Loving Well
There comes a point when life breaks you. Whatever conception of yourself you have in your head--- be it of a warrior or a peasant, a miracle worker or a thief-- will be negated in boldest ways possible.
It happens too, that life reaffirms who we truly are. Shells and facades do no justice to a true, passionate human heart, yet we walk the earth with them in place, held together with duct tape, chicken wire and spit, these straw man selves.
More than two years ago, I met a woman who made me weak. In every way. At the first steps, she made me weak in the knees, weak on my feet, head over heels. But soon (or perhaps it was always there) another kind of weak crept in. My mind was weak because I didn't read the books she wanted me to read. My body was weak because I didn't go to the gym enough. I was weak because I wasn't as zen as she was.
I look back now and can see, clearly, how destructive that situation was. And, in truth, it did destroy me, first as I bent myself to her wants, and then after as she cut me loose after pressing me into her own image. I was water, ready to be frozen in pleasant images for her, ready to parrot back her own philosophies.
I lost myself. I put myself away on some high shelf, in the back of a closet that housed the ice skates I never used and the flared jeans from my high school days.
And then I broke.
I spent the next year putting myself back together. The pieces were shaped differently than I remembered and I still have a few left-over, rattling around in a junk drawer somewhere.
But I still didn't feel like myself.
There were still affirmations to come.
As I write this, there is a girl in bed next to me who is prying her eyes open so she can wait for me to go to sleep. She arrived unexpectedly and quietly, and caused me days of agony before I succombed to the inevitability of it.
I had forgotten what it feels like to fall in love. Unlike most of the gunshy, I still find it in me to leap, but every time I think I've hit the bottom of this something happens to make my chest swell more with a warm, orange light. I feel as though my ribs might crack from the inside out, so palpable is the feeling of fullness.
I feel like myself again. I have always been, at my core, a person who loves. I've been told that my entire life is an obsession on love, and it's not far from the truth.
Loving well is the highest form of art I've ever seen.
I will wake up in the morning, like other mornings, surprised that I haven't created her. We are new, yet she finishes my sentences and makes mental leaps it has taken others years to follow. She is sharp as a tack with a heart as light as a feather and she bends me. My joints are rusty and I haven't used these muscles in a while.
I feel like such a traitor to my artist-self, still deluding myself that suffering is noble and leads to brilliance. Real brilliance is accepting beauty and happiness and knowing that they are deserved. Start to doubt and the songbird flies away.
I cannot say how much or how little I'll be saying here. I debated even saying this much, but I have always shared my struggles with you. It seems only fair to share the blessings as well.
I am happy, well-loved and loving well.
Love,
Beth
It happens too, that life reaffirms who we truly are. Shells and facades do no justice to a true, passionate human heart, yet we walk the earth with them in place, held together with duct tape, chicken wire and spit, these straw man selves.
More than two years ago, I met a woman who made me weak. In every way. At the first steps, she made me weak in the knees, weak on my feet, head over heels. But soon (or perhaps it was always there) another kind of weak crept in. My mind was weak because I didn't read the books she wanted me to read. My body was weak because I didn't go to the gym enough. I was weak because I wasn't as zen as she was.
I look back now and can see, clearly, how destructive that situation was. And, in truth, it did destroy me, first as I bent myself to her wants, and then after as she cut me loose after pressing me into her own image. I was water, ready to be frozen in pleasant images for her, ready to parrot back her own philosophies.
I lost myself. I put myself away on some high shelf, in the back of a closet that housed the ice skates I never used and the flared jeans from my high school days.
And then I broke.
I spent the next year putting myself back together. The pieces were shaped differently than I remembered and I still have a few left-over, rattling around in a junk drawer somewhere.
But I still didn't feel like myself.
There were still affirmations to come.
As I write this, there is a girl in bed next to me who is prying her eyes open so she can wait for me to go to sleep. She arrived unexpectedly and quietly, and caused me days of agony before I succombed to the inevitability of it.
I had forgotten what it feels like to fall in love. Unlike most of the gunshy, I still find it in me to leap, but every time I think I've hit the bottom of this something happens to make my chest swell more with a warm, orange light. I feel as though my ribs might crack from the inside out, so palpable is the feeling of fullness.
I feel like myself again. I have always been, at my core, a person who loves. I've been told that my entire life is an obsession on love, and it's not far from the truth.
Loving well is the highest form of art I've ever seen.
I will wake up in the morning, like other mornings, surprised that I haven't created her. We are new, yet she finishes my sentences and makes mental leaps it has taken others years to follow. She is sharp as a tack with a heart as light as a feather and she bends me. My joints are rusty and I haven't used these muscles in a while.
I feel like such a traitor to my artist-self, still deluding myself that suffering is noble and leads to brilliance. Real brilliance is accepting beauty and happiness and knowing that they are deserved. Start to doubt and the songbird flies away.
I cannot say how much or how little I'll be saying here. I debated even saying this much, but I have always shared my struggles with you. It seems only fair to share the blessings as well.
I am happy, well-loved and loving well.
Love,
Beth