This past Valentine’s Day (a holiday I don’t really care about) found me thinking about love, possibly one of the most difficult things in the world to write about. Where does it come from? And when it goes, how does it? And where does it? Is it an energy that dissipates or can be killed? Or is it just an imaginary thing that lives in our minds, something we can abandon or forget?
Although historically I have been easily seduced by love’s sinister cousin, infatuation, my real soul mate is bittersweet love, in whatever form it may take.
The tears that appear unbidden in my eyes when I think too hard about my dad, or the things my mom sacrificed to raise me, or the thought of my dear grandparents someday not living? That is love.
How when someone badmouths my loyal and trusted friends, or otherwise tries to hurt them, I turn into a junkyard dog, all fierce hackles and bared teeth? Love, unquestionably.
And then there is that passionate, brutal love, the kind that is like a “sickness and its cure together,” the love that smashes things and puts them right again only to spectacularly shatter them once more, leaving behind a barren landscape so scarred that it can take years to sustain new life. Even if we bury it, like toxic waste near a water supply, the loss of this kind of love can taint every aspect of our future lives.
So why do we give someone so much power over us? What is it in our genetic makeup that causes us to need love, to keep stepping in it again and again?
And why do we scrutinize it in such minute detail, and watch stupid movies that make us think that somehow the love we have doesn’t measure up?
Is it because the most valuable love is also the hardest to recognize for what it’s worth? Shouldn’t there be higher value placed on the kind of love that knows how much milk to put in your coffee every morning for years and years? Or on the love that will sit by your bedside when you are feverish and delirious, holding a cool cloth on your forehead? Comfortable, slow-burning, compassionate love? Those things are vital, right?
How do we ever know for sure the choices we have made (or not made) are right? I don’t know. I don’t know.
What I do know is that I am in love with love; I heart it, am absolutely smitten. Heartache, be damned, I’m not afraid of you. I’ve slayed dragons way bigger than you.
I, too, raise my chipped glass to love.
By: James on February 16, 2008
at 9:24 am
Beautiful post, Heather.
By: Julie A. on February 16, 2008
at 10:03 am
I knew that you two would be the first people to comment about love. Of course.
By: heatherinparadise on February 16, 2008
at 10:49 am
Those that love love invariably find it. In all of its wonderful, sticky, ugly, messy, breathtaking forms….
I heart this blog!
By: charmarie221 on February 16, 2008
at 12:04 pm
Great post!
Love is sneaky! Always shows up when you least expect it. Life would be boring without love.
By: purpledragonfly on February 16, 2008
at 12:10 pm
Beautifully said Heather…You have a way with your words and touching other peoples hearts..
By: CYNDI on February 16, 2008
at 1:14 pm
I am in love with the part about knowing how much milk goes in your coffee. We’re all affected by crazy, passionate, unreasonable love, but the deepest parts in us recognize the most valuable love that does all the reasonable things too.
By: Martina on February 16, 2008
at 3:30 pm
Char said love was sticky. Tee-hee!
By: James on February 16, 2008
at 6:16 pm
There are many loves
Here is one, but I love many kinds of love
(Tevye)
“Golde, I have decided to give Perchik permission to become engaged to our daughter, Hodel.”
(Golde)
“What??? He’s poor! He has nothing, absolutely nothing!”
(Tevye)
“He’s a good man, Golde.
I like him. And what’s more important, Hodel likes him. Hodel loves him.
So what can we do?
It’s a new world… A new world. Love. Golde…”
Do you love me?
(Golde)
Do I what?
(Tevye)
Do you love me?
(Golde)
Do I love you?
With our daughters getting married
And this trouble in the town
You’re upset, you’re worn out
Go inside, go lie down!
Maybe it’s indigestion
(Tevye)
“Golde I’m asking you a question…”
Do you love me?
(Golde)
You’re a fool
(Tevye)
“I know…”
But do you love me?
(Golde)
Do I love you?
For twenty-five years I’ve washed your clothes
Cooked your meals, cleaned your house
Given you children, milked the cow
After twenty-five years, why talk about love right now?
(Tevye)
Golde, The first time I met you
Was on our wedding day
I was scared
(Golde)
I was shy
(Tevye)
I was nervous
(Golde)
So was I
(Tevye)
But my father and my mother
Said we’d learn to love each other
And now I’m asking, Golde
Do you love me?
(Golde)
I’m your wife
(Tevye)
“I know…”
But do you love me?
(Golde)
Do I love him?
For twenty-five years I’ve lived with him
Fought him, starved with him
Twenty-five years my bed is his
If that’s not love, what is?
(Tevye)
Then you love me?
(Golde)
I suppose I do
(Tevye)
And I suppose I love you too
(Both)
It doesn’t change a thing
But even so
After twenty-five years
It’s nice to know
By: Roni on February 16, 2008
at 8:25 pm
Nice writing job!
By: Weave on February 16, 2008
at 8:58 pm
I am in love with love. It is my disease right now.
By: Amy on February 17, 2008
at 10:51 am
After reading this post, I think I’m a little bit in love with you!
You are a wonderful writer with amazing insight to share!
By: gabachayucateca on February 17, 2008
at 11:41 am
Beautiful words from a beautiful woman. *sigh*
By: Michele on February 17, 2008
at 10:23 pm
‘through my tears’. way to go. i’m supposed to be on vacation.
By: scott on February 18, 2008
at 6:50 am
I love this post Heather.
By: Tappy on February 27, 2008
at 1:14 pm
Thank you.
By: heatherinparadise on February 29, 2008
at 3:25 pm