Spellbound

My horoscope earlier this week reminded me that I shouldn’t question why I am so lucky or whether or not I deserve the happiness and tranquility I know now. Rather I should bask in its warmth and know that I am entirely welcome to it. Like so many things these days, I am in awe of the peace and the sheer cozy joy of my life here in Canada with Rob.

The first time we meet in person came about a month after Rob had declared himself to me in a long rambling email that only he could write. I remembering impatiently skimming it to find his point because I knew there was more on his mind then just greetings of the day and updating me on his goings on. We had been writing to each other for about six weeks when he informed me that his feelings had turned more than just friendly. I was rendered speechless to the point where I couldn’t even type a reply and that, for me anyway, is true speechlessness. Our first sight of each other at the airport in Idaho Falls sealed our fates completely, interlocking our destinies for a damn long time to come.

Ten minutes ago, I saw you.
You looked up when I came through the door.
My head started reeling you gave me the feeling the room had no ceiling or floor.
-from the musical, Cinderella

I spent those first 36 or so hours with him nearly mute. I couldn’t look at him enough. Touch him enough. Be near enough. And I couldn't find words enough to tell him so. And it wasn’t a dream nor did it even feel like one. The reality of him was as grounded and concrete as any experience I have ever had. I had dreamt of my future so often in the bleak times that came before that his arrival at such a time and in such a way pulled me up by the short hairs.

I’m not eloquent enough to count the ways or compare Rob to a seasonal time frame. I am not a poet. Nor can I fashion a tune or fill a canvas with what I felt that weekend and since. Even words, my friends in nearly all times, can’t seem to help encapsulate what is Rob or our love for each other. Both are boundless and ever expanding like the universe seeking its outer limits. Unlike the universe, however, there are no edges to be found and no inevitably advancing implosion. I know it and couldn’t tell you how I do. It’s like the feeling you have when you wake up and see the sun rising pink and orange and you just know that whatever the day brings, its all good.

Though the ensuing months with the thousand plus miles between us strained our patience and brought a few valleys and rainy days, that are just part of living and learning and loving, I still get that same feeling of Idaho Falls when I wake up next to Rob every morning. How will I ever find time enough to spend with him before old age takes its toll and claims us?

Better to Have Loved and Lost

Cliches about lost love never go out of fashion but they sure don't fit all situations. I am continually amazed at the idea that some widowed people hang onto that somehow the death of their spouses is on par with divorce or separation or even the break-up of a romance.

Many of us are offered the dubious comfort of envy. Friends, relations, and even near-strangers, remind us that our marriages and the time we had with our lost loved ones is more than most people ever have the slightest chance to experience over the course of entire life-times it seems. Though not even a cold comfort, it is true. We were lucky and loved. What puzzles me is the idea that we "lost" at love. We didn't. We were loved. We are in all likelihood still loved, truly and deeply, though it might be hard to reach those feelings when anger and pain and the feeling of being cheated are all we allow ourselves to feel at first, and in the cases of some - for a long, long time. But we are not losers. We didn't end our relationships in front of a judge or discover one day after months, or years, that our inattention to each other had starved the emotions that once fanned desire. What we are is what remains of love after one of the pair is claimed by his or her mortality. It's not pretty, nor does it feel good, but it is not losing. Nor is it consolation. It is what it is but leave the bitterness to those who are the co-authors of their love's demise.

We chosen few have no reason to hang our heads or linger in bitterness. We are better for having loved, and being loved in return through all the heights and lulls that we know our soul enriching when others see them as valueless. I know that I gained more from the short time with my late husband than I will ever be able to explain. The love, as well as the pain and sorrow, separates me from those who are true losers at love. I gave my all. So did he. We played through to the true end. What more could anyone hope for?