It’s Valentine’s Day, love is in the air. No, it’s not. It’s the same old air as every other day, right?
Real love is not nearly as glamorous (or should it be amorous?) as the romance in novels. But who doesn’t like a love story? Not just those tales that are intended to be romantic, but all the rest with sweet, subtle love themes through the action, fear and swashbuckling adventure. Those with the undercurrent storyline of a character discovering, “he’s the one” or “she’s the one”:
“Who understands me,
Who speaks the same spirit language,
Who bends when I bend,
And holds when I stand firm. Whose eyes I can get lost in.”
I love it every time I’m drawn into a love story. But that’s not the way it goes, Sunday through Saturday when I put the book down. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Could be. What I know does not stand up to the day starting with “V” but it does stand, every day, year after year. This is how it goes:
Facing good, bad, ugly with at least a tenuous connection maybe just our fingertips, sometimes kicking and screaming, grumbling, holding back unutterable words, sometimes speaking volumes with no voice at all.
Growing in different directions like brambles with no sense of order all prickly and sharp then in a split second, walking parallel and finding the fiery communion that burns away thorns.
Living in seamless syncopation today, then the next, two beings from different planets (no exaggeration) with the only thing in common, love for the kids and the cat.
It is rarely sweet, rarely profound, rarely effortless, but on those days when it is, I hear my heart say, “breath deeply, this is oxygen and it gives you life.”