Letter II
Hello there.
I think about the simple things. Just wanting to do the little simple things. I mean, with someone. And I think about wonderfully simple things that so often get overlooked, but could become such wonderful adventures.
And I think about being comfortable with someone. Beyond even a lack of awkwardness and a lack of broken bridges, beyond feeling totally at ease with someone… a comfortable of being with someone who you know wants to be there, wants to be with you. Wants to be with you because they genuinely enjoy your company. Comfortable in knowledge of mutual appreciation, adoration even. Comfortable outside the fear of judgment. I miss that.
I’m supposed to love people like Jesus loved people. And He loved people just because they WERE, whatever they were. Loved them with a consistent, unconditional love that knows no limits and will never run dry. I’m trying to do that. There’s something incredibly centering about acknowledging every person’s profound equality- the equality that is difficult and uncomfortable to see- and then trying loving them all at least a little bit (and hopefully significantly more), simply because they are. But of course, I have favorites. There are still a few people I honestly and truly care about. Like my dear friend, him.
Yesterday, his eyes looked so very full and so very void of anything resembling happiness or hope. He was trying to hold it together and to hold it inside, because it is his way and because he has a great strength born of a quiet and sort of secret fear. And I knew he truly didn’t want me, but I also knew that I truly did not want him to be alone. I wanted to touch him and hold him and let my hands say the things that seemed to swirl like cotton somewhere at the bottom of my throat and refuse to solidify. But I hesitated, honestly because I was afraid of his skin rejecting my fingertips and his body rejecting my weight. I feared that my touch would only serve as a reminder that my touch was not the one his entire being was craving.
He is not deeply mine. I suppose he’s mine in a pleasant, flowing and gentle sort of way, but not deeply so. Not the kind of belonging you really don’t realize you’ve chosen until after you’ve given yourself away or collected enough of someone to keep. Not the kind of belonging that feels like it’s a choice you’re making as much as it feels like inhaling sweet air to fill themselves is a choice your lungs are making. It’s not in the way that I can only breathe properly and the rhythm of his heart only sounds quite right when we’re in each other’s arms.
No, he’s not mine in that sense. And I am not his. But we are so comfortable, and his consistency has sustained me more than once when I thought my footing was falling out from underneath me, and he’s given me a place to rest when I thought I had no bed to sleep in. So there is a cherished comfort, but there’s precious more… he’s a sweet emblem of hope. Hope that it’s all going to work out, and that it will all feel right. I began to love him those years ago because he kissed the hand that held my wild and untamable beliefs and dreams; he told me that the sky was the limit- and that the sky is merely an illusion. My love for him still glows strong.
All too often, these possessions and belongings and connections are at first blissfully ignorantly viewed as inherently flawless. All too often, they soon are viewed as tragically and fatally flawed due to their inevitable lack perfection.
Which leaves two questions about connections: Can they ever truly cease entirely, and can they really last?
Just kind of wondering.
Love,
I think about the simple things. Just wanting to do the little simple things. I mean, with someone. And I think about wonderfully simple things that so often get overlooked, but could become such wonderful adventures.
And I think about being comfortable with someone. Beyond even a lack of awkwardness and a lack of broken bridges, beyond feeling totally at ease with someone… a comfortable of being with someone who you know wants to be there, wants to be with you. Wants to be with you because they genuinely enjoy your company. Comfortable in knowledge of mutual appreciation, adoration even. Comfortable outside the fear of judgment. I miss that.
I’m supposed to love people like Jesus loved people. And He loved people just because they WERE, whatever they were. Loved them with a consistent, unconditional love that knows no limits and will never run dry. I’m trying to do that. There’s something incredibly centering about acknowledging every person’s profound equality- the equality that is difficult and uncomfortable to see- and then trying loving them all at least a little bit (and hopefully significantly more), simply because they are. But of course, I have favorites. There are still a few people I honestly and truly care about. Like my dear friend, him.
Yesterday, his eyes looked so very full and so very void of anything resembling happiness or hope. He was trying to hold it together and to hold it inside, because it is his way and because he has a great strength born of a quiet and sort of secret fear. And I knew he truly didn’t want me, but I also knew that I truly did not want him to be alone. I wanted to touch him and hold him and let my hands say the things that seemed to swirl like cotton somewhere at the bottom of my throat and refuse to solidify. But I hesitated, honestly because I was afraid of his skin rejecting my fingertips and his body rejecting my weight. I feared that my touch would only serve as a reminder that my touch was not the one his entire being was craving.
He is not deeply mine. I suppose he’s mine in a pleasant, flowing and gentle sort of way, but not deeply so. Not the kind of belonging you really don’t realize you’ve chosen until after you’ve given yourself away or collected enough of someone to keep. Not the kind of belonging that feels like it’s a choice you’re making as much as it feels like inhaling sweet air to fill themselves is a choice your lungs are making. It’s not in the way that I can only breathe properly and the rhythm of his heart only sounds quite right when we’re in each other’s arms.
No, he’s not mine in that sense. And I am not his. But we are so comfortable, and his consistency has sustained me more than once when I thought my footing was falling out from underneath me, and he’s given me a place to rest when I thought I had no bed to sleep in. So there is a cherished comfort, but there’s precious more… he’s a sweet emblem of hope. Hope that it’s all going to work out, and that it will all feel right. I began to love him those years ago because he kissed the hand that held my wild and untamable beliefs and dreams; he told me that the sky was the limit- and that the sky is merely an illusion. My love for him still glows strong.
All too often, these possessions and belongings and connections are at first blissfully ignorantly viewed as inherently flawless. All too often, they soon are viewed as tragically and fatally flawed due to their inevitable lack perfection.
Which leaves two questions about connections: Can they ever truly cease entirely, and can they really last?
Just kind of wondering.
Love,