Letters Never Written

I’ve tried composing so many letters, countless letters, in my head. They never came to be ink on paper, pixels on a monitor. There have been so very many letters never actually written…never sent.

Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it would have been for the best to put pain into words and the words onto paper. Written in blood, if necessary.

Then again, I simply couldn’t. Deafened and defeated by my own sobs, too full of questions, too overcome by anguish, how could
I have even hoped to cry a coherent thought onto paper?

The best I probably could have managed might be this one word:

“Why?”

* * *

Possession

She told me he was possessive…controlling. Such a familiar refrain. And with that, another late night conversation leads to an all night pondering…

Possession…obsession…jealousy…control…why? Why?

Why do some seek to possess, to control, another's heart? Seems like such a painful and altogether pointless exercise. Can a heart ever be possessed? Can a heart truly be controlled? What benefit is to be derived from insisting on exclusivity, from wishing to control someone for one’s personal use only, demanding to be the sole object of somebody’s love?

To love another heart is to thrill in that heart. And the human heart is boundless. It does not lend itself to either internal or external control. It was never meant to be chained or jailed. The human heart is what it is, and it will do what it must do. To fetter the heart is to kill the very spirit that gave impetus to love.

Hearts are meant to be savored, admired and adored. To love another is to glory in that individual.

Possession…obsession…jealousy…control…destructive impulses all. They have no place in love’s alchemy, for these impulses are not rooted in love. They merely serve to destroy, over time, the very object of desire.

Can the human heart be possessed? No. It cannot. It can, however, be enthralled.

I wish only to enthrall…to delight or fascinate someone so thoroughly, and engage another’s attention so completely, that the beloved heart would, of its own free will, come to stay…come to love…forever.

* * *

My Ideal Partner...

* * *

Would love me for my angels, for the man I hope to be (and know
I can be), and would ever gently nudge me to be better.

Would always know that I love her, despite my foolish and brutish ways.

Would trust me enough to share her heart, and be brave enough to listen to mine.

Would believe in me when I doubt myself.

Would know that I’m neither as bad as I appear to be, nor as good as
I should be, but trusting that (with a little help...well...OK...make that lots of help) I will grow wiser, gentler and kinder with age.

Would be patient when I’m flustered, comforting when I’m despondent, and loving when I’m least lovable.

Would be passionate in bed.

Would respect me for my efforts, not disparage me when I falter.

Would seek to understand the man I truly am…and help me to understand my self.

Would have selective amnesia…remembering every small, thoughtful gesture while forgetting all the slights, insults and errors of judgment.

Would explore the world with me and open my eyes and heart to beauty.

Would share anything and everything with me…the good, the sad and everything in between.

Would miss me when I’m gone, rejoice when I return...all the while accepting that I’m not always fun or pleasant to have around.

Would hold my hand when I’m old and unsteady on my feet.

* * *

(I promise to strive to be all that...and more... in return)

* * *

The Starling

I’ve been relatively spare with my entries, lately. It’s not for lack of thoughts, words, musings, dreams or ponderings. It’s not that at all. In fact, I’ve been overwhelmed with such. Clarity of thought is hard to come by at times like these.

* * *

Just a few hours ago, I was sitting quietly at my computer trying
(less than successfully) to keep up with my correspondence. I heard an unfamiliar scratching. One learns to identify the scratching sounds made by cats…particularly if their litter boxes are within earshot. Animals have soundtracks uniquely their own. I hear, and am ever aware of, their music…in my subconscious.

These scratchings felt unfamiliar. I saw a shadow flicker across an open doorway…accompanied by a flutter. Was I imagining things (just a normal state of affairs)? I paused to listen. Another flutter. More scratching. A rustle.

I walked into the laundry room. I saw her immediately. She was an iridescent starling, crouching there on a windowsill. (Note: I have no way of knowing if “it” were a “he” or a “she.” I came to think of her as a female gone astray...but that's just me). How ever did she find her way here?

Just another one of life’s mysteries, I guess.

I approached slowly. I cooed to her that I meant no harm. She crouched a little lower. I extended my hand. Why? What did I hope she would do? I can’t say, really. I simply wanted to extend my hand to her. She panicked…and nearly flew directly into my face before veering sharply, inches from my nose, and frantically winging her way to the window on the adjacent wall. I approached again. Cooing once more my good intentions. I suspect she found me most bewildering…speaking an incomprehensible language…with intentions most mysterious. I approached closer. One can’t help but admire the coloration of a starling’s plumage when the crystalline winter sun slants in through a small window to illuminate this winged soul. The neck and back of a starling shimmer and spark with colors we can’t even name. She was dazzling…albeit a bit confused.

Digression/Observation: I doubt it was simple coincidence that this dear, trembling heart always flew from window to window…and nowhere else…although the basement is replete with safer, far more sheltered perches. She flew from window to window. Windowpane to windowpane. A sheet of glass was all that stood between her and the sun and the cold winter air whispering in snow-encrusted branches. She flew from window to window…desperate for freedom...far more than for her safety

I approached, she fled…oh, about a dozen times, or so. For about two hours, or so. Yet, with each approach, she allowed me to come closer. Fingertips just inches from her wings, then fractions of inches, then momentarily touching, and then…finally…a caress.

She momentarily squawked in shock as I wrapped my fingers around her. Her beak was agape. She was frozen with fear, but my fingers felt her warmth immediately. I caressed her head and cooed to her that she was safe.

She won’t be trapped, held, possessed much longer.

I tiptoed up the stairs to the doorway. I was relieved to see both cats sleeping. I opened the door to the outside world, and opened my hand. She spun, twirled and exploded from my fingers…sailing away to the east. Never looking back.

* * *

Was she a sign, an omen, an augury? Was she a lesson?

* * *

* * *

Beauty Is

She taught me many lessons…a great many lessons. My high school sweetheart did. One of the most profound and life-changing things she taught me (one that I will always be grateful for) is what beauty is.

It’s not that she actually intended to educate me. I’m not even sure she herself understands what she taught me. Yet, on one hot, shimmering summer day, she taught me what beauty is.

* * *

Imagine, if you will, a young man lying on a beach. It’s an almost blinding July afternoon. He’s propped on his elbows, enjoying the sight of his friends and the friends of friends of friends frolicking.
He gazes squint-eyed upon the young, bikini-clad females with curiosity…pleasure…admiration.

He sees his former sweetheart advancing from the water. They had parted company five, maybe six, months before. She’s strongly backlit by the white-hot sun. The water smiles and laughs with diamond jewels glistening. He sees her almost in bas-relief, carving her haloed way through the sultry air.

There’s no question about it. She is stunning. She stands at almost six-feet. She is shapely, full bosomed, fertile hipped, statuesque, heavenly, free…and the water glistens on her radiantly tanned skin. Remember Bo Derek in “10”? Remember that scene when Bo comes streaming, steaming, out of the ocean? Well, Blake Edwards filmed that scene almost a decade after this afternoon of mine…even so...
the scenes are identical.

Really.

I was lying on a blanket, propped on my elbows, skin burning, staring at her vision, when it hit me like a thunderbolt: “She’s not beautiful anymore!”

Huh? She was ravishingly beautiful seven months ago. She was the most beautiful woman in the world…then. Today, in a scene worthy of a Botticelli, she approaches from the water…I could almost hear the angels sing. But she was no longer beautiful. Striking? Yes. Erotic? Yes. Desirable? Absolutely! Beautiful? No. Not to me.

On that one, shimmering, blinding, dazzling summer day, I learned something vital, something fundamental. I learned that beauty is a construct of the heart, mind and soul. The eyes will always see, but the vision in the mind’s eye is the only one of consequence. When we love, we see whom we love as beautiful…radiantly beautiful. It may or may not be an objective “truth.” Less likely so, as the years and life’s travails exact their toll on the body. But we remain ever beautiful...

in our lover’s true eyes.

Love sees what it most wants to see. Love desires to see only beauty. I, myself, am content to let love see what it will.

* * *

I wish only to love more…enough so that I see only beauty.

* * *

Push - Pull

I seemed to be stuck in a duality-of-thought mode when visions of binary star systems popped into my brain. Ah. Yes. The analogy fits. Fits well.

I have feelings and thoughts that balance and counter-balance each other. Memories of a past. Dreams of a future. Hopes and fears. I am the mass at the center, with thoughts and reveries orbiting round and round, influencing each other, altering each other’s course, circling, crisscrossing, dancing; ever moving…ever burning.

On those nights when my ghost comes calling…tempting me to dance…well, dreams of a future don’t seem to hold much sway. I want to linger in that past just a little while longer. There are still those nights (though rarer, now) when I want nothing more than to look back and relive, once again, what was.

But so many hands tug at my sleeve. So many warm and wonderful hands. They gently direct my face and focus towards the future - a world of such fantastic possibilities. These hands have been tugging harder, lately, and with dogged persistence. When surrounded by my angels, I wonder why it has been so very hard to let go of the past, to let go of all those shattered dreams? My hands clutch at, what, exactly? These hands of mine are, in fact, practically empty. The promises and troths have long been broken, all trust destroyed, love torn and crumpled…renounced...tossed in a trash bin. Those past possibilities of mine proved to be, in fact, impossibilities.

What am I clutching?

Just handfuls of ashes.

Angels beckon and the past haunts. A cosmic push and pull, if you will. Still, the Cosmos is a miraculous place, is it not? A heavenly body will undoubtedly appear from somewhere beyond the dark horizon...
I see it now...pursuing a trajectory uniquely its own. This star will come to shift my gravity…pushing me farther and further into the future…pulling me farther and further away from my past.

* * *