The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.
This quote from Mary Oliver pushes me to attempt to write a lyric essay about love. I fear that I am not up to the task, that it is too grand a topic, but I need to give it power and time. In Marlene's last two writing circles, I began. This is an amalgamation of my two writes. I begin, knowing that this may be rearranged, or deleted but I am excited - the ideas are starting to come:
Rob
In your ratty old dressing gown, you walked into the kitchen and held out your arms. I walked into them. You drew me close and held me tight to your belly. I am surprised at how a simple hug made me feel so loved.
I don't know how to define love. The love I shared with you was not saccharine sweet, not a fairytale romance.
You died a tragic death. There is a beginning and end to our over-fifty-year love affair.
This morning I stood looking out the kitchen window, coffee in hand, admiring the wisteria with its violet blossoms and thought of Leonard Cohen. When we were young, still students, we would read Cohen's poetry and make love. I remember one morning, I was to meet a friend but Leonard had us lusting so, we couldn't pull apart - even when my friend was hammering at the door and I had to smother my laughter in your chest..
My lady can sleep
Upon a handkerchief
Or if it be Fall
Upon a fallen leaf.
I smile at this memory and, from somewhere out of the blue, I start humming "Bird on a Wire" and again, Cohen's words help me describe our love.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch
He said to me, "You must not ask for so much"
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door
She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
You are the beggar though you never begged. You had more than you dreamed possible. I was the whore asking for more - not gold or silver. I wanted more dialogue and more intimate moments. And somewhere along the line, I stopped asking for more. Did I stop too soon?
I learned to live as you lived, doing my own thing. You were so sure of yourself, so self-contained. Your love of music was, to my mind, your true love. (I shall add mention here of his sound work and awards.) Mine was writing. (Anais Nin story?) But I was never as sure of myself as you were.
My heart breaks as I recall a scene from Charles de Gaulle. We had checked in for a flight to Toronto and you became violently ill. We went to the airport medical centre. You thought that I would leave you there and fly away without you. How could you think this? Did you not know that you were loved?
Okay, I have begun!