So here we are. These are the Golden Years. Who would ever have thought it?
All the while we thought we had lost, we were finding our way to the best of all.
Here there is no longer regret. Here does not dwell despair at bad timing, missed opportunity, love gone wrong. Here we do not know recrimination and blame. For one thing missing, from our aches and tearings, would have thrown us from the course to home.
It seems strange to say it now, knowing the pain wrought on our hearts along the way. It feels funny to claim the sureness of everything being necessary to make us whole. But just now and then, or maybe once in life, it is revealed so clearly to be so. Nothing, nothing could keep us from this, but the absence of all or any that needed to come before. So simple, but so hard to see until this moment of clarity comes.
Why do we struggle so?
For a lifetime it seems, I have heard it exists, this peace. If only I could figure out how to get it…If only I would finally learn enough, love enough, forgive enough, or even let go enough, pray enough, leave enough, maybe, just maybe, I would find it too. The implications were that I never had, enough.
What a blow this was finally, to find that I had never somethinged enough, for always the search continued, never found. Moments, cycles, but never truly at rest was I.
You know it as well, this drive that never would let you just rest, rest easy. Resting easy in anothers heart is impossible, then. Broken places cannot let one; cold alone places will not let the other. The driving that comes sends us to places where no solace can ever be found. Where there is some comfort, the lostness will hurt the worst for the realization that this too is not home.
Where is that?
They say God works in mysterious ways. Perhaps it is God then, that designs the map we stumble about on. We exercise our free will towards whatever ever we believe will bring us fulfillment, so often to find we are still lost or alone in our hearts. But always still the glimmer or something, just something more, calls out to us. It both comforts and brings sadness, that glimmer. We see ourselves as we might be, and if we are lucky and smart, we find peace and purpose in our own lives. But rarely do we find a oneness with another.
For some, so beaten by life, it is more than enough. More than they’ve a right to, they know. Peace, alone. Or virtually so.
It is the best of both worlds–peace, without the fury and ache of a love that goes right to the bone.
But for those souls bound to find another, it is never truly completion. There is work to be done that never will be in that solitary drive. Perhaps it’s karmic, or maybe we just were meant to have another half. We were, after all, made to work that way.
Very rarely, that one finds this other one before them. When they do, they know. It is the answer no one ever really knows when asked “How will I know?” It is known, in ways one never knew to know at all.
It is not the lightening bolt, the comfort of ease, the finding more of ones self in anothers eyes, or the impulse to protect and care for. It is not desire, attraction or need. It is not good timing or a series of signs. It is not being in love, and it is. It’s none of this, but all as well.
It is just a rightness, a making sense of, a completion. Even as it brings a beginning. Even as it brings an end. The end of a searching for something, even when you weren’t searching for a thing, something knows a search has finished and never will be again. A beginning, a new knowing ones self and everything that’s gone into ones life as having made perfect sense. No matter how painful. An understanding of anothers life as the same, and seeing the weaving of their own with your own, perfectly in all the imperfections and mistakes and stumbles of life. All part of an exquisite pattern that could be no other pattern and bring the now and later to this. All the pieces and parts to a whole, fitted.
There is no other way to say this, not for me. I haven’t the genius to play the song I know with all it’s layers that makes this sound I understand but cannot speak of in English. I suppose this is why the world sings and writes of it so much. True love, like true beauty, is not easily explained. But we do recognise it when we see it in others. And we always look at it. We wish at it, are endeared by it, are melted by it. And when we are very lucky, we find it to be true ourselves.
