“There are all kinds of love in this world, but never the same love twice.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald
Isn’t Mr. Fitzgerald on point when you pause to think of these 15 words. All strung together; all connected for reasons, deep: Each word somewhat pedestrian and yet, all together–poignant. Personally, they set my mind and heart a sail.
When I was but a babe, my ideas of love had to have sprung from my Mama and Daddy—those who showed me the depth and importance of joy, safety and comfort; not knowing really what love was, yet understanding that I was somehow living in it. By knowing that love, I came to love everything…the sun, the moon, the stars. I loved knowing about joining together to create life, literally, the birth of anew. In time, it became about commitment; commitment to friends, choices, curiosity and its impending discoveries. I learned of arts and lands I never even knew existed and learned to love something about each one of them, if not learning to love them entirely. Ahh, yes, all love is great: never ashen, always robust. Those illusive four letters which fill us up and should they leave us, never leave us empty—but instead, richer for having known it and empathetic because we have had it slip, like glistening shards through our fingers … We think.
Love is practical when you think about it. Oh yes, poets, philosophers, weepers, you name it—even I write about it. But plain and simple, it is what it is—practical. We look for it, we stumble and fall into it; we choose it. We resent it and we most certainly embrace it. We need it—just like we need salt, water, and air. Love is the glue which sticks to everything and in turn, sticks to us. It even sticks to hate; then, haunts hate like a toxic villain looking to burn all that’s wicked away. It’s interesting to think of pure love, when in truth—it’s more of a complex tincture: one flavor and countless applications.
I remember my Father once telling me, as a youngster, “Rob, there’s always room in the heart for another to love.” That statement intrigued me as a child. It still does. And to add to the intrigue, how did he know? How do I know? Truly, we all know, right? I mean, we don’t necessarily talk about it, but most of us just come to know. Like we come to know the sky-blue isn’t in truth, a color; or we know the moon glows, it doesn’t shine like the sun; or we know we had better watch our mouths around Mama and Daddy and other elders.
I was having a conversation with a friend the other day. He was talking about his miserable failures. I listened, and listened; my mind tumbling all of his concerns and then he just stopped and asked me, “what do you think?” I was taken by that question, coming at a time when he was dousing me with results from his short-sighted decisions. I looked at him blankly and said, “I love miserable failures; they are my mentors.” And in recalling this conversation, I thought—well, here we go, now I even love my failures. But it is true: always being right; never trying an idea on; never giving the wheel a spin—in some unorthodox way, it moves one to the vanilla side of the moon. And so what, yes, I love failures… and most of my failures have come from loving adventure and the others have simply come from loving me enough to give something or someone my best shot.
Whatever is lost in love is an aberration. For even when love is painful, it is a win/win. There are obvious loves, boyfriends, girlfriends, but what about those favorite tap shoes that I loved wearing, while tapping away measures of another’s music: moments of dreams and maybe even moments of frustration. They have long fallen apart… but not the love I felt while wearing them. I think most of us hug tightly every kind of love we’ve ever had: family; our first and our last; our pets; treasures; priceless lessons; reasons for tears; reasons for joy. All, love.
Still, deep within me, I have a small shadow, asking me to never forget love; never turn my back on it…for if I should, it may fade away from my world. I try to quell that shadow. It is my hope that one day I can come to believe that even shadows will come to tell me loves stories about me so I may ‘venture on. Just like the bird flying with no regrets; unknowingly becoming the beauty in the sky I long for.
Love is diverse, multi-faceted and Mr. Fitzgerald was right; STILL, we want to pigeon-hole it. We can’t create love, it creates us—whether being present or void… it forges us and defines how we view everything, from nuts to bolts. It’s why we care enough to stop and ponder that which we don’t understand or that which we admire. It’s like a light, patiently lingering within us, waiting to be turned on: And once on, it lights up every compartment which to us whole; every piece of our stardust, one by one.
Robin Clark
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