No doesn't always mean no

It was a hot sticky summer night in my grandmother's 4th floor walkup in Hoboken.  All the windows were open, so we could hear the neighbors arguing, the kids playing down in the street below, and the ships bellowing in the harbor a few blocks away.

I had just turned 8, and my very special birthday present would be happening the next day: a trip across the water to Radio City Music Hall to see a performance by Fess Parker, star of my very favorite TV show, Davy Crockett. The thought of possibly acquiring my very own coonskin cap, just like Davy's, had me too excited to sleep, so even though my parents had tucked me into my uncle's old bed, that lay just beyond the curtain from the living room where they would sleep, I kept popping up to ask: what time would we leave?  Could we buy the hat beFORE the show? How long did they think the tail would be?

And finally my poor parents, desperately trying to cool down and sleep in the relentless heat, told me that if I bothered them ONE MORE TIME they would not take me to the show.  By this time I knew my mom could be fierce, so I tried really really hard to go to sleep.  But then one more question popped into my brain, one that I just could NOT got to sleep without having answered, and so I poked my head out of the curtain one last time to ask -- and she followed through on her threat.

I never got to see Davy Crockett; never got my coonskin cap; and for years afterward the sense of hurt and betrayal from that incident haunted me.

So this morning, when I read in Liz Gilbert's wonderful book about creativity and fear that "No doesn't always have to mean No," I heard a voice saying, "Yes it does," and I was instantly taken back to that 8-year-old's disappointment.  But then another word caught my eye, in Gilbert's next sentence, and that word was persistence -- which took me, as words can sometimes do, to another key point in my life history.

You see, when I first met the man who has now been my husband for over 31 years, it was clear he was attracted to me, and I was, like, totally -- NO!  I'd been married before, for one thing, and it had ended very badly so I was pretty much off men.  But the few who had managed to sneak under my guard were all very much like my first husband: tall, slim, long-legged, dark-haired, smooth-skinned, articulate, intensely creative and very spiritual.

And this guy, whose first words to me were "Hi, I'm Christian, but in name only (heh, heh, heh)!" was under 6 ft. tall, a bear of a guy with huge pecs and shoulders, short legs, kinky light brown hair and a full beard -- and it was clear that none of those last three adjectives applied.  So I was WAY far beyond no, well into the zone where hell freezes over.

But he was -- and here's that word -- persistent.  Not in a creepy way: he wasn't a stalker, he wasn't pushy, he never tried to overpower me, but he was consistently present in a way that was impossible to ignore -- and eventually I came to realize that his brand of respectful, constant appreciation was exactly what I needed to recover from the wounds of my first marriage. Once having allowed myself to open a bit to those constant beams of affection I eventually realized I could relax around him in a way I'd never been able to elsewhere, and that sense of being fully myself and fully appreciated became a kind of healing magic, to which I've been addicted ever since.

My point is -- sometimes no DOESN'T mean no -- even for me.  And now, after spending my younger years nursing the hurt from the Davy Crockett incident, and then spending my child-rearing years thinking my mom probably did the right thing (even though I found it hard to put it into practice with my own kids), I realize that though it's possible that without consistent consequences children never learn discipline, it's also true that sometimes, when a no eventually converts into a yes, it's a sign of love, and of openness, and of presence. 

What I learned, from that early no, was not to buck the system; that rejection was rejection and unalterable -- in fact, I learned, remembering the pain of that early no, to watch for early signs of rejection and walk away before the real no could come, so it wouldn't hurt so much.  What my children learned, from watching me struggle to be flexible around consequences, was that sometimes no could become yes, and that I loved them enough to allow that to happen.  Not all the time. But often enough to give them hope -- and confidence.  Because they were occasionally rewarded for persistence, because, occasionally, I loved them enough and cared enough to change my mind, they learned, like my husband, the potential value of persistence.  It's a good thing.

It took me a lot longer than it took my girls to learn that lesson, to learn that no doesn't always mean no.  And for me that learning has come, not at the knee of my parents, but at the knee of the universe. As a result of the infinite kindness of fate and circumstances, because years of experience have taught me the truth of that old adage about one door slams and another door opens, I, too, now understand that no doesn't always mean no.  Sometimes it means not now, or not yet, or not in this way, or not with that person, or simply -- wait for it!  It -- whatever it may be -- may come in some unexpected guise, stocky and bearded when you were expecting lean and lantern-jawed, but it will almost always prove to be more than you ever could have asked or imagined -- and definitely worth the wait.