Yesod
Yesod. In the Qabala, Yesod is the Ninth Sphere, the “Foundation.” It is the sphere closest to physical manifestation (the tenth sphere, Malkuth) and the one most easily reached by humans. It is the sphere of dreams, of images, of the Moon. Yesod’s energies seem to be at work in my life right now.
I don’t talk about my spirituality that much anymore, mainly because there has been little worth discussing. I used to spend a great deal of time cultivating my spirituality, my faith in higher powers. I prayed. I meditated. I attuned with the energies around me. I used to consider myself a faithful solitary Wiccan. As college wore on, though, I gradually left my spirituality behind. My prayers became more infrequent. I found it difficult to meditate, to remain still enough to focus my energies in any specific direction. I haven’t attuned with any energies around me for years now. Spiritual practices, it seems, require a good deal of faith in order to be beneficial. And faith is something that I have always had trouble maintaining. I just never seemed to be able to make that leap into the unknown that faith requires. I would get right up to the edge of the precipice, but every time that I did, doubts would enter. I would always pull back, preferring to stay on more solid ground.
I feel that this discussion is getting a bit too abstract, though. Perhaps a little grounding is in order, no? How to begin this? Just start. I have become a little obsessed with gay fantasy characters of late. My obsession follows a very similar pattern. I latch on to a specific television show or book (Torchwood, The Last Herald Mage Trilogy, or most recently Lynn Flewelling’s Nightrunner series), barrel through the various plotlines and stories, and then, upon finishing, become extremely depressed for a varying amount of time (anywhere from a couple of days to more than a week). I feel emotionally raw during these bouts of depression, and frequently find myself walking around bursting into wracking sobs without any provocation. It’s usually very intense, and the first time it happened (approximately a year ago when I first began watching Torchwood) it caught me by surprise. “I am being ridiculous,” I thought, “crying over a television show.” At the time, I attempted to chalk it up to the variety of stressors and emotions that I was negotiating as I prepared to finish my Master’s degree (thesis defense, graduation, moving away from the town that I had come to call home for the previous six years, the place where I had met my closest friends and, for lack of a better phrase, grew up). Even then, though, that excuse just did not seem to fit. The emotions were too strong, the trigger too specific, for me to sweep it under that rug.
No, I began to cry whenever I thought of the characters of Jack and Ianto, two male characters who soon came to be in a romantic relationship. One would think that I would be happy at this. I mean, here was the type of relationship that I had been waiting quite a while to witness on television. Two male characters, in love, on a sci-fi/fantasy series. It’s like the program was made for me. But something about it struck a nerve (or a nerve cluster, given the spontaneous tidal waves of tears that gripped me over the next few days). Despite the depiction of their relationship, you see, I was gripped with a bit of an irrational fear. “What if it ends?” I thought. “What if one of them dies?” Or worse, “What if Jack leaves Ianto?” For some reason, I couldn’t bear the thought of their relationship ending (either because of death or choice). I still feel a bit of a twinge in my heart to think of their relationship ending (the upcoming third season will being airing soon, and I am a little afraid of what will happen to their relationship). You see, Torchwood is not a romance. It does not follow those generic conventions, which would seem to dictate that romantic relationships are affirmed and solidified at the story’s end. No, Torchwood is a fantasy. And as a fantasy, the maintenance of a relationship is by no means guaranteed. In fact, some would argue that it would make for a much better story if the relationship ends (there’s very little drama in stability, after all).
I thought that this feeling was limited to Torchwood. But earlier this year, I heard of a fantasy series featuring a gay male protagonist (Mercedes Lackey’s Last Herald Mage trilogy) and felt a bit of a compulsion to read it. I quickly tore through the three books in the series and felt the same wracking depression upon finishing them (the relationships of Vanyel, the main character, fared worse than the relationship of Jack and Ianto). And during the past few days, I have become rather taken with Lynn Flewelling’s “Nightrunner” series, which focuses upon the exploits of Seregil and Alec, two spies who eventually become lovers. I have so much invested in these characters that I have to skip to the end of each book in advance just to make sure that Seregil and Alec are alive and together at the end of the story. The fifth book in the series will be released in February next year, and to be honest I’m a bit scared to think of what’s in store for the two characters. Will they die? And if one of them dies, what will I do? I can’t even begin to imagine reading the books any more if that happens. It would be too painful.
And what, dear friends, does any of this have to do with spirituality or Yesod? Well, the truth of the matter is...I’m not entirely sure. But, a pattern seems to be emerging here. I hear of these stories, become heavily invested in the romance between the two male leads, and then experience a horrible bout of depression upon finishing them.
I was trying to think it through last night, and the only thing that I kept coming back to was that I was horribly and desperately lonely. Lonely in a way that is difficult to describe and even more difficult to comprehend, I think. I have family. I have friends. But this loneliness...it’s a yearning for the type of relationship that family and friends simply cannot give me. A type of closeness and openness between two people that I see in these stories, or in some of my friends, that I have never been able to feel. And have ached to feel for quite some time now. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit it...but I want to fall in love. And, honestly, I thought I would have by now.
It feels embarrassing and naive to admit that, but that doesn’t make it untrue. I recognize the silliness of it all. In fact, I wrote an entire thesis last year critiquing the ideas of normative domesticity - the idea that romantic relationships are all that matter, or should somehow be privileged above other relationships. And on a political level, I still believe this. But it’s here where I think the feminists got it wrong. The political is not necessarily the personal. I understand that, by privileging romantic relationships above all else (and domestic relationships in particular - witness the rhetoric of the gay marriage movement to see it in full swing), we are occluding the variety of attachments and connections that sustain us as humans. Furthermore, by ascribing to this ideal of romantic love, we are only setting ourselves up for disappointment in the relationships that we have formed and will form. It is an impossible standard.
And yet...I am apparently a hopeless romantic. I still want to believe that the type of love that exists in the stories that I read does, in fact, exist. It is something that I haven’t really admitted to myself in a long time. I have spent so much work over the past five years or so trying to convince myself that such things were childish, that I didn’t need that type of love to sustain me, and that I could still find happiness without it. And all of that is almost certainly true.
And yet...I still want it. If I’m being truly honest with myself, it is the one thing that I want more than anything else in this world. To fall in love with another man. To have that love be returned. Consciously or not, that wish has been in my heart every day for as long as I can remember. At least since I began coming out a decade ago. Every day, the same wish. To fall in love. Please let this be the day that I fall in love. Please let me find the man who was meant for me. Please let me fall in love. Every day. For a decade.
The one thing that I’ve wanted, and the one thing that I could never be sure I would receive. And the gay relationships in these fantasy novels...they reflect this fear back to me, I think. As I was saying, the gay relationships in these stories are by no means guaranteed. The characters are in love. But, ultimately, that love is secondary. Duty, honor, whatever...comes first. Baby, sometimes love just ain’t enough. And that...I don’t know. It’s something that I find difficult to accept. I want the relationships to last forever. I want the relationships to be all that the characters need. I want it to be the main focus of the stories, at least. But they aren’t. Other things supercede. The relationships tend to end, and loss and grieving and healing occurs. But the relationships end. (Well, some of them, anyway - it’s a toss-up still whether Jack/Ianto and Seregil/Alec will survive their latest adventures). But the message still seems to be the same. Love, despite its importance, is not the most important thing. Sometimes other things are more important.
Thinking about it right now, that seems like it would be a message that I would champion, given my political leanings. Yes, love is important, romantic relationships are important, but they are hardly the end all, be all of life. Other things can sometimes be more important. Why, then, do I find myself welling up with tears at the mere thought that these relationships will be torn asunder? Why, then, do I feel so invested in these relationships? Old feelings, it seems, die hard. Despite what I’ve been trying to convince myself over the past few years...I am still a romantic to the core.
In one of my earliest LiveJournal posts (back in, what, 2003? So long ago...) I wrote that I didn’t feel that life would be worth living without romantic love. In the years that followed, I always wanted to retract that statement (and have, on many occasions, both publicly and privately). Right now, though, I can’t help but think...maybe I was right? Which, quite frankly, is a conclusion that disturbs me a bit.
Which, perhaps, is what brings me back to Yesod. One of the phrases that one of the lovers in the Nighrunner series loves to repeat is, “Take what the Lighbringer gives, and be thankful.” It is meant simply enough. The future is unpredictable, and you never know if what you have today is what you will have tomorrow. So, take joy in what you have today, for tomorrow it could be gone. He often applies it to his relationship with his lover (which is understandable - they are characters in a fantasy novel, after all, and death is usually just around the next corner). It’s a lesson that I have been trying to apply to my reading of the novel. I don’t know if the upcoming fifth novel in the series will end with the relationship intact, or with one of the main characters dead. The latter possibility makes me cringe inside, and quite honestly makes me want to not read the rest of the series. But...take what the Lighbringer gives. To not read the series seems equally impossible. Because I crave the moments of romance (it’s all I have right now, after all - even sewer water is appealing if you’re dying of thirst). I don’t want to let the spectre of death cancel out the vicarious enjoyment that I get out of the descriptions of the main characters holding one another, or making love, or everything else that lovers do.
Take what the Lightbringer gives.
Last night, after crying all day practically, I was inspired to look through my copy of the Witches’ Qabala, by Ellen Cannon Reed. Don’t know why, just one of those sudden flashes of, “Hmmm, I should look at this.” All day, I had been crying, and thinking about why I was crying, and praying that I would one day be given a love like the one that I was reading about (Every day. For a decade.) And I kept returning to the same doubt. What if the answer to my prayers is “no”? Or what if the answer is “yes, but it will take a decade. Or two. Or three”? What do I do then? What if I have to go my entire life without this?
I looked up what Ellen Cannon Reed, though, had to say about the universe and its plan. I remembered that a few of the lessons of the Qabala revolved around having faith in the universe and its plans, and trusting in “the machinery of the universe.” Something which, quite frankly, I have never been able to do. And I found myself looking at her descriptions of Yesod, the ninth sphere and its correspondences. It proved...enlightening. I was initially drawn to Yesod precisely because of its “spiritual experience” or ultimate lesson, which Reed describes as “The Vision of the Machinery of the Universe” - a vision that the universe has a plan, and that it will eventually be for the best, even if we cannot understand it. The cynic in me wishes to dismiss this using familiar arguments (is war a part of this plan? Is this truly the best path for the world to be on)...but cynicism is too easy right now. It’s so easy to dismiss things like this. I think it’s scarier to think that it may be true...at least it is for me. Virtue of Yesod - independence. Vice - idleness. Briatic correspondence - receptivity, perception. Illusion - security. Obligation - trust. Trust.
Reading through all of this last night...it felt right. It resonated with me. I thought back to Nightrunner, and the quote that kept ringing in my head. “Take what the Lightbringer gives, and be thankful.” Take what the Universe gives, and be thankful. Trust in the plan. Last night, lying in bed thinking through all of this, I began to pray. I began to pray for what I usually pray for. And end to my loneliness. A lover to hold me. Again, embarrassing to admit, but it’s what I pray for. And I felt...comforted. It’s hard to describe. It’s not like I felt like I was talking to divinity (conceived however you do - I tend to default to the Wiccan image of a God and Goddess) - but it didn’t feel like I was simply talking to myself, either. It felt like that inner voice, that spark of truth inside (inside all of us, I think)....it felt right. And it said to trust in the plan, and that I would find love. Of course, I immediately leaped to doubt it (but what if the plan is that I will never find love)...but that doubt felt a bit hollow.
There are many truths, I know)...but the truth of this matter is, for me, to trust in the plan. ‘Cause despite all of my cynicism and bitterness and skepticism...I think, deep down, I still do believe in things like a plan. And in love. And it feels naive to admit that...but you know what? I’m happier being naive. I’m happier thinking that there is some sort of grand plan out there, bringing the world to a better place than it is right now. The Wheel of Time doesn’t turn. It rolls. And I’m happier thinking that I should trust in that plan. Of course, trusting in that plan may require sacrifice on my part. Romantic love may not be part of its plan for me. And if it is, it may not be eternal. It may be fleeting. It may not last. Despite how much I want it, despite how much I pray for it...it just may not be meant to be. But, and this is an important but, I think...but whatever the universe’s plan for me, it will be enough.
I feel like I am dangerously close to passivity here, to accepting the world as it is, to never acting to bring about what I want...but if you know me you know that I would never say that. And, in fact, I don’t think the Qabala would say that either. As I mentioned above, the vice of Yesod is “idleness.” Yesod isn’t about standing still and merely accepting what the world brings us. It means stepping over the edge of that precipice I talked about above, when I was feeling more abstract. It means not assuming that the leap of faith will finally be what it takes to convince the universe that I am worthy of a lover finally. It means not assuming that I will find a lover. It means not assuming that the direction I strike off in will have any of the desired effects (I feel like quoting J.K. Gibson-Graham right now, and their warnings against theoretical foreclosures...but I don’t have my copy handy). It means taking what the Lightbringer gives me, and being thankful.
And if that is the end of the relationship between Seregil and Alec, then so be it.
And if that is love, then so be it.
*Writing this out right now...I feel closer to the person that I was when I was 19 than I have in an eternity. This doesn’t feel like the person that I have been for the past 5 years or so, and I mean that as a compliment. I have become too jaded, too cynical, too bitter, and much too sarcastic. This feels...open. It feels honest. And that...that is a good feeling. I wonder if any of the people who I have recently met will even recognize the person that they met in this writing? I wonder if they’ll be surprised.... I know that I am surprised by it. I didn’t think that I still had feelings like this left in me. But I’m glad that I do.
I don’t talk about my spirituality that much anymore, mainly because there has been little worth discussing. I used to spend a great deal of time cultivating my spirituality, my faith in higher powers. I prayed. I meditated. I attuned with the energies around me. I used to consider myself a faithful solitary Wiccan. As college wore on, though, I gradually left my spirituality behind. My prayers became more infrequent. I found it difficult to meditate, to remain still enough to focus my energies in any specific direction. I haven’t attuned with any energies around me for years now. Spiritual practices, it seems, require a good deal of faith in order to be beneficial. And faith is something that I have always had trouble maintaining. I just never seemed to be able to make that leap into the unknown that faith requires. I would get right up to the edge of the precipice, but every time that I did, doubts would enter. I would always pull back, preferring to stay on more solid ground.
I feel that this discussion is getting a bit too abstract, though. Perhaps a little grounding is in order, no? How to begin this? Just start. I have become a little obsessed with gay fantasy characters of late. My obsession follows a very similar pattern. I latch on to a specific television show or book (Torchwood, The Last Herald Mage Trilogy, or most recently Lynn Flewelling’s Nightrunner series), barrel through the various plotlines and stories, and then, upon finishing, become extremely depressed for a varying amount of time (anywhere from a couple of days to more than a week). I feel emotionally raw during these bouts of depression, and frequently find myself walking around bursting into wracking sobs without any provocation. It’s usually very intense, and the first time it happened (approximately a year ago when I first began watching Torchwood) it caught me by surprise. “I am being ridiculous,” I thought, “crying over a television show.” At the time, I attempted to chalk it up to the variety of stressors and emotions that I was negotiating as I prepared to finish my Master’s degree (thesis defense, graduation, moving away from the town that I had come to call home for the previous six years, the place where I had met my closest friends and, for lack of a better phrase, grew up). Even then, though, that excuse just did not seem to fit. The emotions were too strong, the trigger too specific, for me to sweep it under that rug.
No, I began to cry whenever I thought of the characters of Jack and Ianto, two male characters who soon came to be in a romantic relationship. One would think that I would be happy at this. I mean, here was the type of relationship that I had been waiting quite a while to witness on television. Two male characters, in love, on a sci-fi/fantasy series. It’s like the program was made for me. But something about it struck a nerve (or a nerve cluster, given the spontaneous tidal waves of tears that gripped me over the next few days). Despite the depiction of their relationship, you see, I was gripped with a bit of an irrational fear. “What if it ends?” I thought. “What if one of them dies?” Or worse, “What if Jack leaves Ianto?” For some reason, I couldn’t bear the thought of their relationship ending (either because of death or choice). I still feel a bit of a twinge in my heart to think of their relationship ending (the upcoming third season will being airing soon, and I am a little afraid of what will happen to their relationship). You see, Torchwood is not a romance. It does not follow those generic conventions, which would seem to dictate that romantic relationships are affirmed and solidified at the story’s end. No, Torchwood is a fantasy. And as a fantasy, the maintenance of a relationship is by no means guaranteed. In fact, some would argue that it would make for a much better story if the relationship ends (there’s very little drama in stability, after all).
I thought that this feeling was limited to Torchwood. But earlier this year, I heard of a fantasy series featuring a gay male protagonist (Mercedes Lackey’s Last Herald Mage trilogy) and felt a bit of a compulsion to read it. I quickly tore through the three books in the series and felt the same wracking depression upon finishing them (the relationships of Vanyel, the main character, fared worse than the relationship of Jack and Ianto). And during the past few days, I have become rather taken with Lynn Flewelling’s “Nightrunner” series, which focuses upon the exploits of Seregil and Alec, two spies who eventually become lovers. I have so much invested in these characters that I have to skip to the end of each book in advance just to make sure that Seregil and Alec are alive and together at the end of the story. The fifth book in the series will be released in February next year, and to be honest I’m a bit scared to think of what’s in store for the two characters. Will they die? And if one of them dies, what will I do? I can’t even begin to imagine reading the books any more if that happens. It would be too painful.
And what, dear friends, does any of this have to do with spirituality or Yesod? Well, the truth of the matter is...I’m not entirely sure. But, a pattern seems to be emerging here. I hear of these stories, become heavily invested in the romance between the two male leads, and then experience a horrible bout of depression upon finishing them.
I was trying to think it through last night, and the only thing that I kept coming back to was that I was horribly and desperately lonely. Lonely in a way that is difficult to describe and even more difficult to comprehend, I think. I have family. I have friends. But this loneliness...it’s a yearning for the type of relationship that family and friends simply cannot give me. A type of closeness and openness between two people that I see in these stories, or in some of my friends, that I have never been able to feel. And have ached to feel for quite some time now. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit it...but I want to fall in love. And, honestly, I thought I would have by now.
It feels embarrassing and naive to admit that, but that doesn’t make it untrue. I recognize the silliness of it all. In fact, I wrote an entire thesis last year critiquing the ideas of normative domesticity - the idea that romantic relationships are all that matter, or should somehow be privileged above other relationships. And on a political level, I still believe this. But it’s here where I think the feminists got it wrong. The political is not necessarily the personal. I understand that, by privileging romantic relationships above all else (and domestic relationships in particular - witness the rhetoric of the gay marriage movement to see it in full swing), we are occluding the variety of attachments and connections that sustain us as humans. Furthermore, by ascribing to this ideal of romantic love, we are only setting ourselves up for disappointment in the relationships that we have formed and will form. It is an impossible standard.
And yet...I am apparently a hopeless romantic. I still want to believe that the type of love that exists in the stories that I read does, in fact, exist. It is something that I haven’t really admitted to myself in a long time. I have spent so much work over the past five years or so trying to convince myself that such things were childish, that I didn’t need that type of love to sustain me, and that I could still find happiness without it. And all of that is almost certainly true.
And yet...I still want it. If I’m being truly honest with myself, it is the one thing that I want more than anything else in this world. To fall in love with another man. To have that love be returned. Consciously or not, that wish has been in my heart every day for as long as I can remember. At least since I began coming out a decade ago. Every day, the same wish. To fall in love. Please let this be the day that I fall in love. Please let me find the man who was meant for me. Please let me fall in love. Every day. For a decade.
The one thing that I’ve wanted, and the one thing that I could never be sure I would receive. And the gay relationships in these fantasy novels...they reflect this fear back to me, I think. As I was saying, the gay relationships in these stories are by no means guaranteed. The characters are in love. But, ultimately, that love is secondary. Duty, honor, whatever...comes first. Baby, sometimes love just ain’t enough. And that...I don’t know. It’s something that I find difficult to accept. I want the relationships to last forever. I want the relationships to be all that the characters need. I want it to be the main focus of the stories, at least. But they aren’t. Other things supercede. The relationships tend to end, and loss and grieving and healing occurs. But the relationships end. (Well, some of them, anyway - it’s a toss-up still whether Jack/Ianto and Seregil/Alec will survive their latest adventures). But the message still seems to be the same. Love, despite its importance, is not the most important thing. Sometimes other things are more important.
Thinking about it right now, that seems like it would be a message that I would champion, given my political leanings. Yes, love is important, romantic relationships are important, but they are hardly the end all, be all of life. Other things can sometimes be more important. Why, then, do I find myself welling up with tears at the mere thought that these relationships will be torn asunder? Why, then, do I feel so invested in these relationships? Old feelings, it seems, die hard. Despite what I’ve been trying to convince myself over the past few years...I am still a romantic to the core.
In one of my earliest LiveJournal posts (back in, what, 2003? So long ago...) I wrote that I didn’t feel that life would be worth living without romantic love. In the years that followed, I always wanted to retract that statement (and have, on many occasions, both publicly and privately). Right now, though, I can’t help but think...maybe I was right? Which, quite frankly, is a conclusion that disturbs me a bit.
Which, perhaps, is what brings me back to Yesod. One of the phrases that one of the lovers in the Nighrunner series loves to repeat is, “Take what the Lighbringer gives, and be thankful.” It is meant simply enough. The future is unpredictable, and you never know if what you have today is what you will have tomorrow. So, take joy in what you have today, for tomorrow it could be gone. He often applies it to his relationship with his lover (which is understandable - they are characters in a fantasy novel, after all, and death is usually just around the next corner). It’s a lesson that I have been trying to apply to my reading of the novel. I don’t know if the upcoming fifth novel in the series will end with the relationship intact, or with one of the main characters dead. The latter possibility makes me cringe inside, and quite honestly makes me want to not read the rest of the series. But...take what the Lighbringer gives. To not read the series seems equally impossible. Because I crave the moments of romance (it’s all I have right now, after all - even sewer water is appealing if you’re dying of thirst). I don’t want to let the spectre of death cancel out the vicarious enjoyment that I get out of the descriptions of the main characters holding one another, or making love, or everything else that lovers do.
Take what the Lightbringer gives.
Last night, after crying all day practically, I was inspired to look through my copy of the Witches’ Qabala, by Ellen Cannon Reed. Don’t know why, just one of those sudden flashes of, “Hmmm, I should look at this.” All day, I had been crying, and thinking about why I was crying, and praying that I would one day be given a love like the one that I was reading about (Every day. For a decade.) And I kept returning to the same doubt. What if the answer to my prayers is “no”? Or what if the answer is “yes, but it will take a decade. Or two. Or three”? What do I do then? What if I have to go my entire life without this?
I looked up what Ellen Cannon Reed, though, had to say about the universe and its plan. I remembered that a few of the lessons of the Qabala revolved around having faith in the universe and its plans, and trusting in “the machinery of the universe.” Something which, quite frankly, I have never been able to do. And I found myself looking at her descriptions of Yesod, the ninth sphere and its correspondences. It proved...enlightening. I was initially drawn to Yesod precisely because of its “spiritual experience” or ultimate lesson, which Reed describes as “The Vision of the Machinery of the Universe” - a vision that the universe has a plan, and that it will eventually be for the best, even if we cannot understand it. The cynic in me wishes to dismiss this using familiar arguments (is war a part of this plan? Is this truly the best path for the world to be on)...but cynicism is too easy right now. It’s so easy to dismiss things like this. I think it’s scarier to think that it may be true...at least it is for me. Virtue of Yesod - independence. Vice - idleness. Briatic correspondence - receptivity, perception. Illusion - security. Obligation - trust. Trust.
Reading through all of this last night...it felt right. It resonated with me. I thought back to Nightrunner, and the quote that kept ringing in my head. “Take what the Lightbringer gives, and be thankful.” Take what the Universe gives, and be thankful. Trust in the plan. Last night, lying in bed thinking through all of this, I began to pray. I began to pray for what I usually pray for. And end to my loneliness. A lover to hold me. Again, embarrassing to admit, but it’s what I pray for. And I felt...comforted. It’s hard to describe. It’s not like I felt like I was talking to divinity (conceived however you do - I tend to default to the Wiccan image of a God and Goddess) - but it didn’t feel like I was simply talking to myself, either. It felt like that inner voice, that spark of truth inside (inside all of us, I think)....it felt right. And it said to trust in the plan, and that I would find love. Of course, I immediately leaped to doubt it (but what if the plan is that I will never find love)...but that doubt felt a bit hollow.
There are many truths, I know)...but the truth of this matter is, for me, to trust in the plan. ‘Cause despite all of my cynicism and bitterness and skepticism...I think, deep down, I still do believe in things like a plan. And in love. And it feels naive to admit that...but you know what? I’m happier being naive. I’m happier thinking that there is some sort of grand plan out there, bringing the world to a better place than it is right now. The Wheel of Time doesn’t turn. It rolls. And I’m happier thinking that I should trust in that plan. Of course, trusting in that plan may require sacrifice on my part. Romantic love may not be part of its plan for me. And if it is, it may not be eternal. It may be fleeting. It may not last. Despite how much I want it, despite how much I pray for it...it just may not be meant to be. But, and this is an important but, I think...but whatever the universe’s plan for me, it will be enough.
I feel like I am dangerously close to passivity here, to accepting the world as it is, to never acting to bring about what I want...but if you know me you know that I would never say that. And, in fact, I don’t think the Qabala would say that either. As I mentioned above, the vice of Yesod is “idleness.” Yesod isn’t about standing still and merely accepting what the world brings us. It means stepping over the edge of that precipice I talked about above, when I was feeling more abstract. It means not assuming that the leap of faith will finally be what it takes to convince the universe that I am worthy of a lover finally. It means not assuming that I will find a lover. It means not assuming that the direction I strike off in will have any of the desired effects (I feel like quoting J.K. Gibson-Graham right now, and their warnings against theoretical foreclosures...but I don’t have my copy handy). It means taking what the Lightbringer gives me, and being thankful.
And if that is the end of the relationship between Seregil and Alec, then so be it.
And if that is love, then so be it.
*Writing this out right now...I feel closer to the person that I was when I was 19 than I have in an eternity. This doesn’t feel like the person that I have been for the past 5 years or so, and I mean that as a compliment. I have become too jaded, too cynical, too bitter, and much too sarcastic. This feels...open. It feels honest. And that...that is a good feeling. I wonder if any of the people who I have recently met will even recognize the person that they met in this writing? I wonder if they’ll be surprised.... I know that I am surprised by it. I didn’t think that I still had feelings like this left in me. But I’m glad that I do.