[Set Aural: May it Be by Lisa Kelly]
[Set Sight: Cold, dark-furnished room, low window with a damp light filtering through]
[Set Touch: Bare feet on thick carpet, small plastic keys at fingertips]
[Set Taste: Thick wood and a well-worn couch, dusty but homey]
[Set Smell: The wetness of rain seeping in under a loose window sill, stacks of fresh newspaper on the shelf in front of me, half-empty mug of black coffee to my left]
THE DAYS HERE ARE EMPTY, and yet the clock keeps a fast pace. My fingers itch for something to write, almost as they think for themselves, rendering my heart or mind incapable of any sort of inspirational tangibility. Not to fret, Dearest Reader. A common theme has struck; Love.
I know I know; “Love, how many times have I read or heard about love? Give us a break!” Trust me, Friend, I would not be entering into such a cliche task had I not some curious thought I wished to share. No, not simple Love, Dearest, as in the affection of a trivial thing or adoring pet. Not a whimsical love of thought or ideals, nor an emotional love derived from an inherit human need to be valued. No my Love, this is the Love that loves so much so that it hurts.
Have you ever felt such a pure Love? You know, that crippling kind. The kind of love that makes my heart do the tango with my lungs! Have you experienced it? That totally debilitating love that just knocks you right off your feet? Pardon the cliche (and totally feminine) analogy; the latest Twilight theatrical–Jacob–takes his first look at the tiny girl who will eventually become the love of his life, and he his knocked to the ground. Big and Powerful, he is no match whatsoever with that kind of Love. Have you felt this burning throb? Have you ever shared in the suffering of the Phantom of the Opera? Has your heart ever longed for that passionate sting which reminds you how much you are still alive?
How can one recover from such a staggering Love? You and I both know, Dear Reader, how many ways there are to love. You and I love each other you know. I would say our love is the fun and flirtatious love, that innocent love that brings joy to both our hearts. You know, the kind of love shared between Rapunzel and Flynn in the hit cartoon Tangled.
Alas Dear Friend, I am not writing about such an easily defined love. No my Love, perhaps I can portray her as a Child? Eyes wide to the World, a heart ready for growth! Remember those times? Your father would pick you up and spin you around so fast that the world became one big rainbow!
Remember those times Love? When your little finger would trace the outline of your mother’s ear, curious as you pulled and twisted it? Remember Reader, when you could run and run and run and when you could not go any farther, dad would pick you up and put you on his back and run for you? You would stretch your arms out to the sky and soar! The world was yours for the taking, and your love was described by your pure and perfect laugh! Ah Love, those were the days!
No Dear Reader, again that is simply not the love I am attempting to describe. Can such a love be communicated? Or is that perhaps the beauty of it–its mystery? More like an Abstract Masterpiece. There, but relative to the beholder. You may relate better to the following photograph. A Father’s Last Dance with is now married daughter. You see the look in her face. Is she anxious? Is she joyously sad? How does one describe such a love? He loves her so much, he has brought her up, fought for and protected her for the last 18+ years, and is now entrusting this ominous task to another mortal man. Everything she knows is wrapped around her at that moment. The Groom ceremoniously cuts in and begins a new dance. What painful Love! Such sting! Oh love, that your sting has been for purpose and that I may understand your painful touch!
Real Love, Dear Reader, does not come softly. Real Love is a drenching downpour–that instant moment between complete dry and sopping wet–that quick moment you catch your breath as you shift from one extreme to another. Do you feel it? That anxiety swelling up in your chest? Real Love is that “Oh My!” moment. The ones where you lost your breath, like getting sucker-punched in the stomach, doubling over and leaning on your lover. They can be quick; those brief moments that feel like hours as you search face after countless face at the airport terminal just waiting for your Love to emerge proud and tall. They can be long; a quiet evening you finally share with a boy you’ve sponsored for years as you watch the hot sun descend beyond the African continent. Real Love, Beloved, comes in the passionate form of those you share it with. And right now Dearest Reader, I’m sharing this with you.
I Love You, and am Praying for You.
Share our Love whilst we still draw Breath.
[End Piece: Pass me Not by Fernando Ortega]