March 30, 2004

Moments of Recovery

You have helped me in my work and in myself. And I have helped you in your work and in yourself. And I am grateful to heaven for this you-and-me.
- Kahlil Gilbran, as quoted in the journal of Mary Haskell

If I accept the sunshine and warmth I must also accept the thunder and lightning.
- Ibid.

I blame Love Actually for making this seem like a good idea. I can blame you, a little, for giving me the bloody script book, too. You know how beautiful that movie is, right? And how it makes you want to believe that love can exist? And how it makes you want to tell someone that it does exist? Like Colin Firth says, "just to check"?...

Maybe you're horrified at this point... (I wonder if Robert Browning ever worried about that sort of thing when he wrote to Elizabeth Barrett.) Anyways, even though it isn't Christmas anymore, and even if Eavan Boland is right about love never being the ideal depicted in the arts, I thought I'd, you know, just check.
- A Letter to Jen

Eavan Boland's Against Love Poetry is sitting on the floor by my table. As one might guess from the title, it's a critique of classic love poetry, an argument against the idealization and romanticization of love in traditional literature. I pulled it off the bookshelf a while back when Jen posted one of the poems, "Quarantine:"

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

It seemed, I don't know, not so Jen, and, a few days later, I asked her about it.

I don't know; I guess I always pegged you for a sap. (But, um, in a nice way, I SWEAR.) And she's, well, not so sappy. Do you have the whole book that "Quarantine" is from? There's this other poem in there, "Thanked Be Fortune," that contrasts the "reality" of marriage with the idealized version of love depicted in books above the bed; it's always made me think about love and idealism. On some level, I guess I agree that "everyday love" isn't "idealized" like in the arts, and maybe, sometimes, using "merciless inventories" is a more accurate way of talking about love than romanticizing it. But maybe that's only because we make love like that, when we take it for granted, and turn it into something everyday and ordinary. Whenever I think about real world idealized love, I think about my Martin Sheen boss. If there is anyone I know who's found perfect love, it's him and his wife. Maybe love like that IS super rare, and I'm just incredibly lucky to know them well, but it's always struck me at how much they CHOOSE to be happy and perfect.

Weeks pass, things change, and I keep looking over at Boland's book, sitting quietly on the floor, and wondering if I still feel the same way about it, about love, about things I said. I keep looking this entry over, wondering if I really, truly believed what I wrote, or if it was just some attempt, some effort, to make myself feel better, to force myself to move on.

Most of the time, I do still feel the same way: that we can choose to make things ideal, to make things perfect, to be happy. That we choose, to a large extent, to be in love, and that we, ourselves, have the power to make love as perfect or imperfect as we want. The idealism of love poetry isn't something to shun because it's not ordinary or everyday; rather, the everyday, the ordinary should be changed, altered, rethought so that it becomes special and ideal and classically Romantic.

But sometimes, I waver in my faith. I hear things, see things [Cf.], remember things, and I waver in my faith. It's not pain, per se, but longing, and remembering, and wishing.

This dichotomy, this bifurcation of my thoughts, my feelings, me-- it's so unsettling. Be happy, Sean. Be sad, Sean. Live in your misery, Sean. Forget about life and write you Plan, Sean. Say, "I'm still completely, foolishly, illogically in love," Sean. Choose something, anything-- just choose, Sean.

And it would be nice, for a while, to choose something, anything-- to pick a feeling and run with it. But it's not really like that, is it? It's not cut and dry, it's not decisive, it's not complete. These are the shades of gray we live in, the blurred outlines that define us, the shifting tense through which we exist. These are the yearnings of the everyday: uncertainty, irony, and bittersweetness. These are the moments of life, in all its wonder, and all its discomfort, in all its sureness, and all its fluidity. This is what we have.

Celina quoted part of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet yesterday, a book I haven't thought about in a long time. I picked it up, and started reading through it. Gibran's writing is so beautiful, so poignant, so insightful on some basic human level-- and yet, as is often the case, it is so simplistic in its content. Like any good Marlboro student, I hate to be on the bandwagon of conformity, but it truly is an amazing piece of work.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

And isn't that exactly how I feel? Isn't that how I know I didn't make a mistake? Isn't that how I know I'm okay? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Jen asked me, once, how I knew that I was in love with her. I went through the chronology, the important details, and the movement of feelings.

But I think it was when I decided that being with you, with all the horrible uncertainty and fear and possibilities for pain that comes along with a relationship, seemed to offer more promise than staying in my safe world of solitude.

The conservation of action: as completely as we give ourselves to something is as completely as we open ourselves up to its inextricably linked alter ego. And that's Gimpel's lesson, too, isn't it? That the moments of pure bliss only exist in conjunction with the possibility of less blissful moments? And that's the good news, isn't it? It's the reminder that we can feel, deeply, completely, unconditionally.

Blah blah blah, all those other things I want nothing more than to say to you right now, as you sit here in front of me, looking studious and adorable.
- Email to Jen

I know, for certain and without hesitation, that if I could feel again as I felt then, I would take this, and that, and everything in between. I know, for certain and without hesitation, the next time I fall in love will be as completely and unconditionally and idealistically as before, because I can't imagine any other way turning out better in the end. It's tempting, at times, to agree with Eavan Boland, to agree that all there is to love are 'merciless inventories' and 'duty dailyness routines;' in the end, though, I can only imagine that such thoughts would limit the potential for bliss, that such a vantage point would limit the ability for one's breath to be taken away every day.

And I love this place; the enormous sky
And the faces, hands that I'm haunted by
So why can't I forgive these buildings
These frameworks labeled "Home"?
- The Weakerthans

Writing all this out helps so much. I start off these entries feeling so uncertain, so bifurcated, so unsure about love, and living, and life. I don't know why I'm still hanging around these same old tracks, clinging to these same old memories that offer not solace, but soreness, and sitting here with the beating of my heart and all the thoughts that engenders. I don't know why I can't seem to forgive this framework of home, knowing, feeling, on some ineffable level that I already have. I don't know why this framework of home seems so negative, so awkward, so hurtful, when in fact, viewed contextually, it's something far more beautiful, more wondrous, and more complete that it appears: it reminds me both that what I experienced, what I felt, and maybe what I still feel was as real and wonderful and blissful as I remember, and, more importantly, perhaps, that I can feel that way again.

For a phone call from far away
With a, "Hi, how are you today"
And the sign recovery comes
To the broken ones
- The Weakerthans

While composing this entry, I paused for a few minutes and checked the mailbox. An envelope, with a handwritten return address-- a welcome change from the usual droppings of junk mail-- was slightly visible. I pulled it out, and smiled. It was a birthday card from Tini. How she remembered, why she even thought of me, is beyond my comprehension. And, really, it doesn't matter. It feels good to be thought of.

Recovery comes to the broken ones. And maybe other things, too.

Posted by Sean at March 30, 2004 01:07 AM

Comments

Posted by: Liene at March 31, 2004 02:29 PM