I never learned to really love. The love for my children was the closest I came and all these years, what I mistook for romantic love was infatuation, lust, desire, yearning. An attempt to fill the silence with someone other than myself. An attempt to avoid the silence altogether.
Only the love for my children did I give fully into, instinct and pleasure, fear mixed with dread and desperation and admiration at the sheer miracle of them. Of wanting to be near them, to smell their softness, to brush my lips along their pillowy skin and watch their eyes kindle in daylight.
The only fears inherent in loving my children are the fears of misleading them, of losing them, but never a right fear of rejection. I knew from the minute my soul touched theirs that I would snuggle into the moments, trail my fingertip along their little hands, drink up the looks they gave only to me.
If I am to do it right, I give myself entirely to my children, to infuse them with such a sense of fullness that wherever they go in the world and whatever they do, they will walk tall and speak loudly. It was never a question.
So why, then, have I never given myself over in abandon and without thought to the love of another, a peer, whose soft touch and gentle voice illuminates the night?
I don’t know and I won’t attempt to force an answer in this blog.
What I do know is the light is shining bright and I can smell the day. I am content in the not knowing. I am thirsty only for moments.
I have long insisted that the journey is the destination. I believe it even if I don’t live it entirely. And now, I face an uncertain future recognizing that all futures are uncertain and the only definites are the here-and-now which are very much worth living slowly, deliciously, in full sense and voice.
The sheets are soft and comforting. In the silence, the warmth of an arm and a hand trailing over mine are all I need. A simultaneous laugh, even the belly-shake of a shared joke, is enough.
A burst of flavor on the tongue like a watermelon jelly bean or a bite of Jaffa clementine.
In my hand are little perfect glass marbles, glinting the reflection of the light. They are smooth and small and if I turn my hand over, they will fall amid the carpet and I will be down on my knees in search of them. I hold them gently, feeling the cool roundness on my palm. I don’t know when I’ll put them down nor where, just that right now, these perfect little orbs are gifts for me to ponder and that’s exactly what I am doing.