Gratitude

For all of the kind posts - and calls - after "The Last of the Good, Fun Times", I thank you, friends. I really appreciate the outpouring of love & wisdom.

It's going to be a great holiday season and I do recognize all the things that are going well. I know you'll pardon me for wallowing a little.

I love the idea, from Becca, that I do have a time-turner - it just moves forward. True indeed. In fact, I can already tell that 2009 will be a new year, literally, figuratively, emotionally, legally :).

The difficult aspect of all of this that I'm working on letting go of is that this is not my choice. It may be {partly} my fault (see previous list of personal failings - ha ha), but it is not my choice. I do not want it and wish to avoid it.

In those musings, I was reminded of this passage from "The Ballad of the Sad Cafe" by Carson McCullers, a stunning novella I read long ago as an undergrad in my favorite Dr. Clark's class. I have been on both ends of this kind of thing, and neither is easy. It was just interesting to reflect on the difference of being the lover and the beloved, to use McCullers' words. I'm sure all of you can relate:

There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world—a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring—this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else—but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.