REPAIRING THE BROKEN CONNECTION
Not long ago, I asked myself a serious question: What on earth is romantic love? Many times, like most men I suppose, I've merely shrugged off the quandary, thinking, I'm not certain what it is, exactly, but I'll know it when I see it. But this time, lying in bed, way past two a.m., entirely alone, too, staring at the patterns of shadow and light on my dark bedroom wall, I came to a few conclusions about something about which we usually dismiss. Funny, too: Not a tinge of sadness sat upon my heart in how I thought. Rather, I felt joy.
When I was really young, I remember making for myself a secret place. I'd already been to plenty of places that had impressed me--Red Rocks, Colorado; the top of a huge mesa in New Mexico where Navajo shamans sang to the sun and sky; the big boulder from which Boulder, Colorado was named--but this was nothing so dramatic. It was merely a soft spot in some pine needles in the middle of a huge virgin forest in East Texas. How did I find it? How did it become so special? Actually, after walking for three or so hours, I'd picked out a nice Loblolly Pine, placed my head against its trunk and fell asleep. I suppose I was really tired.
When I woke up, I placed a rock next to the tree--to mark it. This wasn't a special rock; no, simply a piece of magnetite iron I pulled from a nearby creek bed: sandy and red and most likely ancient. What made it mean something to me was the thought that accompanied my finding it: I was thinking about that tree, that good sleep, and wanted to honor both. I think most people would be afraid to sleep alone in the woods.
But I also wanted to find that tree again.
Time after time, then, I visited that pine. As I walked, I'd usually find a rock or two, remember what I'd been thinking about when I'd found them, and slowly I built a mound of stones, unobtrusive stones, next to the pine where I'd taken a nap once. Call me silly if you want: You would have had to have been there, completely there in my mind, merely to understand my sentiment.
Eventually, this spot--a place I imagined no one could find, one with a memorial of sorts that remained intact--became my secret place. It was like that old hole in the fence almost all children imagined was the gateway to some kind of magical place. Although no man can completely possess anything, this place was my place. I invested all the sacredness I could hold there. When rejected by a girl who was dating a basketball player at the time--but who also understood by my voice when I called her that I was scared to death to ask her out, and consequently let me take her out--I remember visiting that place. When I failed a test, I went there. In fact, whenever I needed to remember that there is a place somewhere where I felt a connection, a peaceful, simple feeling, I went there. It wasn't any big deal. I'd always been a bit like that anyway.
Eventually, I met a young girl. She was the world champion strut twirler, an olympic quality athlete who jogged five miles a day and could spin a silver baton so fast you couldn't see it, but I retained my sense of humor. We fell in love. To say the least, that hurt plenty: I'm not sure everyone feels love the way I do, but I felt almost torn into two pieces. Perhaps I merely felt inadequate to engage such a superior being, though she wanted to bear my children, silly me. One part of me, at least when I was alone, literally longed to be with her every moment. Of course, that wasn't possible. I spent a thousand mythically sleepless nights in longing for her. Yet the other part, that part of me that dwelled in the merciless fright of a man in love, wanted to run. The only way I found the two peacefully coexisted was when I was with that girl. When I was certain I loved her, I showed her my secret place.
It's because we carry this place with us wherever we go. No one can really go there; no one can take it away. Only we ourselves can lose that place. And if its real-world embodiment, that tree, in that old forest, still exists, I could find it today, although it's been more than thirty years. Some people hear this place whenever they hear a certain churchbell ring. Others hear it in a particular song. For some, it's a touch--the fur of a dog, perhaps; the rememberance of a kiss or how a hand felt. And I suppose that, as I lay there in my bed, remembering a little pile of rocks in the woods, I'd been granted access to it once again. I wish I was as eloquent now as I believed I was that night. But it slips away and even seems somewhat meaningless the farther I travel away from that place in my soul, or heart, or head. I knew a woman once who believed that place was in the body. I believe her.
Not long ago, I don't think I could have entered that place without some residual pain. I'd allowed a huge callous of sorts to surround it--partially to protect it, partially to forget it. Maybe the night I remembered it with all my emotions, the crack in this broken cup had miraculously healed.
For example, I remember coming near that secret place in my heart. It was early one morning. A bunch of us were clowning around in a stand of trees. I put my arm around a young woman special to me when my eye fell upon a rock next to a tree. I remember laughing under my breath because I'd remembered other rocks piled in another place.
"What's so funny?"
"Rock," I said.
She giggled. "I need a rock, " she said.
Yeah. It could have been a flirtatious remark. But I was also feeling pain. I wasn't too responsive at that time to flirt about much of anything. I was merely another dead angel on the ground. My heart was the rock I coveted. I was bitter and holy and the absurdly invented constellations I'd pointed out to her the night before were borne to my place of private mystery with bitterness and insecurity. I clasped her shoulder and smiled.
"There it is."
For some, these rocks are milestones. For others, they're millstones. For the best of us, they're a little bit of both. Why? Because we carry them with us everywhere we go. Because we are responsible for them, and must care for them. There are those who never learn to relate to themselves in such a way. For me, I use it as my measure. If I can feel comfortable to the degree that I can contact that place inside me, then a situation, mysterious to my understanding, becomes at least a little easier to comprehend. And when situations breed chaos, when people let me down, I can remember it, too, try to return to it if I can, and if anything else, I can honor it in some secret way. And when I share it, and when it's also shared, perhaps then is where romantic love begins.
It's funny. As I finished that last sentence, a group of young people knocked at my door and told me about some kind of teenager's alcohol abuse program. What could I do but give them a dollar? You know, make a tiny difference in a life, help pay for a phone bill or the rent, make life a little more comfortable for someone somewhere trying to make a difference for someone somewhere? Special places begin in unseemly events. Even a silly old dollar can become a sacred stone that, when it's pitched into the pool of chaos, sends out ripples. Romantic love is like that: a small thing, maybe a rock, holds your spirit, and you don't dare let it loose without the faith that comes from your good, special, secretive place. Even my password on MySpace.com is a sacred stone that tells volumes about me and hearts that never asked for more.
When I was really young, I remember making for myself a secret place. I'd already been to plenty of places that had impressed me--Red Rocks, Colorado; the top of a huge mesa in New Mexico where Navajo shamans sang to the sun and sky; the big boulder from which Boulder, Colorado was named--but this was nothing so dramatic. It was merely a soft spot in some pine needles in the middle of a huge virgin forest in East Texas. How did I find it? How did it become so special? Actually, after walking for three or so hours, I'd picked out a nice Loblolly Pine, placed my head against its trunk and fell asleep. I suppose I was really tired.
When I woke up, I placed a rock next to the tree--to mark it. This wasn't a special rock; no, simply a piece of magnetite iron I pulled from a nearby creek bed: sandy and red and most likely ancient. What made it mean something to me was the thought that accompanied my finding it: I was thinking about that tree, that good sleep, and wanted to honor both. I think most people would be afraid to sleep alone in the woods.
But I also wanted to find that tree again.
Time after time, then, I visited that pine. As I walked, I'd usually find a rock or two, remember what I'd been thinking about when I'd found them, and slowly I built a mound of stones, unobtrusive stones, next to the pine where I'd taken a nap once. Call me silly if you want: You would have had to have been there, completely there in my mind, merely to understand my sentiment.
Eventually, this spot--a place I imagined no one could find, one with a memorial of sorts that remained intact--became my secret place. It was like that old hole in the fence almost all children imagined was the gateway to some kind of magical place. Although no man can completely possess anything, this place was my place. I invested all the sacredness I could hold there. When rejected by a girl who was dating a basketball player at the time--but who also understood by my voice when I called her that I was scared to death to ask her out, and consequently let me take her out--I remember visiting that place. When I failed a test, I went there. In fact, whenever I needed to remember that there is a place somewhere where I felt a connection, a peaceful, simple feeling, I went there. It wasn't any big deal. I'd always been a bit like that anyway.
Eventually, I met a young girl. She was the world champion strut twirler, an olympic quality athlete who jogged five miles a day and could spin a silver baton so fast you couldn't see it, but I retained my sense of humor. We fell in love. To say the least, that hurt plenty: I'm not sure everyone feels love the way I do, but I felt almost torn into two pieces. Perhaps I merely felt inadequate to engage such a superior being, though she wanted to bear my children, silly me. One part of me, at least when I was alone, literally longed to be with her every moment. Of course, that wasn't possible. I spent a thousand mythically sleepless nights in longing for her. Yet the other part, that part of me that dwelled in the merciless fright of a man in love, wanted to run. The only way I found the two peacefully coexisted was when I was with that girl. When I was certain I loved her, I showed her my secret place.
It's because we carry this place with us wherever we go. No one can really go there; no one can take it away. Only we ourselves can lose that place. And if its real-world embodiment, that tree, in that old forest, still exists, I could find it today, although it's been more than thirty years. Some people hear this place whenever they hear a certain churchbell ring. Others hear it in a particular song. For some, it's a touch--the fur of a dog, perhaps; the rememberance of a kiss or how a hand felt. And I suppose that, as I lay there in my bed, remembering a little pile of rocks in the woods, I'd been granted access to it once again. I wish I was as eloquent now as I believed I was that night. But it slips away and even seems somewhat meaningless the farther I travel away from that place in my soul, or heart, or head. I knew a woman once who believed that place was in the body. I believe her.
Not long ago, I don't think I could have entered that place without some residual pain. I'd allowed a huge callous of sorts to surround it--partially to protect it, partially to forget it. Maybe the night I remembered it with all my emotions, the crack in this broken cup had miraculously healed.
For example, I remember coming near that secret place in my heart. It was early one morning. A bunch of us were clowning around in a stand of trees. I put my arm around a young woman special to me when my eye fell upon a rock next to a tree. I remember laughing under my breath because I'd remembered other rocks piled in another place.
"What's so funny?"
"Rock," I said.
She giggled. "I need a rock, " she said.
Yeah. It could have been a flirtatious remark. But I was also feeling pain. I wasn't too responsive at that time to flirt about much of anything. I was merely another dead angel on the ground. My heart was the rock I coveted. I was bitter and holy and the absurdly invented constellations I'd pointed out to her the night before were borne to my place of private mystery with bitterness and insecurity. I clasped her shoulder and smiled.
"There it is."
For some, these rocks are milestones. For others, they're millstones. For the best of us, they're a little bit of both. Why? Because we carry them with us everywhere we go. Because we are responsible for them, and must care for them. There are those who never learn to relate to themselves in such a way. For me, I use it as my measure. If I can feel comfortable to the degree that I can contact that place inside me, then a situation, mysterious to my understanding, becomes at least a little easier to comprehend. And when situations breed chaos, when people let me down, I can remember it, too, try to return to it if I can, and if anything else, I can honor it in some secret way. And when I share it, and when it's also shared, perhaps then is where romantic love begins.
It's funny. As I finished that last sentence, a group of young people knocked at my door and told me about some kind of teenager's alcohol abuse program. What could I do but give them a dollar? You know, make a tiny difference in a life, help pay for a phone bill or the rent, make life a little more comfortable for someone somewhere trying to make a difference for someone somewhere? Special places begin in unseemly events. Even a silly old dollar can become a sacred stone that, when it's pitched into the pool of chaos, sends out ripples. Romantic love is like that: a small thing, maybe a rock, holds your spirit, and you don't dare let it loose without the faith that comes from your good, special, secretive place. Even my password on MySpace.com is a sacred stone that tells volumes about me and hearts that never asked for more.
posted by Faceshaker at 5:11 PM
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