got very excited about meeting Maya in the days and weeks after that call with her. The volcanic eruption I felt in my heart when we spoke was like a miraculous sign of life in a desert. After so long alone, feeling that connection with someone, even if only through a phone call and for a few minutes, sparked my hope, curiosity, and desire. It felt like a missing element had reappeared in my world - a light I had been living without returned in the form of Maya. I could barely contain my excitement.

But at the same time, there was a strange panic in me: This beauty had shown itself, and now part of me was ready to cling to it for dear life. I hadn't even met Maya yet, but that conversation