Simply magic
"How long will I write like this?" I hear myself ask again. The answer comes as surely as the sun rises: "As long as an ember of her still burns in my heart." And so I write, though no one listens or understands. All these things about her I felt deeply and often for the first time. It went beyond any native desire or feeling I've ever held. It was a gift from somewhere else; it didn't come from me. And I gave these words to the world because I didn't know what else to do. None of this is hyperbole. This is how I see her. This is how I feel. It felt like a gift that I saw what she is: her mind, her heart, her soul. (Besides all of that, she is ridiculously pretty.) Some may wonder what the big deal is, but they didn't see her to the depth I did. No human being has moved me like she did and continues to. I can't help but write about her. If anyone is asking if she is truly that special, yes, she is that special. The love she shows is beyond words.
In Proverbs 31, the husband of the virtuous woman praises her. The woman I write about is not my wife, but she is a godly woman deserving of praise, praise I feel she has not received enough. She deserves to be recognized for all that she is and does, though I'm sure she gracefully keeps much of that to herself. (In fact, she endured undeserved, untold pain and humiliation instead.) And that makes me want to praise her even more. I wrote this post about a month ago, yet it feels timeless. It isn't perfect (I would cut out some of the whining if I edited it), but it is honest and thoughtful.
How many ways can I describe her? She is simply magic. I've run out of words. Run out of superlatives. After you've said someone is perfect, what more can you say? (Truly, I wouldn't change a thing about her. Some things are so beautiful, you cannot tamper with them, not even for your own gain. Okay, her external locus of control is perplexing, but it is also completely her.) Apparently, a lot more. What she did inside me brings to mind the quote from The Little Prince when the fox says, "You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." She tamed me. I simply don't want anyone else. A lot of things have been said about love. But love is not words in a book or in a song. Love is meant to be experienced. I experienced her, though only for a time. I carry those memories with me.
Her smile, her walk, the way she talks, the tilt of her head when she listens to your words. The smile that crouches on the corners of her mouth and then spreads like a sunrise on her face. That smile is the single most amazing thing I've ever seen. If I could bottle a thing, that would be it. On those hard-to-wake mornings, I could put a drop of her on my chest and take her everywhere. Though my days may be long and hard, I would have a little bit of sunshine to warm my soul.
You say, "Joshua, she is just a girl." I disagree. Maybe she is just a girl to some. She is and always was much more to me. She was the girl. That girl. Thee girl. The one. Always and forever. She's the kind of girl who makes you conversely choke on your words and burst out long paragraphs one after. Like you can't control yourself. Or think straight. Or walk straight. Or even remember your name. She has a power I don't understand, and sometimes it makes me ache or exhale rapidly and try to outrun it, but I can't; it's part of me. It's that little ember that still burns. Somehow, she turned a grown man into a boy in love for the first time. Being in love with her was like being in love with the stars. The stars are too far away to hold, yet they surround us. Impossible yet inescapable. Maybe I just need a spaceship and a few thousand years.
I know these things don't make sense to the average reader. Move on. Carry on. Go forward. There are surely a lot of women who could love and appreciate you. Open your heart to that possibility. But haven't I tried? There is no spark in me for them. (I didn't want someone like her; I wanted her. I didn't want a girlfriend or a wife; I wanted her in whatever capacity I could have.) I don't wake in the night and think longingly about them or wonder what they're doing even now. I don't endlessly ponder "what coulda been" about them. I don't pray for them every day. They don't energize with supernatural strength. Maybe someday when the ember burns out I can move forward, move on, just move. But that day has not come. I wonder if it ever will, as I still desire her. Honestly, I thought all of this would have burned out by now. If she was any other woman, it would have. What is it about her? Her unattainability? All those years of longing for her turned into inertia? It's like hoping I could fly to the stars. Maybe because she seems more like a dream than anything else, hope somehow remains alive. But hope has to hinge on something. It can't swing freely in the breeze. What was I holding onto? Something nebulous and hidden in my mind? Something reticent and unremoved in my heart? Regardless, I gave my heart and thoughts to the One who made me. They are not my own. Yet, she remains with me somehow.
Am I still in love with her? A lot of the signs are there. It's not the can't-sleep-at-night-because-I'm-in-love kind of thing. It is a deep appreciation of, great respect for, adoration of, and tenderness toward her. I have feelings for her, though I cannot sort all of them. What I can say is I admire her in too many ways for it to be nothing. It's much more than nothing. Haha. For me to continue to write this way about her, though, could it be anything but love? She was and is my muse. Though everything else was taken away, no one could take my muse. Though I now only catch glimpses and pieces in my mind of her, something tenaciously holds her dear. She is more than the standard by which I judge all women. She was my everything; the one; the only; the lone star in a big, empty sky. A man's heart never forgets something like that. I will always have a soft spot in my heart for her, and that soft spot seems to take up my entire heart. To answer the question, yes. I am in love with her, and too dearly for words, though I continue to try.
When I look at other women, all I see are reminders of her. I don't even see them; I see her. That makes no sense, yet it does. Little things. Like the class with which she carried herself and how she dressed. How she talked of others. How she held her hands or her phone or moved her hair from her face. How she walked. Her smile lines. How lovely she smelled when I embraced her. How tall she felt next to me. How my hand felt on the small of her back. What she wore. What she said. Her jokes. How she swore (!!) on occasion. Her lithe and strong body. Her freckles. The smell of her skin. The spark in her eyes when she talked about what and whom she loved. Her passions. Her care. Her tenderness. Her beautiful, green eyes. (Every time I see green eyes, I think of her.) Her grace. Her touseled hair made obscenely sexy by the wind and the way it fell across her face and touched her neck. Oh, her neck. Such tender skin. I wish I could feel it with my face buried in it, my beard tickling her to the brink of laughter. I could read her just by her neck. She carried her tension, love, passion, and anger there. I could see her heartbeat, feel her heat, sense her frustration, anticipate her laughter. All by observing that beautiful flesh. If she hid her eyes from me, I could still sense her mood. If she crossed her arms and her legs and pushed herself back in her seat, I knew it didn't matter what I said anymore. Her neck told me if what I said or did could soften her. What I saw, though, was she carried on like I was any other man. I hoped she would see I was different, though I'm not sure she did. I am infinitely different. And I have the same feeling about her. She changed my life just by letting me observe her. For that, I will always be thankful. Just observing her is an unparalleled education. I carry with me the hope I can someday have her in my life somehow.
I observed her like she was a force of nature. And, boy, did I feel her. Even the anger in her voice and the trembling and the tears when I pushed too far and too hard for too long. Oh, my dear Cindy, I'm sorry. If tears could wash away my shame, they already have. I won't ever do that again. I was in a bad place, and you were the bright spot in my life that left too soon. They say if you were happy before someone came into your life and then they leave, you can go back to being happy someday. Well, I wasn't happy before you, but I was happy after you came into my life. And that's why I simply couldn't let go. I know, it's too much to put on a person. But I've been happy at times in the years since, so I know I've changed or grown or something. And I will change more still. Happiness is possible, though I would have been much happier with you.
You may wonder how I can write about a girl who left my life so long ago. All of that is forgotten when the wind blows and the ember comes to life. I see now. I see the future. I see what could have been. It's all so obnoxious when reality is so sparse and cold. In case anyone thinks I've lost my poor mind (and, hey, I've wondered too), I haven't. I know what my reality looks like. I won't bother her, though I want to reach out. (Just a little maybe?) I won't be like one of those guys in the movies. I am a deeply respectful person and am, honestly, very shy. Life isn't a romantic movie. Love or whatever you want to call it doesn't swell with the music as two people hold hands. We all have some unreality in our hearts. We all hope for something and yearn deeply for something out of bounds and far and away and seemingly impossible. That's what keeps us going. It's dopamine. That's the boring explanation.
What is inside of her is what draws me to her with powerful charisma. Her heart. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wish it belonged to me. Maybe it did at one time. That heart is worth the ugliness of living just to witness once, and I saw it many times. It always took my breath away.
Maybe dopamine could be considered an alternate theory. Love is just a chemical, right? That's a really boring explanation. If we follow that logic, we're all just a bag of water and a handful of vitamins, too. That negates the great miracles we all are. Anyway. All Alzheimer's and dementia patients have something in common: a lack of dopamine in their brains. They stop producing it. As long as you look forward to something, you can stave off decline. It doesn't matter how realistic it is. You just need something to pull you out of bed in the morning. You need dopamine. Maybe that's all this is. Just a chemical fix. Yes, I thought of that. But I could have that from any woman. Why this particular one? (I made a choice; sure. But she is also the most unique and beautiful thing I've come across.) And maybe that's what makes life livable. All I know is the possibility that I might see her again kept me going for years.
In that way and in so many others, she is magic, like the moment you see love's glow in the eyes of the woman you love. Like when you realize the same God who wanted to spread a sunrise across the sky each morning and splash a sunset on the clouds to end each day and created every amazing flora and fauna and everything you see around you didn't stop there. He also wanted one of you in this world. It feels the same way. It came out of thin air and without warning, yet it exists — just a little ember of magic — a little bit of something free and wonderful in a world that endlessly steals and destroys. God created something so spectacularly out of the ordinary and plopped it down in my life. How could I have been so blind all those years? The irony is I now have the ability to see her as she is. I'm not sure everyone has that gift. I thank God for that gift, though it came late in life. As long as I live, I will remember my girl, Cynthia. May God bless her a thousand times more than how she blessed me.
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Hey, everybody. I don't know anything. The older I get, the less I know, which is incredibly ironic. I don't know what the future holds. I just have to be open to God's leading. That is where I am now. I had to let go of everything near and dear to me and grab onto God. I'm not in control. I make plans, but God directs my steps. I don't know how much longer I'll write posts like this. It doesn't matter. It never took effort. It was fun and I wanted to write them. (Contrast that with the laboriousness of other posts and you'll see what I mean when I say "magic.") When I would re-read them, I wondered at what I wrote. It came from somewhere amazing — it came from that little piece of her that is still smoldering in me.
***
This blog is not my life. It was the stuff I couldn’t figure out and couldn’t share with anyone. Some of it was ugly. Some of it felt like a gift. Going forward, I want to focus on the gifts God gave me and "stay on the sunny side of the street." Being able to write eloquently is one of those things. What I chose to write about was in my heart.
With the amount of forgiveness I allowed myself and others, I healed tremendously. I am not where I should be for a 44-year-old man, but life isn’t a competition. Those I compare myself to likely didn’t have the setbacks or obstacles I had, either. Someone recently told me I am a very strong person. I don't know about that, but I fought many battles. I rest in the Lord.
Another thing conducive to healing was writing about a certain girl. She’ll never know how much it helped to simply express love. During my darkest moments, she was a bright spot. When I wanted to die, I wrote about how much I admired her instead. It shifted my heart from hurting to wanting to live. I thank her now and always, for she was a gift. I loved every moment she was in my life. I thank her for that, too. I don’t write because I’m hurting anymore. I write because it is all I have to say thank you. Thank you, Cindy. You are a far better person than this world — me included — deserves. You were the best thing that ever happened to me and will always be my favorite girl.
Thank you for reading. And God bless.
My YouTube video blog. I may do more. We'll see how helpful they are.
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