While growing up in Dallas I had no way of knowing that I would be embarking on a lifelong search for my cosmic twin, who was born the year before me near Los Angeles, in 1947.
In hindsight, I liken the feeling to having a vital limb, an arm or a leg, missing. You can feel the existence of the missing limb but when you look down, you only see an empty sleeve.
When I was 14, my parents sent me to a summer camp near Palm Springs, California. I traveled to the camp with two girlfriend/sisters. After camp, the three of us spent time with relatives in and around the Los Angeles area. That’s when I could feel his presence the most. Wherever we went, I continued looking behind me for any approaching stranger; I knew he was there … somewhere. During that torturous summer, I had a feeling the person was a “him.” Never finding the “person” was a source of pain for me and depression I would not get over for years.
But life must be lived anyway, so I continued my life and school studies. It’s an interesting fact that when I returned to Dallas, I didn’t feel his presence nearly as strongly as I did in California.
After attending a college near Dallas, I decided to move to California during my junior year, after I met an attractive man at a friend’s wedding. I married the guy. It didn’t work out and we were divorced within a few years. I was left with a young son to raise and started attending one of the local universities to finish my education and obtain a degree.
That’s when I met a blue-eyed transplant from Wisconsin. His name was Eric. We soon married, and he called me his soulmate, which we were not. Eric was a voracious reader and “schooled” me on such subjects such as reincarnation and soulmate culture. I didn’t pay much attention to it but always politely listened anyway.
About a year before we were married, Eric asked if we could go to a local nude beach. I was not so much into going to a nude beach and never would have gone without Eric’s urging. After we arrived, Eric dropped his shorts and went directly to the water, so I was left alone to spread my beach blanket and remove my shorts and halter top, which I did reluctantly.
Soon after, I heard a voice from behind me say, “Hi.” I turned to my left. He then said, “I’m Daniel.” The year was 1973, and I was face-to-face with the man I would know and love for the rest of our lives.
He saw me arrive and approached me, even though I was accompanied by another man. He told me he was married but his wife was not at the beach that day. They had moved from Virginia, where he’d been discharged from the Navy, and they were looking for new friends. He was easy-going, friendly, with a valid explanation for everything. The next day Eric, my 3-year-old child and I were at Dan’s apartment to meet him and his wife, Cassie.
At the time, all I knew is that I would feel more balanced and grounded whenever I was in Daniel’s presence. We went on couples’ vacations, attended parties and generally hung out together until Eric and I were divorced in 1980-81. I remained friends with Dan and Cassie after my divorce. I told Dan that I was his friend and could not properly connect with his wife. He said nothing, but I knew he understood. Both Dan and I had similar personalities; we were both quiet and reserved.
When I became a high-fashion couture model, Daniel took outdoor location photos of me for my model’s portfolio — he had been an amateur photographer since he was 15. Even though I felt close to Dan, we never disrespected his wife or my then-husband, Eric. Dan and I went on many excursions together, yet his wife never acted jealous of our relationship. He once asked me for an affair, but I would require more from him than sex, so I turned him down. Our closeness continued.
It was now 1985. Daniel moved his wife and child to Ankara, Turkey, for overseas employment. He would keep in touch with me over the years until he and his wife came to visit me in Denver, where I’d moved in 1988 with my third husband, Mel. After the Denver visit, I would not see Daniel for 30 years, but he insisted on constant communication between the two of us, now by email and overseas phone calls.
He worked all over the world, but would send emails and photographs of his exotic times away from the states, while always imploring me to visit wherever he landed. I would say “no“ because he usually worked in troubled areas of the globe. I asked why he didn’t ever work in France.
In the fall of 2006, Daniel called to tell me that Cassie had passed away. I extended sincere condolences but didn’t mention our getting together because I’d been married for many years by then. We continued our communication, however, until my own husband, Mel, passed away in 2020. Daniel somehow used our great silent telepathy with one another and called to inquire as to what was going on. When I told him, he said to visit. He was now retired and living in a suburb of Los Angeles.
Now we were talking several times a week and making exciting plans for travel and fun times as though we were teens. When we were both vaccinated against COVID, I traveled to Los Angeles. We spent a blissful — and the most intense loving time of our lives — for a week. And then the love of my life passed away from a massive stroke. I was with him when he transitioned and was very grateful, not only for our brief and wonderful time together, but for his peaceful transition.
I believe Daniel and I shared a soul and were cosmically drawn together. We were in fact, cosmic twins or twin flames — not soulmates, as that designation cannot fully describe us. Our relationship never changed during the 48 years that I knew him; we never quarreled or became angry with one another, not once. Our love only grew in depth and complexity. Even though we both had other relationships in our lives, our relationship together was the one that truly mattered to both of us.
I will grieve and love him for the rest of my life. But just as we are all imbued with stardust from the universe, my connection with Daniel can never be lost. I am sure I will see him again.
Daniel was 74 when he passed away. I was 73. He was white, and I am Black.
During the 48 years of our “conversational love affair,” we never discussed that fact once.
—As told by Alex Preston
