I will love you in memories, and the memories will be many.
Hold it in, oh let’s go dancing – I do believe we’re only passing through. Wired again, now look who’s laughing – me again, all fired up on you. “Time is Dancing” is the kind of song that fills my soul, like poetry does when it’s written beautifully or with a bite. Sometimes nature does the same thing, rain spilling down the window like tears or evergreen trees packed together like the prettiest sardines you ever saw or a doe in a field, ears perked and big brown eyes watchful. My eyes are brown but they aren’t big; they get all crinkly when I smile, which thankfully I’m doing a lot more of these days. Is it wrong to feel upset with someone for hurting my friend, even if the one who hurt her is a friend too?
We had a discussion in my women’s studies class this week about the “haves” and the “have nots,” about how everyone is a “have” in some way and it got me wondering: who is the most unfortunate person in the world? Surely not everyone can be a “have” – there has to be at least one person on this planet who has it worse than any other. But maybe we all have it bad in our own ways; our suffering is uniquely our own. Why do we suffer, in the sense that we are consciously aware of being unhappy or in pain? And do souls exist? If they do, what does mine look like? These are the kind of early morning questions that hover above my barely conscious existence and trail me throughout the day. “So what is the point? You go to bed with the same thoughts of yesterday, then you wake up only to find that life hasn’t changed one bit. You are still alive, but what are you alive for?”
Now I’m caught between what to say and what I really mean. I read a quote recently by Friedrich Nietzsche: “We love life not because we are used to living, but because we are used to loving.” Is that true? It’s a bit of a conundrum, because we were all alive before we loved, but we were loved long before we began to truly live and understand either life or love. Which came first, the chicken or the egg, and does it even matter? We certainly define love the way we experience it, but I still haven’t figured out what love means to me. I don’t think you can love someone without seeing them bare, without knowing and embracing their flaws. I’m working on loving myself as much as I want someone else to, more even. Oftentimes, I find myself reminding the voice inside my head to be patient, gentle, kind.
I miss Finland and my dear Finnish friend often and I dream of going back when the trees are green and the sun rarely sets. I booked a trip to India last night and it’s a relief to finally have some sort of plan for where I’m traveling this summer. Africa has been calling me for awhile, but there’s always next summer. I have to remind myself that it’s impossible to see everything, especially all at once, and that the only thing I can do is take one trip at a time and try to make the most of each.