I believe that love hits space like radio waves.
The love of my parents is one frequency. They have a respectful and passionate love. It's a love that I've looked up to as an inspiration my whole life. They are patient and always considerate of one another. My dad tells my mother constantly that she gets more and more beautiful each day. He writes her love poems with rubber stamps and she decorates the mirror above her dresser with the collection. She has never once told him that he is a nauseating driver, she simply lets it be and trusts that she will arrive with her stomach whole. He gives her honest feedback about what he thinks of her outfits. She never lets him win at cards. They are supportive and active parents, working together to nurture children who treat themselves and others with respect and kindness. Their love is long-lasting, over thirty years and still growing. I imagine that my parents frequency of love soars high in the sky. It beams through the heavens alongside of other great loves.
Each partnership forms a distinct love wave. The love of my best friend, Aliyah, and her husband, Ben, is one. They are grounded in their love, they have much in common and are honest best friends to one another. The love of Natalia and Jaime is another frequency – a fresh love that is driven by spiritual growth and the throws of passion. The love of Lena and Corey is another. Their love began in middle school and continues to morph as they discover themselves – a love vested in common values, family, and tradition.
There are billions of different frequencies of love that broadcast through space with various rates. Some loves are high up in the heavens. Maybe these are the loves of great poets, spiritual love, and loves that are immortal. Maybe they are simply loves that just got it right. There are the loves that run closer to the earth, lower waves of love. Maybe these are animal partnerships, like two swans that mate for life because of evolution and survival. Maybe it's violent love that is not rooted in understanding, but instead in control. Maybe it's love between a girl with a broken heart and her dog, who has been there with her through it all because of an unexplainable bond and also a nylon leash.
The waves aren't necessarily a constant line. They can pulse, like an EKG reading if the relationship is tumultuous or driven by passion. They can angle up, like positive growth on the Cartesian Plane, if the love grows. They can fade off, like the hush at the end of a whisper, if the love dies.
I have tested my theory and discovered many of the waves of love I've cast out into the universe: some lower frequencies, mid-range frequencies, perhaps lustful higher frequencies that quickly disintegrate. But, I have only truly known physical love: such as the love that exists between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman who are also lovers, a pair of close friends, a boy and his pet. I have known love that dies – sometimes to a halting finish, sometimes to a low-level hush. I have known love that grows – like a bond that is no longer romantic love but turns to a stronger connection in a platonic status, or a friendship that through trauma and pain changes into something more inescapably connected. I have known high frequency love – our love.
While I can't compare our love wave to other great loves (and don't want to), I know it was the strongest love I have felt. It was full acceptance. It was patience. It was excitement. It was trust. It was encouragement. It was devotion. It was growth. It was passion. But all of these words and emotions I use to describe our love exist mainly in physical-form. For instance, I can't trust you now in the way that I did when you were alive. I can't experience passion with you now, unfortunately. How can I encourage you, when I don't know what I'm encouraging or if I'm encouraging anything at all.
Where does the wave go when the man dies but the love doesn't?
Does it rise up? Does it descend? Does it disappear slowly? Is it already gone? Am I foolishly chasing imaginary stardust? Does it become divine love? Are you whizzing around my head like a hell-bent fly as my a guardian angel? Does it become universal love? Am I opening up to the love of nature and what is, because of what is no longer? I don't know.
I do know that no love wave is the same. I will never rebuild what we had. While I hope it is still there, beaming through the heavens as an example for others, I know I will never feel it in this body again. It has changed with grief. It has altered as it's been transferred to the unconscious. But what we had when you were alive will be there as a guide for me someday – when I decide I want to love again or when someone decides they want to love me and I let it in. But our wave of love is irreplaceable and unique, and I desperately miss it more and more with each of sorrowful breath.
Showing posts with label heavens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heavens. Show all posts
Two Realms
Imagine a horizon line. Between the horizon and the heavens is one realm – lightness, I'll call it. Between the horizon and the deepest depths of the earth or sea is another realm – darkness, I'll call it.
Until your death, I generally lived my life in the first realm – lightness. In what I envision, the lightness realm includes joy, smiles, positivity, fearlessness, sunshine, and innocence. Living in the realm of lightness is a happy dance. It's a beaming smile of acceptance on someone's face. It's seeing a loved one after a long time, giving them a joyous hug, and meaning it. It's watching a bride and groom who are truly in love, kiss at their wedding. It's the first look at your healthy newborn child. It's a rainbow in the sky on a cloudless day. It's a song that brings back a beautiful memory. It's the butterflies you get in your stomach when a crush holds your hand for the time. It's an A on an exam. It's seeing a beautiful woman look at you and then seeing her smile. It's love.
After your death, I moved below the horizon into the realm of darkness. I live here in this place of suffering now. It's an unfamiliar place for me, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's dark corridors and not knowing what's around the next bend. It's guilt. It's the look on people's faces when you know they have struggled. It's disconnection. It's prisoners of war. It's love lost. It's your grandfather's funeral. It's disbelief. It's addiction. It's a dead end at the end of a one-way street. It's fear. It's loneliness.
I had dipped into this realm before you left, but the dives were shallow. A broken heart would take me down. The loss of my pet would ache and pull me into the depths. Loosing a job, breaking up with a friend, making a bad decision and knowing I was wrong – those sorts of situation would tempt me with the dark place. But I would climb back out, back out into the sunlight, dry off, and start to climb up.
A few days ago, as I boarded the flight to Madrid, I walked down the aisle of the Airbus 330. As I walked toward the back of the plane, I saw a lot of faces looking in my direction. When I looked at the people, my eyes were pulled towards the ones I sensed might also be in the darkness with me. Stoic, sad, or longing expressions were spread across the faces of many passengers. This exercise continued as I moved through airport terminals. Since the language here is foreign, I didn't understand conversation. I simply watched people move through life in their expressions and their movement. I saw their grief. Have I been blind to suffering until now?
You shared with me of your experience with depression as a boy and young man. You told me of your journey through a very dark place. You had imagined your own suicide. You had thought the world would be a better place without you. You had lived in the darkness.
Like a phoenix, you rose from the ashes of despair and desperation. You soared into the light. Through your own journey of learning, therapy, medicine, and experience – you pulled yourself out of suffering. You began to live above the horizon. And you did it beautifully. You loved in a way that was completely encompassing of both others and yourself. You laughed righteously. You had the mischievous innocence of a little boy. You made love like a poet. You even had the lucid ability to fly in your dreams.
However, as a true Scorpio, you always kept an eye on the depths of the unknown and the unseen. You philosophized about darkness, alongside of lightness. You fearlessly crept into holes where there was gloom, not only the sun. You were vigilantly ready to confront any demons lurking below the surface of your psyche.
In my perspective, your darkness was not eerie. It was not hopeless, by any means. Your darkness was beautiful. You had more layers than any human I've ever known. You didn't just live your life above the horizon, like so many of us are pulled towards – I know I am. Your lightness and your darkness became a balance.
There were a few times when your darkness scared me. For instance, the week before your death, you told me that if you ever died – you would be reincarnated as my child. You were telling me this because you wanted me to have hope in case something terrible ever happened. It was ominous. You were telling me this because you knew how I longed to have a child one day, and you wanted me to know you'd be honored to have me as your mother. But, when you told me this, I began to cry. I only saw the darkness in your words. I only saw my fear of loss, a very valid fear. But your intention was not to scare me. You took me in your arms, you wiped my eyes with your hands, and you promised not to leave me. And then you died five days later. But you didn't leave me really – because I still have your offering of hope – I might have you as my child.
Prior to this tragedy, I went through my days seeing light in others. I saw beauty in their creations. I saw love in their eyes. I saw innocence in their children. I saw freedom in their practice. But, when darkness appeared, I averted my eyes.
Now, I venture through darkness. But I see beauty in this darkness. It is not all bad. There is so much learning down here that I was blinded from. In order to live fully, we must experience the eight worldly conditions that Buddha spoke of: gain and loss, disrepute and fame, blame and praise, and pleasure and pain.
I am a yoga teacher. I've walked into classrooms for four years and only looked for lightness in my students. I preached Buddha's words but then sought gain, fame, praise, and pleasure. I could only relate to half of what they needed from their teacher. I had no recognition of their suffering! In essence, I was failing them.
In your absence, I have plummeted into a whole other layer of my own living. It is a realm that will challenge me. I will be scared. I will be still. I will be alone. I will be so many things that I have avoided out of fear and in search of love. But we can't know love if we don't know loss. So my love grows as my grief encompasses me.
I will hold this new realm of suffering as a part of my path, ying to my yang. I have faith that someday I will rise up from the depths. I will breathe fresh air and to look at the sunshine. But, in a world that worships all that is light and airy, I now must learn to love myself and the mysteries around me, in darkness – as you so naturally did. I will take on your layers, the ones you've taught and continue to teach me. I will acknowledge this as a part of my own dharma – both the lightness that flows inherently and darkness that is now exposed.
Until your death, I generally lived my life in the first realm – lightness. In what I envision, the lightness realm includes joy, smiles, positivity, fearlessness, sunshine, and innocence. Living in the realm of lightness is a happy dance. It's a beaming smile of acceptance on someone's face. It's seeing a loved one after a long time, giving them a joyous hug, and meaning it. It's watching a bride and groom who are truly in love, kiss at their wedding. It's the first look at your healthy newborn child. It's a rainbow in the sky on a cloudless day. It's a song that brings back a beautiful memory. It's the butterflies you get in your stomach when a crush holds your hand for the time. It's an A on an exam. It's seeing a beautiful woman look at you and then seeing her smile. It's love.
After your death, I moved below the horizon into the realm of darkness. I live here in this place of suffering now. It's an unfamiliar place for me, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's dark corridors and not knowing what's around the next bend. It's guilt. It's the look on people's faces when you know they have struggled. It's disconnection. It's prisoners of war. It's love lost. It's your grandfather's funeral. It's disbelief. It's addiction. It's a dead end at the end of a one-way street. It's fear. It's loneliness.
I had dipped into this realm before you left, but the dives were shallow. A broken heart would take me down. The loss of my pet would ache and pull me into the depths. Loosing a job, breaking up with a friend, making a bad decision and knowing I was wrong – those sorts of situation would tempt me with the dark place. But I would climb back out, back out into the sunlight, dry off, and start to climb up.
A few days ago, as I boarded the flight to Madrid, I walked down the aisle of the Airbus 330. As I walked toward the back of the plane, I saw a lot of faces looking in my direction. When I looked at the people, my eyes were pulled towards the ones I sensed might also be in the darkness with me. Stoic, sad, or longing expressions were spread across the faces of many passengers. This exercise continued as I moved through airport terminals. Since the language here is foreign, I didn't understand conversation. I simply watched people move through life in their expressions and their movement. I saw their grief. Have I been blind to suffering until now?
You shared with me of your experience with depression as a boy and young man. You told me of your journey through a very dark place. You had imagined your own suicide. You had thought the world would be a better place without you. You had lived in the darkness.
Like a phoenix, you rose from the ashes of despair and desperation. You soared into the light. Through your own journey of learning, therapy, medicine, and experience – you pulled yourself out of suffering. You began to live above the horizon. And you did it beautifully. You loved in a way that was completely encompassing of both others and yourself. You laughed righteously. You had the mischievous innocence of a little boy. You made love like a poet. You even had the lucid ability to fly in your dreams.
However, as a true Scorpio, you always kept an eye on the depths of the unknown and the unseen. You philosophized about darkness, alongside of lightness. You fearlessly crept into holes where there was gloom, not only the sun. You were vigilantly ready to confront any demons lurking below the surface of your psyche.
In my perspective, your darkness was not eerie. It was not hopeless, by any means. Your darkness was beautiful. You had more layers than any human I've ever known. You didn't just live your life above the horizon, like so many of us are pulled towards – I know I am. Your lightness and your darkness became a balance.
There were a few times when your darkness scared me. For instance, the week before your death, you told me that if you ever died – you would be reincarnated as my child. You were telling me this because you wanted me to have hope in case something terrible ever happened. It was ominous. You were telling me this because you knew how I longed to have a child one day, and you wanted me to know you'd be honored to have me as your mother. But, when you told me this, I began to cry. I only saw the darkness in your words. I only saw my fear of loss, a very valid fear. But your intention was not to scare me. You took me in your arms, you wiped my eyes with your hands, and you promised not to leave me. And then you died five days later. But you didn't leave me really – because I still have your offering of hope – I might have you as my child.
Prior to this tragedy, I went through my days seeing light in others. I saw beauty in their creations. I saw love in their eyes. I saw innocence in their children. I saw freedom in their practice. But, when darkness appeared, I averted my eyes.
Now, I venture through darkness. But I see beauty in this darkness. It is not all bad. There is so much learning down here that I was blinded from. In order to live fully, we must experience the eight worldly conditions that Buddha spoke of: gain and loss, disrepute and fame, blame and praise, and pleasure and pain.
I am a yoga teacher. I've walked into classrooms for four years and only looked for lightness in my students. I preached Buddha's words but then sought gain, fame, praise, and pleasure. I could only relate to half of what they needed from their teacher. I had no recognition of their suffering! In essence, I was failing them.
In your absence, I have plummeted into a whole other layer of my own living. It is a realm that will challenge me. I will be scared. I will be still. I will be alone. I will be so many things that I have avoided out of fear and in search of love. But we can't know love if we don't know loss. So my love grows as my grief encompasses me.
I will hold this new realm of suffering as a part of my path, ying to my yang. I have faith that someday I will rise up from the depths. I will breathe fresh air and to look at the sunshine. But, in a world that worships all that is light and airy, I now must learn to love myself and the mysteries around me, in darkness – as you so naturally did. I will take on your layers, the ones you've taught and continue to teach me. I will acknowledge this as a part of my own dharma – both the lightness that flows inherently and darkness that is now exposed.
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