From the Archives

I was meandering through some of my old journal entries and came across one that seems relevant for today. After having heard from another friend encountering the betrayal of a cheating spouse and now divorce, my heart hurts for those who have entered into relationships with complete seriousness and commitment to the other, to only find that it has been tossed aside in the most heart-wrenching of ways in the name of "Hollywood Love." Love, the feeling, is only around for so long, and as soon as that dissipates, "I just don't love you anymore." It's amazing how prevalent this is . . .love being about feelings and not about a choice backed with commitment . . .it blows my mind, really. And then to somehow use the love-as-feelings as a justifiable argument for infidelity--WOW. The biggest cop-out and insult . . .no maturity and responsibility taken for one's actions. And what an insult to authentic love--the self-sacrificing, kind, patient and seeking-the-good-of-the-other love. The kind of love I see between two people in their 80s as one looks on the other in the hospital bed . . . .

I'm embarrassed for my generation.

(And if you're not completely turned off by my rant, read on.)

June 3, 2004—Traders, 7:07pm

Suddenly I’m weary. Leary of words I’m going to put down on this paper. My melancholy raises its head and asks for companionship; it settles into the familiar shape it inhabits regularly like a dog that circles and reclines for a snooze. I feel it moving about now, circling through conversations I’ve had today and memories those conversations have evoked. Faces appear and fade. “I love you(s)” connected with eyes-so-serious surface . . .recede. I stand alone looking at and into them, screaming my silent why(s).

Melancholy looks up and wags its tail, the familiar thump of it telling me that I’ll be alright. I’ll get through this not as a hardened person, but as a better lover. Yes—I want to love deeply. Love like the recipient of Anne Sexton’s poem Courage: “and those you love will live in a fever of love”—a benediction in its fullest sense.

How is it that Hurt is the great Refiner? How is it that suffering and pain (if not won over to bitterness) produce a seasoned, more authentic love? I say goodbye, it’s over, I have to leave you while not understanding why (but somehow understanding), and hope presents itself in the midst of “What the hell happened here?” Dostoevsky’s Idiot comes to mind, loving always, so consistently. Nastasya Filippovna couldn’t accept the purity of his love. She mocked him while hating herself for her refusal of him. His fever of compassion was simply too much for her and the hatred of her life she projected onto those around her, becoming the Russian tragedy.

I say she is the human tragedy.

She is my and your tragedy.