I met a woman – a stranger – at the swimming pool yesterday. There was only one other person in the pool besides me and she asked both of us, “Is it OK if I dive in the pool? I know we’re not really supposed to, but sometimes … you just need to have a little fun.”

Immediately, I began watching her with some form of anticipation – what kind of dive would she do? Would she use the diving board? No, she jumped in from the edge. Head first.

She wasn’t a spring chicken, either. Soon, she began talking to me – strangers often do that, so I’m not unaccustomed to it – and shared intimate details of her life. Tragic. Sad. The kind that would drop you deep into the ocean and make you never want to swim back.

As we swam and she told me about the grief she has experienced, pain swept through her eyes and I could see that hurt was there … just there; yet there was hope. Like a teenager or tween, she had dove in the deep water and came out smiling. It didn’t take long before hope emerged across her face, too … she had more fun this summer than she had in years, she said. Her smile was infectious.

This woman talked about her love for her ex-husband, how they are best friends, yet she is immensely happy with a different man whom she loves. They plan to get married.

Her honesty was raw, unapologetic, sincere. I admired her. She loved hard – at least twice – and though the definition of the relationships changed, her love was still there.

It reminded me of a Jane Austen quote, “There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not in my nature.” (italics, mine)

I get Ms. Austen. And I’m pretty sure the swimming-stranger gets Ms. Austen, too.

Which brings me to the wonderful Adrienne Rich quote at the beginning of this post. Yes, sometimes people just show up in your life and suddenly, or not-so-suddenly, there is love. Are you fated or destined? Or doomed? Rich says no.

But love isn’t ever an accident. Love isn’t a car crash. It shouldn’t be the death of you. The relationship may not last – but that doesn’t mean it’s dead or you’re dead or that it didn’t matter.

Sometimes, when it’s truly love (when the love you have is about understanding the other person and seeing them – the real them, and about helping them remember who they really are – and about you remembering who you really are [which may mean that to be your true self, you can’t be in that relationship anymore]) then I think it is what was meant to be. And that love doesn’t fade.

That real love can pass through grief, through continents, through regret, through oceans, through sleepless and tender nights under a tree, through children, through years … and lead you back to remembering something about yourself, that part you buried … so that then you can move forward (together or not) with a little piece of yourself put back in place.

It’s not about definitions. It’s not about time. It’s not about pieces of paper. It’s about what Jane Austen said: being a friend and not loving in halves.

You go on, and you love in full parts. Not parts. You love whole. You love hard. You love deep. And nothing else has to happen. You just … love.

And then, you grab your love and your heart, you spread your arms up over your head, smile, and dive deep into that water. And swim.