The Funny Thing Is...
I still love her.
* * *
I have no idea how my words are received or perceived. I write the words that come a’ bornin’ in my brain without concern for effect, simply honesty (or is that hubris?). I like to think I’m merely emptying the contents of my skull periodically (keeping all the really good stuff locked inside...sorry). I honestly doubt this blog elevates me (in any way, shape or form) in the estimation of the Dear Reader. I worry, sometimes, that I may inadvertently snub another’s precepts or beliefs. Or give offense, albeit unwittingly.
I sometimes imagine you muttering: “Get a grip, you sniveling, maudlin mope!” I can see that. Even I react that way to myself, sometimes. But, this is, after all, the diary of an optimistic depressive…(granted, the optimism may be hard to discern at times).
I write about pain, confusion, doubt, longing and redemption. I write about love...but mostly the losing, suffering, yearning and deep blue, melancholy aspects of it all.
But...I still love her.
The love I feel is just as strong, today, as ever, because I need to love. I need to love to remind myself how it feels to be, in some small way, sanctified. I need to love because it lights me up inside and drives the darkness into harmless corners. I need to love to maintain balance; after all...there's an awfully frightening abyss below.
So I love...Her.
I guess I shouldn’t say I love her. Truth be told, I’ve come to see that I don’t really know her. Never did. Real life proved that in spades.
I fell in love with her attributes and aspirations. I fell in love with the woman she wanted to be.
Who wouldn’t?
She wanted to live an authentic, integrated life; fully committed in heart, mind and soul. She wanted to love freely, openly, without fear or inhibition. She wanted to save the planet and its people. She was spiritual, thoughtful, empathic, intelligent, funny as all get out, feral, physical, sensible, self-critical, curious, observant, opinionated, erotic, obsessed, fiery and...maternal. Plus, she smelled better than any human being I have ever known. She was fragrantly all that and more (much more). And she hungered to love just as madly as I.
* * * Aspirations...meet...Reality * * *
The raging fire consumes the arsonists. Things too good to be true usually aren’t. At any rate, dreams have always found it tough going in the glare of day.
But, oh, how I love the woman she aspired to be! And she is every bit as real (to me), as the woman she really is. It's just a matter of time until she blossoms. Maybe she already has...
And I continue to love her every hour of every day. I try to think only of her, never us. "Us" is pain. No need to go there. But I'll admit I often revel in thoughts of her. And...I cheer for her, pray for her and hope for her. And I worry, endlessly, about her well-being, her health and happiness. Is she at peace? Has she found her answer(s)? Do angels surround her and protect her? Does she laugh and smile?
Does she love?
I wake to her and fall asleep to her. I really don’t mind. The woman she aspired to be (just trust me on this) deserves to be loved…
truly…madly…deeply.
So I love her. And I always will.
* * *
I have no idea how my words are received or perceived. I write the words that come a’ bornin’ in my brain without concern for effect, simply honesty (or is that hubris?). I like to think I’m merely emptying the contents of my skull periodically (keeping all the really good stuff locked inside...sorry). I honestly doubt this blog elevates me (in any way, shape or form) in the estimation of the Dear Reader. I worry, sometimes, that I may inadvertently snub another’s precepts or beliefs. Or give offense, albeit unwittingly.
I sometimes imagine you muttering: “Get a grip, you sniveling, maudlin mope!” I can see that. Even I react that way to myself, sometimes. But, this is, after all, the diary of an optimistic depressive…(granted, the optimism may be hard to discern at times).
I write about pain, confusion, doubt, longing and redemption. I write about love...but mostly the losing, suffering, yearning and deep blue, melancholy aspects of it all.
But...I still love her.
The love I feel is just as strong, today, as ever, because I need to love. I need to love to remind myself how it feels to be, in some small way, sanctified. I need to love because it lights me up inside and drives the darkness into harmless corners. I need to love to maintain balance; after all...there's an awfully frightening abyss below.
So I love...Her.
I guess I shouldn’t say I love her. Truth be told, I’ve come to see that I don’t really know her. Never did. Real life proved that in spades.
I fell in love with her attributes and aspirations. I fell in love with the woman she wanted to be.
Who wouldn’t?
She wanted to live an authentic, integrated life; fully committed in heart, mind and soul. She wanted to love freely, openly, without fear or inhibition. She wanted to save the planet and its people. She was spiritual, thoughtful, empathic, intelligent, funny as all get out, feral, physical, sensible, self-critical, curious, observant, opinionated, erotic, obsessed, fiery and...maternal. Plus, she smelled better than any human being I have ever known. She was fragrantly all that and more (much more). And she hungered to love just as madly as I.
* * * Aspirations...meet...Reality * * *
The raging fire consumes the arsonists. Things too good to be true usually aren’t. At any rate, dreams have always found it tough going in the glare of day.
But, oh, how I love the woman she aspired to be! And she is every bit as real (to me), as the woman she really is. It's just a matter of time until she blossoms. Maybe she already has...
And I continue to love her every hour of every day. I try to think only of her, never us. "Us" is pain. No need to go there. But I'll admit I often revel in thoughts of her. And...I cheer for her, pray for her and hope for her. And I worry, endlessly, about her well-being, her health and happiness. Is she at peace? Has she found her answer(s)? Do angels surround her and protect her? Does she laugh and smile?
Does she love?
I wake to her and fall asleep to her. I really don’t mind. The woman she aspired to be (just trust me on this) deserves to be loved…
truly…madly…deeply.
So I love her. And I always will.
* * *
posted by Jonas | 9/01/2006 01:55:00 PM
2 Comments:
I, your reader, never mutter obscene things about you being a mope. Not that you are... I'd just like to clarify that I don't mutter.
It's not wrong to love who you loved, and still love. Didn't you yourself tell me that the heart has reasons that reason itself cannot know? The heart has a tendency to cling to loves we can't choose, no matter what's "right" or "wrong" or "returned."
Would you rather not love at all?
"Would you rather not love at all?"
No, my dear friend, I am most grateful for the love I've received and felt, no matter the duration or the ultimate outcome. I offer this poem as further explanation:
CURIOSITY
may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems,
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
does not endear him to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause him to die –
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill,
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
only the curious
have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say he loves too much, is irresponsible,
is changeable, marries too many wives,
deserts his children, chills all dinner tables
with tales of his nine lives.
Well, he is lucky. Let him be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what he has to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that hell is where, to live, they have to go.
Alastair Reid
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