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Scribbling along in a little writing exercise, I asked via paper:
"What do I really want?"
…the last item I wrote on the list:
"To enjoy Passion with great regularity…(almost an oxymoron)"
Or is it?
Passion does not neccessitate novelty, Personally I have known some of those faces, voice, books, trees, music, and mountains which send my heart soaring the same way (or better) the 100th time as the 1st.
When I was a little girl, I fancied myself an artist.
Like all American little girls, I had been thoroughly brainwashed to believe that penultimate happiness arrives with a handsome man and "happily ever after." I was working on a multi-day crayon/marker masterpiece at the dining room table, titled "Love in the Park", featuring several couples. All the ladies with long, pretty, hair; and long, pretty, dresses, all the guys with brown hair, wearing jeans - and attached to the ladies like big barnacles. Pretty Deep thoughts, eh?
My mom came upon this, and drew other creatures onto the page to complete the scene. I will always remember the explanations of "other kinds of love": the kid who loved animals and fed them (that would be me, my parents indulging me with countless journeys to Golden Gate Park so I could handfeed various critters), how the parents love children etc. She drew a brown fuzzy squirrel like the ones who ate from our hands and once jumped on her shoulder.
I realized as a teen that the sweetest thing to see, was an elderly couple sitting or walking together arm in arm, or hand in hand. Sadly I had learned quite quickly that lust and attention was an entirely different phenomena than actual loyalty. Young love, I think, is highly over rated.
Was it possible to obtain,this lifelong comfort & affection between the silver-haired set?
Perhaps. My report from the frontline of a mere (almost) 4 years of matrimony is that the weather is mixed. Sharing a bathroom sink with another human sometimes seems akin to water torture. Having another person witness how many shoes (boots) I own, magazines I subscribe to, books I read simultaneously, and bouts of puffy PMS I endure; is too mortifying for words.
Yet what could be better than sitting in our little home eating a vegatarian Italian dinner, ("I like a good bread you can fight with" I said, as I wrested apart hunks of a crusty loaf, "none of that wimpy, over-processed, soft American or Taiwan crap.") and reading aloud from the Lonely Planet guidebook to Nicaragua - where we are headed next month on yet another one of Helen’s bright ideas.
He’s held my hand within oceans from Thailand to Mexico, and almost fell off a horse into a muddy raging river during a tropical downpour in Belize, and climbed atop a looming Tikal ruin in Guatemala. Now he’ll hold my hand as we head for volcanoes and the former land he only previously associated with Iran-Contra and Ortega. Perhaps odds are good after all for our silver-haired days ahead…
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