love, and whatever that means...

I am protective of my words. Words can be used against you. People can take your words and use them for their own devices, to hurt you or to help themselves. I talk a lot, but I write much less than I talk, and even then, most of the words I commit to paper never see this blog. I think twice about giving people access to my words, not because I think my writing is so great that I have to protect it (I don't), but because I fear having my words tossed back at me like garbage. That's why I have mixed feelings about this blog, I think. I mean, I love blogs--I have become recently obsessed with them and I follow a fair few diligently. But it's different when I'm the writer, when the words are my words, when the readers are allowed to see into my world...

And it was in realizing that fact that I realized that I am much more protective of my words than I am of my heart. I don't know how I feel about love, and I'm talking about the kind of love between lovers here. Sometimes it seems like the greatest gift our Abba created for us, and other times I would swear that a Cosmic Sadist had to have made love, knowing the trials it would bring us. I've wondered for years now whether or not I was actually capable of feeling love like a normal person (whatever that means). I've said 'I love you' to two different guys now, and I meant it every time I said it. The guy who took my virginity said he loved me. Do I believe in soul mates? I mean, is there a reason the love I had with the guys in my past didn't last? Is there one man I am destined, fated to end up with, a guy that was made for me specifically? Or are free will and choice the winners in love? Can we fall in and out of love--real, true love--with multiple people? (Personally, I'm inclined to go with the choice and free will option, but whatever, to each his own).

I don't really trust love, most of the time. It's fine for other people. I believe other people can fall in love and it can last forever; I just don't trust love when it involves me, I guess. I don't think someone will fall in love with me, without wanting to change me into his image of the perfect girlfriend. I don't believe a guy will fight for me, that he'll defend me when his mother wants him to break up with me because I won't play her mind games. I don't think someone will choose to stay with me when it's easier for him to walk away. I don't think a guy won't use his strength and manipulation to get what he wants in spite of what I have to say.

I guess I'm contemplating love tonight because my most recent ex is on his way home from Iraq right now, for a two week break. He's the one whose mom wanted him to break up with me, or didn't want to stay when it was easier to leave (metaphorically, not physically, obviously). I thought it was love because we never ran out of things to talk about. Our first date lasted for five hours, and we talked the whole time. There were no awkward moments of silence while we just looked at each other, hoping the other person would figure out something new to talk about. I wasn't anxious or nervous with him, we kind of just happened. It was easy. It was natural. My best friend happened to be his first cousin--it was almost like it was fated. It worked, until it didn't. It was love, until it wasn't. C'est la vie, I guess.

I'm not really sure where I wanted this post to go; I feel like I might have started out with a point, but I lost it a few rambling paragraphs ago...
I don't know. I might delete this in a couple of days, when I reread and think it's drivel. But maybe I need to learn that not every blog post has to be going somewhere, or saying something in particular, or coming to some earth shattering, brilliant conclusion. Not everything has to be perfect. So maybe, I have to let go of control. I have to let my words go. I have to let this blog be whatever it's supposed to be.

"The Invitation" by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments."