How to talk about love without making it Camembert?
All the love songs to choose from (I make playlists, so does he), all the poetry ever written across the globe (I send lines to him, he sends lines to me), all the holiday photos to resend (with ‘remember this?’), all the movies to share (reaching out in the dark to hold hands at the moment a character says something that is Just What You Feel)…
But our own words?
How to reach past all the stacks of things collected over the years to the very back of the soul and find the words that show how intense, how powerful, how tectonic that other person makes you feel? Even through anything? This place of pure love sits so deep inside that it is far beyond all the stacks of selfishness, of self-interest, of games. It is in the place of giving. And giving totally is scary. To get that deep you have to risk seeing all the other things (the fear, the triggers, the reasons). You have to open up the most vulnerable part of you to show them the most intense part of you.
But that seems like a very deep love indeed. Surely love is love, no matter how deep or shallow, how old or new? Nope. It’s not all the same. My love is something that has grown roots around every cell, taking nourishment from my blood, feeding my cells with its breath in return, becoming part of me, changing the shape of me.
I mean love that comes over time, like a prairie of wildflowers, formed over a billion years, layering pretty shells and dead fish and swaying seaweed and shark teeth and asteroids exploding the water and storms dropping dust from thousands of miles away and heaving from the very core of the planet changing the shape of the land and seams of silver streaking through strata and glaciers pushing boulders carving across the horizon and animals hunting and blood spilling and early men building huts and digging fire pits and more storms and more soil from other lands and finally, layers and layers and layers later, a prairie grows across the landscape and grasses push roots deep, deep into the old earth and wildflowers rise and sway and the storms still blow and the sun still warms and the wildflowers still sway, enduring.
That kind of love.
How do you talk about that?
Usually I just hold him close when I’m thinking like that and he knows.