There is this thing about me. I do not feel things passively. Feelings usually pass through me like thunderstorms.
Whatever the emotion, it is almost always either a conflagration or an abyss. I’m still trying to figure out how to make this work in my favor. Anais Nin said, “You must not fear, hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and feelings. It is also true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to nourish yourself and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you, sweeps you into experience and into writing.” So maybe I shall pour the buckets of rain from all those thunderstorms of emotion into a 645,876,053.67 page exposition on my life. Get stoked for that.
Despite my lack of dog, which, I always have thought was the ultimate defining characteristic of adulthood, I have really been feeling like a bonafide grown-up lately. (At 29, one might say, “It’s about damn time”, but I’ve always been somewhat of a late bloomer.) No, it is because I have found myself aware of blessed moments at the exact moment I am existing within them. And this has become a beautiful part of being alive. I’ve confessed my avowal to the Kurt Vonnegut quote about recognizing happiness at its exactness; well, the more aware I become of both the trivial and grave tragedies of life, the more I come to realize that those blessed moments- the ones when your heart beat slows in effort to make them last just a little bit longer- they exist if only for the reverent duty of providing the balm to help us convalesce through the ones whose sole purpose seems to be to break us.
Capture my heart for even a second, and it’s quite possible you will have it for the rest of my days. Mine is not a love easily dissuaded. And though I confess that it is not such a magnificent feat TO ignite my ardor, there is something sacred to me about the honesty of a child’s love. It seems to me that they love as Neruda did: “without knowing how, or when, or from where… Simply, without problems or pride… because [they] do not know any other way of loving but this.” There is one of these sweet little souls who captured my heart years ago when he “lasso’d” the moon and presented it to me with his tiny, open arms. If there is a grown-up version of this boy, I’d like him to please come find me so that I may give him my whole world. Anyway, boys have a tendency to forget their tenderness of heart as they get older and figure out what it means to be the world’s definition of a female counterpart. But for whatever reason, this one hasn’t yet forgotten. Bedtime rituals in his home consist of a song, a prayer, and a story which usually lulls him and his sweet little sisters off to dream big things in their little beds. When it came to Boy’s turn to pick a song, he requested, “the one about the moon that Brittany used to sing to me”. So, I sang, and he hummed along, and then when it ended, my little huckleberry friend said, “Brittany, that was kind of tender for me.” Oh, my. Jane Austen once said that there was no charm equal to tenderness of heart, and I don’t know that there is even one fiber of my being that would protest that. As those few moments of my life were irrevocably entwined with that precious little person’s, I kept my eyes closed, and held on to them for as long as they would linger. Something about closing one’s eyes during an experience solemnizes it, after all. Those few precious, blessed moments softened and strengthened me all at once and it was so sweet a feeling that even I- the girl who reads the dictionary- would not attempt to describe it. I would, however, venture to say that Boy and I at least have proprietary rights to the moon after all this.