Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

My better kind of fire…

May 10th, 2009 | Josie

“I’ve been quick to love, quicker to tire. I’m looking for a slower burn, a better kind of fire.” ~Meg Hutchinson, ‘I’d Like to Know’

The constant theme of my life is this up and down rollercoaster game I’ve been playing with love, and the idea of love, since I was old enough to understand what it meant. I’ve been hurt, and I’ve hurt others. I’ve even wallowed in what I though was a hurt, but turned out to be a bit of a blessing in disguise. I’m jaded, guilded green with the doubt my past encounters with love have instilled. I’ve been too quick to fall in love, or to claim a love that wasn’t true. At the first wisps of what might develop into genuine feelings, I would declare my devotion, verbally or not, and would extinguish the infant flames. Too many times I’ve put out the fire before it even began to give off light or heat. My experience of love has too often left me shivering in the dark alone.I’ve grown more and more hesitant to declare my feelings, even to feel them at all. There have been times I have all but given up on the idea of being lovable, damning myself to an existence of forever unrequited infatuations. As much as I yearned for love, I worried that perhaps it was beyond my reach. I realize now that perhaps what made love so unattainable for me was my very searching. As long as I was looking for it, love was elusive and reluctant to  alight on me. It was when I least expected it, when I wasn’t seeking it at all, that the sparks of what might be love, given the chance, landed on my shoulders. The distance is hard, no doubt about it. but I think that, combined with a hesitance born of years of hurt, the distance has given me the space to avoid smothering the growing flames.Its different this time, not the roaring inferno of teenage hormones, bound to burn bright and die suddenly with lack of oxygen. Nor is it a timid kind of love, that I am always feeding and fostering but it bound to go out from the start.  This time it isbetter, real, solid. While the warmth, this love, is terrifying to a heart used to chill, it is at the same time exhilierating. This is warmer, brighter. More a glow than a flame, the smoldering kind of heat that permeates a room. Or a soul.

Love must be as much a light, as it is a flame.”  ~Henry David Thoreau

Notches on the bedpost…

January 4th, 2009 | Josie

“I am tired of chafing my heart; of squeezing it into little inkdrops and posting it.”~Amy Lowel

It isn’t that I’m being ignored, that once again my hesitance had been justified, or that I’m left with only another notch in my bedpost and a simiarly sized wound to my heart. It is the fact that I trusted against my better judgement. I let in a little bit of hope when I should have kept the walls around my heart rigid and barred against the illusion of happy that was offered. Was a mere six weeks of blissfully wishing worth the further disillusionment to my belief in all things warm and fuzzy? I expected to hurt, to cry, and to miss that happiness, but I didn’t really want to believe that it would flee from me so swiftly. I thought the moment would linger, at least in hearts, for a little while at least, would let me cling to the threads of this unraveling tabestry of imaginary happiness. Instead I am ignored, rejected, and hope for something real is little more than smoke around my head as I sit on the floor with seared palms. And once again, I can’t blame anyone but myself.It is silly for me to be upset, one cannot expect a boy to be a man or happiness to alight in any permanent way on a lost cause like me. Its one more dissapointment to add to my growing reprotoire. I have amassed quite a collection of failed affairs and lost loves, gathering dust on the shelves of my soul. So, in the end I guild it in green and walk away, jaded all the more by further proof that my worst fears may turn out to be true.

“if i’m bound to forget you, don’t you let me befrom the day that i met you i’ve been set on youwhat a tragedy it’d be if you and me weren’t happyif you’ve been tellin all the tall tales end to endsince the day that we met and became good friendsthen i’ve been lying too, is it really yousayhey, what’s the big dealoh, where’d all the fun gosince we got serious i’ve been such a messblame the stars or a bleeding heart…what a tragedy, you and me~Gregory & the Hawk, “Blame-qui”

 

Cracking open worlds…

November 17th, 2008 | Josie

“Then I did the simplest thing in the world.  I leaned down… and kissed him.  And the world cracked open.”  ~Agnes de Mille

The shiny bit of happiness that has desperately been trying to burrow its way into my heart for the better part of 3 weeks has, against all odds, despite all of my well-planned defenses, exploded into me. Part of me is hesitant to fall willingly into this feeling, terrified to embrace what I know will only be a passing moment. The whole of me though, however terrified to feel, knows that I’m already damned. I can no more stop what is happening than I could stop the wind from blowing or the sun from shining. Every piece of my battered heart is begging me to just give in, to feel this happiness in the here and now, and to hell with the consequences. I feel as though I have shattered into a million little pieces, but at the same time I am more whole than I have been in months, probably in years. I can’t seem to catch my breath, but don’t feel the lack of air. I am leaning full into the precipice below, not entirely sure that I will caught at the bottom, and almost too happy to worry about that eventuality. The only thing holding me back is the knowledge that this happiness cannot and will not last forever, and the sinking suspicion that when it goes, I will be more bereft of emotion than I was before. Can I lose myself to a lifetimes worth of emotion, to be played out in a mere month, when I know that at the end of it I may well lose my heart?

“What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?”~Robert Browning

Knowing hunger and lacking wisdom…

November 12th, 2008 | Josie

kisses are a better fate than wisdom. ~e.e. cummings

My relationship with the act of kissing has always been a little stilted. Physically, I don’t know why something that is, in a word, disgusting, has the power to bring me to my knees. When I was very young, a friend expressed his awe that people bother to kiss at all. “It’s like spitting into someones mouth and then saying I love you.” Which is, if you get right down to it, true. So why then, do we crave that action of lip to lip, trying to find ourselves and our souls on the lips of another person?I got my first real kiss when I was 15 years old. He was a friend, and I was sick. I had been in and out of the hospital for weeks, poked and prodded by doctors stumped by my abnormal and possibly dangerous blood. I was trying not to be scared. I sat through most of the football game that night, trying not to think about it too hard, but sitting in the grass behind the fence with a friend, I lost it. I started crying and crying, tears that seemed to last for days, for years. I was scared, and in the confusion, he kissed me. Lips that taste of tears, they say, are he best for kissing. I don’t know if that is true, only that I was happy for a moment, amid all that was terrifying me in my life.Several months later, I found out that I wasn’t going to die. I also discovered what it is like to want to die. The same boy that stole a kiss under that September sky stole from me my innocence and my trust. That was the night I started hiding from the world, and from myself. I spent years in hiding, and am only now, 6 years later, truly learning to peek out from behind the walls I’ve built around my heart.It it perhaps a bit idiosyncratic that I have taken something that should mean the world, an act of trust and love, and used it as a shield against really ever having to feel anything. If one kisses enough people, then I suppose that the act becomes like any other habit, something to do, but almost entirely meaningless. I seek to find the bits of my soul that I have lost on the mouths of men, and am always surprised to discover that instead of finding those bits, I’m leaving broken pieces of my heart in my wake. I am so surprised that for the first time in a long time, I feel kisses. Not on my mouth, but in my soul.  A simple small kiss on the brow sends shivers down my spine, and into my heart.The heart that I have kept locked away for so many years is shaking the bars of its too-small cage, demanding to be allowed to feel all the emotions that I have kept from it. Happiness is as sustenance to the heart, and I am refusing to let even a small bit of that emotion slip between my lips. I am so scared to feel the kisses that are keeping me awake at night, afraid that when this ends, as it always does and undoubted will again, my heart will rebel at its lack. I have lived so long with this constant but familiar hunger, I am afraid to taste this happiness that is so blindingly sweet. I am afraid that if I let myself truly indulge in it and be happy, I will never be able to live with the hunger again.

Just enough…

August 7th, 2008 | Josie

“A kiss is the upper persuasion for a lower invasion.”  ~Author Unknown

There is little more I can say than that. Why do things have to be so complicated, even when they are so strait forward? Why is just enough never quite right? How is it that a brief encounter can leave me feeling so alone?And why are there no answers among all of the damned questions that make up me?

Burning myself again…

July 11th, 2008 | Josie

“When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold.  They believe that when something’s suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful.”  ~Barbara Bloom

Brokeness and disappointment. These are things that I have come to be accustomed to, have learned to deal with in the past few years. There are memories that break me down everytime they enter my thoughts, a perpetual replay of the worst moments of my life, over and over. I have accepted that I am damaged and that perhaps I have no right to seek what is beyond my reach. There have been moments that I have welcomed the mud in my eyes and rain on my head, if only because the pain and hurt meant that I was somehow still alive.Through it all, there has been a glimmer of hope, a longing that will not die despite the onslaught of despair and depression that threatens to consume me. Somehow I continue to pray that someone will be able to see through the brokeness to the beauty that I know must still exist underneath. Everytime I let someone close, hoping to find that understanding, I come away from the experience just a little more disheartened than before, doubting my worth a little more, trusting my heart to others that much less. After the last disappointment, it took me months to trust even a little, to let that small unfailing hope into my heart again. I thought perhaps someone had waited, thought that I “measured up” enough to be worth the tediousness that I know being with me would entail. I thought, just maybe…On some level I am hurt at the duplicitous nature of men, of their ability to make you feel like the only thing in the world that matters, only to turn around and treat you like the worst smelling scum the next. As much as it hurts to be treated poorly, the deepest cut of all is that of being ignored. Of being not even important enough to matter that much. In the end though, I blame myself for letting myself hope. How many times do I have to be burned before I stop putting my hand the flame?

Tear my heart assunder…

June 17th, 2008 | Josie

“The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.”  ~Virginia Woolf

I have tried to live my life more or less according to an honorable path,but no matter how diligently I check the road ahead of me for sticks and stones that may be in my way, I often find myself stumbling, even falling. Laying sprawled on the road as I am, and cannot help but to notice the terrible beauty of the world around me. The great skies open up above me, the rain falling to my face like the tears of all the world. Even as I slowly drown in the sorrow of the rain, I marvel at the beauty of each small, perfect drop. Alone, a single raindrop is nothing, entirely inconsequential. Together, however, the rain can wash away stone and earth, moving mountains thought immovable. As each drop hits the ground it diappears, swallowed by the dark earth. Raindrops do not die, however. By succumbing to their fate, to their inevitable need to fall, they allow other things to grow and be, become something more than a single, small droplet. Only by falling and giving way the the thing that it once was can the rain become part of this great and terrible World. Would that I were like the rain, that in falling I may become part of something larger than myself. Would that all my painful stumblings would come to something rather than to naught. Perhaps they will. Perhaps only by tearing my heart assunder can I truly find the happiness that I so long for in this life. Just maybe, I will rise from the muddy ground, new and whole in a way that I never thought to be again.Until then, however, I will lie here, awestruck by the teriffying wonder of the rain.

Risking the fall…

June 11th, 2008 | Josie

“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily.  To not dare is to lose oneself.”  ~Soren Kierkegaard

I have fallen so many times, and each time I find myself in the dirt, weighed down by all my own inadequacy, it is that much harder for me to pick myself back up, to continue to trudge along the weary, often trying path that has me winding through this life of mine. I so often feel that it would be easier to simply stay on the ground and let the earth consume me, misery and all. Somehow, though, I have always found the strength to rise up and continue. Each fall though, leaves me with a sense of trepidation, of hesitancy that I didn’t harbor before. I can never trust quite as deeply as before, I can never hope with the strength that I once had. I can never believe in myself like I used to. I have left pieces of me behind in the dust: my innocence, my naivete, my virtue.After years of falling down and gradually picking myself up, losing the best pieces of myself to my past, I find that I am scared to trust, afraid to hope. I can’t believe in myself or in others. I want to trust again, to trust that someone wants me for me, brokenness and all. I want  to find the courage to risk my heart again, but I am too afraid that there is no more strength in me to suffer another fall.

Well and truly…

June 6th, 2008 | Josie

“Her lips on his could tell him better than all her stumbling words.”  ~Margaret Mitchell

There is no such thing in this world as an innocent kiss. To kiss someone is to pour your soul into them, to allow them to know you in a way words can never convey. Lips on lips tell secrets that you didn’t even know you had, expose feelings and desires so deep as to be almost forgotten. A kiss, a truly good kiss, can tear down the walls around a broken heart, exposing it to the wind, to the possibility of love. All of the the things that we cannot express in language, no matter how carefully we try to word our thoughts, are opened anew in the simple act of a kiss. It has been too long since I have been well and truly kissed.

Mommy’s girl…

June 13th, 2007 | Josie

A daughter is a little girl who grows up to be a friend.  ~Author Unknown

As old as we get, there is always that time of the day that we wish we were five again, just so we could curl up in our mother’s lap and not worry about the world for a little while. The older we get, the less we have that opportunity. Our mother goes from mommy to friend, in a transition that often seems inexplicable.

Growing up, I raged against my mother from time to time. I resented her authority, that she felt she wshould be able to tell me what to do. Even when I knew that she was right, I would rebel against her advise. I often acused my mom of trying to turn me into “just a little her.” While it is true that I share many qualities with my mother (most admirable traits mixed in with one or two bad habits), I can now see that my mom never wanted me to be her. She wanted only for me to be the best me that I could be. She is, of course, disappointed when I don’t live up to my own standards, when I don’t “practice what I preach,” but she has never once stopped loving me.

She has been my best friend, and my worst critic. Sometimes, she is both at once. She is there for you when you fall, scolding you when you need it, and hugging you always. She is the mirror that you look to for guidence, the one person that you most want to impress. We are the reflections of our mother’s love, always.