Sitting in the doctor’s office the other day with my brother, I watched as an elderly couple emerged from the examination area and headed toward the door. They moved along slowly, but with a certain rhythm that indicated many years spent together. I smiled.
I then sighed and wondered what it would feel like to have a life long companion. As they reached the door to leave, the woman said something to the man about getting the door for her. It was obvious her sight was impaired and she was a little unsteady on her feet. To her comment, her husband replied with a rather abrupt growl, “I know to get the door! I was going to get the door!” In that moment, my smile faded and I felt all the romantic air leave my heart.
By all rights, sitting here right now, I should have no belief in true love. I don’t mean companionship. No, that’s not the type of union for which I speak. Companionship is inherent to true love. However, true love is not inherent to companionship. Many couples sign on to be together and move through their days knowing that they have someone to call if ever they get a flat on the freeway or someone to fill their house with activity. My parents had that. I don’t want that. I want the kind of union where kindness sits at the core of words shared, respect is mutual, and both would rather harm themselves than the other.
I’ve never viewed myself as a romantic. I am, without a doubt however, passionate. I’m passionate about my children, my friends and my writing. I’m passionate about this thing we call life. This does not mean that I’m a Cuckoo bird or a nut job. Or that I run through fields naked. Not that I’m ruling that out, I just haven’t ever felt possessed, as of yet, to do so. Being passionate just means that I absorb life more than most. My lows are felt harder and deeper. Yet my highs reach unheard of levels. Middle of the road just isn’t how I roll. Instead of floating slowly down the center of the river, I tend to pinball around a bit, cascade down unexpected rapids and also rest at the serene spot where the water is like glass and the reflection of the trees can be seen like a painting upon the bend where the water isn’t captive to movement.
I think that is why I so often listen to music. Song writers and musicians are by nature, passionate people. They write words that cut through the heart, much like how I write. They write with brutal honesty; their pain and their joy are expressed equally and without concern for appearances. I find harmony with them; a certain resonance. In fact, music feels spiritual to me. The energy of music is the stuff of the heavens, the stuff of God and love.
Do I believe in star-crossed love and Kismet souls uniting – yes. But just as two middle of the river lovers are sure to have a certain subdued love. You can bet when two passionate lovers come together, its one hell of a ride. There are ups and there are downs. But there is always respect and an undeniable need to be with one another. If I’m blessed to finally have this most precious of unions firmly in my grasp, I will cherish it, nurture it and I will write about it. I won’t look for it, of course – it will have to find me. But once it does, I will give it my best, expecting the same in return. When I need the door opened, I hope to find my husband already standing there with the door lovingly pulled wide. God knows, I won’t travel down the river otherwise.