A bit about Love, and a few other things

Just as surely as I didn’t expect to begin here with reflections on Fear, neither did I think I’d so soonly follow with thoughts about Love.  But since they are the polar opposites, it really isn’t such a surprise after all.  There is always the One, and then there is always the Other, all the dichotomies that flavor our lives.  Even the French said Vive la difference, but sometimes the vive part is a hurtin’ thing.

In thinking about Love, I found myself folding into thoughts about being strong.  Those two things have these days found quite a relationship with each other in my life.  I ask myself, What would a strong woman be?  What would a strong woman do?  I’m finding that what is true for Love, it seems to be likewise true for Strength, and many other things — that they must be expressed in actions, not words.  Love, along with its kith and kin, should be defined, or at least demonstrated, by means of actions, not blather.

Now I love words.  I simply cannot seem to stop writing them, especially lately.  I had occasion to fall in love by manner of words.  And I can give as good as I get when it comes to creating them.  But this man could write.  He seduced me with words, and I smote him right back.  We were just about equally matched in the word department, each with our own style and delivery.  If we’d been able to have our love remain functional or in some pure form by the nature and nurture of words alone, we might have made it.

It was the action thing, and he couldn’t do it, not for long.  And I’m sure I played my part, aided and abetted by my carry-on luggage that I unpacked far too often.  It wasn’t that we didn’t back up some of those words with some purely splendiferous moments.  I thought we could make a life of those moments, allowing of course for the tending to realities of the “terrible dailyness,” (a term coined by Steven Levine), except he really wanted nothing to do with the terrible dailyness part of it.  And that, and some bad behavior, was that.  Sad to say I probably have had entirely too many episodes of looking (and acting) like an actual drama queen in the course of things.  But the only one who ever out and out accused me of it wore the biggest king crown I’ve ever seen, so it must take one to know one.  I still seem to love him to this day, but only the parts of him that now assume misty memory quality, for the last chances for thinking of him in the present tense are relegated to those If Onlys that got lost in the piles in my closet.

Towards the end, (though there were several of them, actually), even the words turned on us.  We put flesh to the bones of the words, and in the long run, (and it was rather a long run, highlighted and then lowlighted with the best ups and the most depressing downs), the road ran out.  As is the way with us pitiful human types, the attempts at reality far missed the high aim of the verbiage, and then there you sit, Dead Ended.

So now here I am, redefining, becoming, and just being, yet again and still.  I always used to joke about being a Late Bloomer.  Not so much a joke anymore, and I’m not sure how funny, either.  I feel a little Mae West at times – exhibiting not the higher power ideals of the guru types who tout living your life as a good example.  Like Mae, I’ve spent too many years being a bad one.  I think, however, I have finally learned a few things.

You get to the point, (one hopes), where you get it that the way you’ve been living your life, time after too many times, just isn’t paying off with the end result you envisioned.  After a soul numbing tour of duty in the ruts, climbing out of them is an interesting and maybe daunting experience.  It’s not that you’re in totally unfamiliar territory.  After all, you had to come from somewhere to begin your journey into the mud run.  So when you get yourself back up on that familiar yet unfamiliar ground, it taps into the bittersweet experience of remembering who you used to be, before you got small, and the ruts got so deep.  Maybe there are some who never even got the blessing of having a safe beginning ground.  To them, maybe there’s the feeling of…. Yes, this looks right, feels better.  This is what I imagined it might be……

There was that movie about Georgia O’Keeffe last night.  She’s been one of my heros for so many years I don’t remember when she wasn’t.  Her picture,  she sitting amongst her bones and rocks and wood, hangs on the wall above me as I write.  It was filmed in New Mexico, where I fancy I want to live.  The story so paralleled parts of my own life that it brought me to tears.  She left her incredulous, flawed beloved behind as she moved on into her discovered self, and neither of them could comprehend the other’s behavior, even though they genuinely loved each other.  She crafted an extraordinary life.

I aspire to an extraordinary life, and the cost is sometimes high, or perhaps it’s just unfamiliar currency.  I wonder how many extraordinary lives are squandered on the status quo, lost in the terrible dailyness.  Why is it not normal, (whatever that is), or at least standard operating procedure, to strive for the extraordinary, instead of running out of energy and time accomplishing barely enough while chasing the mechanical rabbit around the track?  It is a Law of Queenie to Settle for More, (and that is copyright, my friends.)

I’m not sure I said much about the great battle between Love and Fear.  I know fear is at the basis of our discarded dedication to the extraordinary, traded in for some acceptable form of safety, even if it means clinging to what we know because we fear what we don’t.  Yes, there might be a different life outside those ruts, where we can hide from it if we want to.  Might be Wild Indians out there, or Republicans, or Hottentots.  Hard to be discovered if you’re safely tucked into those deep ruts.  But then, it’s hard to discover anything from in there either, even yourself.  And there you are.  What’s your choice?

You’ll hear a lot more about Choice around these parts.  Be warned.  And if you need a ladder to climb out of those ruts, I bet they’re on sale at a Big Box right down the road.  Might be worth the investment if you haven’t grown your wings yet.  I would ask you to consider it, and Change, and Choice, if your view of life is impeded by the walls of the ruts you might find yourself in.  If you’re happy there, well, then, have a very nice time.  I prefer the view from the promontory, where I can breathe free, and stretch my eyes.  But that’s just me.

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