If Only
Thu, 04/17/2008 - 09:24 | rlp
When a person dies, there is a sudden collapse of all that they knew. The complex and fragile framework of their worldview, which is a unique thing in all the universe, drops to the ground like the contents of a pricked water balloon. The depth of that loss is incomprehensible.
What is left after death are ghost-like shreds of your personality that live in the memories of those who knew you. Some warped version of you exists in the stories and the sorrow. And then those stories fade. The last to go are the memories of the one who loved you the most. Those memories are twisted and contorted into comforting shapes that he or she clings to for comfort. And then your beloved dies, and you are lost along with everything else that disappears in that terrible event.
After that is only what the children remember. It’s not much when compared to the fullness of a life. And when those children die, there is only a name or maybe a faint memory on someone’s family tree.
On a day and in a moment that no one knows, the last memory of you winks out of existence with the death of the last person who knew your name. And then it is as if you never lived. You join the ranks of the billions of humans who have walked this planet, living and loving and dying. Some were saints who lived and loved and died well. Others not so much. Some were scoundrels. All are forgotten.
It seems to me that the whole world would collapse if I were to die. How could things go on? How could the world continue without my worldview propping it up, explaining it, and giving it a purpose?
I look at the people around me, my friends and acquaintances. I cannot know them. They are walking mysteries. What they flash on their billboard faces or what words are released from their inner pravda is all that I can know. For a brief moment I want to know everyone. I want to see the world with everyone’s eyes. For one, brief, god-wish moment. And then I settle back into reality. After all, I’ve come to love your billboard and your pravda. You take what you can get, right?
But there is one desire I have that cannot be sated. It cannot be satisfied, and it will not go away. It is a terrible loneliness to look into the eyes of the one you love and understand that you will never truly know her. You may know her better than anyone ever will, but you cannot know her. Her eyes are the windows of a strange, two-legged vessel that walks this earth for its alloted time. You stumble alongside her for years, but you may do nothing more than look into those eyes and hear again her best attempts to explain what goes on in her heart.
My wife’s chocolate brown eyes look like they were transplanted from her father’s face. She honors him by carrying those eyes for one more generation. The pure singleness of their color and the way she looks at you with no shame makes you know that you can trust her. You think she must be a gentle soul. These are things that anyone can know.
When I look into her eyes I bring something more to the experience. I know her life and her history and her ways. I remember her young heart, the one she had when we met at college. I remember her bouncing ponytail and purple pants. I remember her fears and joys as a young woman in seminary. I have seen her give birth three times and watched those children nurse at her breasts. I know her fierce integrity and her unwillingness to give up her innocence, which she holds just as fiercely. I know that she is what we call, “a good person.” She wants goodness in the world. Truly wants it for herself and others. I know these things about her. I know more about Jeanene Atkinson than anyone else in the world ever will.
I have watched her age slowly over the years, softening, the skin around her eyes sagging a bit. The eyes themselves have not changed at all. Eyes are timeless in that way.
And now, God help me, she has a small pair of reading glasses that she shakes open sometimes and perches upon her nose. If I pull up a chair beside her I can watch her eyes darting back and forth, missing nothing in the fine print. Nothing but the truth will do for her, no matter how hard that truth may be. No skimming the words and wishing. Then she turns and her chin drops and her brown eyes look at me over the tops of those glasses. In that moment all the things I know about her press themselves together and try to force their way into my heart all at once. The cuteness of it. Adorable. Precious. Beyond words. It hurts.
I want to stand at attention, draw my sword, and say, “I would die for you, my lady.” I want to run circles around the couch with my arms out like airplane wings, shouting “Look at me. I love you more than anyone ever did.” I want to pull those eyes close, and everyone go away. Go away! How dare you be here. How dare the earth and time hold anything but this moment. And I think this moment is owed to us, that the world should stop and there be nothing for as long as we need there to be nothing. And if time moves on and those eyes return to that paper, I feel that I’ve lost something which, in truth, I never had. And it’s the saddest, loneliest thing to know it.
God, I wish I could get behind those eyes. Settle into the driver’s seat and connect the wires to little electrode pads all over my body. I want to feel her woman heart. I want to know what it means to be her. What does this woman feel and think? More importantly, how does she feel and think? Could I take the knowledge all at once? Would I shiver, hold the sides of my head, and burst into tears? Does it take a long time to learn how to live with a woman’s heart?
I can only imagine.
For now, there will be nothing but those eyes lifting above her glasses and the coy smile she has because she knows what those glasses do to me. For now, only her face with its thousands of movements that I parse and struggle to translate. For now, only language, which is such a crude instrument. Words are rusty, jagged, pig-iron tongs fumbling for purchase in the liquid silk of her soul.
For now, what love I have to give. Faith and hope will tear you apart with the rawness of their desire. But for now remains love, which is the greatest and only-est thing we have.
rlp
For J9, only mine
Tags:
really beautiful. when I was
really beautiful.
when I was first married, i wanted to crawl inside my husband, to do away with the separateness of skin.
What you wrote about your
What you wrote about your wife is one of the best things I've read in 2008.
Thanks!
Laurie
http://www.africakidandtheworld.blogspot.com/
Beautiful...and hard for me
Beautiful...and hard for me to read. You are a fortunate man.
Oh my
I am sending this to my wife. I know EXACTLY how you feel.
poetry:
I enjoy poetry, but often I feel like a pig born to wallow in the mud while trying to appreciate the luxury of refinement. I appreciate it, but oftentimes the full effect is lost on me. But the line, "Words are rusty, jagged, pig-iron tongs fumbling for purchase in the liquid silk of her soul." must be one of the most beautiful expressions of the inadequacy of language that I've heard in a long while. I feel the same of my precious wife of only 5 years, but could not express it better. Thank you.
j
Most Beautiful Problem
Heavenly
I want to pull those eyes close, and everyone go away. Go away! How dare you be here. How dare the earth and time hold anything but this moment. And I think this moment is owed to us, that the world should stop and there be nothing for as long as we need there to be nothing.
If I had my way, this would describe heaven. Forever with my wife, my parents, my children, those I've helped, those I've hurt, those I've ignored, everyone, anyone.
To really share the junk in my water balloon, and know what is in theirs.
That's my best guess for a perfect forever.
Wow.
Wow.
Without question, you are a
Without question, you are a rich man with boundless treasure.
Gordon you are Not Safe for
Gordon you are Not Safe for Work. I'm here on a boring teleconference and had to stop myself from crying after reading this (talk about surprising your co-workers!!). This is so beautiful...
Yes the prose about your
Yes the prose about your wife is beautiful, without a doubt, but the first four paragraphs about mortality and remembrance are the ones that will stay with me. They hurt in an oddly comforting way.
Two stories in one, yet I
Two stories in one, yet I see how they relate to one another. The first describes the limitations of our mortality. In reality, though we matter greatly to some, we are disposable to most. The lasting impressions we leave behind have their expiration dates. The second? Well, your wife has just inspired and received one of the most beautifully (Is "heartfully" a word?) written love stories ever.
To G and J, long may you run.
The intent was:
The intent was:
The first story shows how precious every person's view of the world is. It's completely unique and when they die it is gone. The transition is noting that while I understand the beauty of every individual's view of the world, I can't possibly know what it is like to be anyone else. With friends you only know what you see and what they say.
and that's okay.
but then it ends with my desire to know how at least one other person sees the world. And that would be my best friend and wife.
Thank you. And, to me, it
Thank you. And, to me, it is still shows such love for your wife.
Thank God, Gordon. Thank God
Thank God, Gordon. Thank God I'm not the only one who feels this.
In Peace Profound,
Nicholas
hi
I read this in the morning not long after you wrote it and I thought it was beautiful. I have looked at my parents and wondered what and how they think, and therefore know more about who they are. I have wondered how other people see and feel things in the very literal sense like if they perceive colors in the same way I do; I know that wine seems to taste differently to different people. Hope you all have a great day.
Disconnectedness
Excellent as always, Gordon.
Your descriptions of not really knowing people except via their billboards and pravdas resonated with me a lot, reminding me of the disconnectedness to other people I have often felt, especially when depression and other PTSD symptoms were running strong.
Don't feel it as much these days (therapy be praised), except when having to interact with too many people at once (like on church camps) where the expectation to be sociable with lots of people at once kinda overloads me.
Best regards,
Dic H
Beautiful. Stunningly so.
Beautiful. Stunningly so. You are a gift.
I am overwhelmed.
you put into words
you put into words everything i feel for my angel, i always try to tell her but i never say it right.
i disagree about the dying being the end of you though. personally i think its up to me to continue after death
I never said death is the
I never said death is the end of us. I said that you are gone from this existence. There was once a person who looked at the world with unique eyes and understanding. That person had an unthinkable amount of specific knowledge, experience, opinion, and wisdom. That is gone from us.
What happens after death, I do not know.
Beautiful
This is one of the most amazing piece you wrote, I started off reading it, and agreed to your perspective in this issue. and at the end of it, it becomes awfully sweet.
Thanks for sharing this (:
Pipe smoke and dirt. Human
Pipe smoke and dirt. Human grime caked on downtown surfaces. Love and hate are irrelevant here. Where the desperate don't die, they just become something less than human. And that is the wager they must make. Alienation and isolation. Oil and seawater. Self and lust, lies we tell to hold onto hope. The Buddha knew, there is no hope. All you can do is endure or laugh. Hollow laughter, knowing laughter, mirthless laughter.
Dark, dark, dark.
My favorite part was the
My favorite part was the airplane wings. It's a lucky thing to have a love that stays young and grows old together at the same time.
Somebody has been reading
The Song of Solomon!!
No man waxes poetic like that unless they have been (except RLP). Very sweet.
My wife of 9 years has the brown eyes that never stop. Those eyes can caress me, or pierce me in a nano second. They are a definite window into the soul!
Very aprorpos . . .
I simply must admit that I cannot read this enough. It is so much better out loud - to the point, where, if I were an actress, I'd ask to use it as a soliloquy at an audition.
Fabulous writing. The alliteration. The repetition. The cadence. The imagery. The intense feeling. (Every time I read it, a lump forms in my throat.) The movement from understanding the individual's unique view of the world to the individual's strong and unique desire of another's heart.
I want this. Someday, maybe; I hope, still.
Thank you. Nothing pleases a
Thank you. Nothing pleases a writer more than someone reading the work out loud. That is the secret, you know. Everything has to be read out loud until it sounds right.
So, this praise really felt good. ;-)
You're right.
It does have to *sound* good to be good.
Congrats. It's often a very hard achievement. :)
What an incredibly beautiful
What an incredibly beautiful love note to your wife.
Such eloquence.
Looking ahead...
I found your blog about a month ago and have been an avid reader since. I know you hear it all the time, but you're a wondeful writer and your work is an absolute delight!
About your last entry: I loved it, but it didn't touch me the same way I think it touched everyone else who commented above. I'm rather young (in college) and no one has ever loved me the way you love your wife, so I don't think I can quite grasp this kind of intense closeness. I have to say I sent up a quick prayer after finishing it, however -- someday I would love to know that someone loves me even half as much as you seem to love your wife! What a blessing you must be for eachother!
Looking ahead...
I found your blog about a month ago and have been an avid reader since. I know you hear it all the time, but you're a wondeful writer and your work is an absolute delight!
About your last entry: I loved it, but it didn't touch me the same way I think it touched everyone else who commented above. I'm rather young (in college) and no one has ever loved me the way you love your wife, so I don't think I can quite grasp this kind of intense closeness. I have to say I sent up a quick prayer after finishing it, however -- someday I would love to know that someone loves me even half as much as you seem to love your wife! What a blessing you must be for eachother!
wow
What a wonderful beautiful post....
Midwife...
Gordon,
You've illuminated what it means to walk this sod, knowing we are but a vapor... the aching oneness of marriage that, frustratingly, is never quite complete. You write my heart howls.
Writing should birth feelings we labor over, that we are still trying to deliver somewhere in our soul. You are a breathtaking midwife.
raw contact
It seems, and tell me if you agree, that there are some folks in the world whose lot in life is to be the tongue that constantly touches that sore spot on the gum or the cheek or lip, just to draw back from the painful, weird sensation only to do it again and again. RLP, I think that's you. You describe a moment of joy in words of agony. You see the eyes that have opened as wide as they can for you, and will only be that wide for YOU and no one else, even her girlfriends, and you hurt. Intellectually, I totally get it, I totally understand that tongue-in-the-wound impulse, and I know you speak to all the others of your kind out there, and I know they appreciate it. I am somehow on the "tongue fence" - I can touch the raw and impulsively touch it again, but I can't stay in it as long as you can. I have to pull back and marvel that those eyes, for me in my spouse, are open at all to me. I marvel not at how faith and hope will (will? might, I would say) tear one apart, but at the wild energy they give me to energize my love, which is the greatest.
Neither of these has more value, these tongue camps. It is simply something to remark upon.
spj
Eh, what do I know? I just
Eh, what do I know? I just write stuff as it comes to me.
I am, however, one of those people who can't keep his tongue off the sore spot. Yeah. Probably shows in everything I do, say, or write.
sigh...
yes, that's it, just ... sigh... you move me with your love for this one woman in time
In my family's case, it's we
In my family's case, it's we kids who hold on to the memory of my father. When my dad died my mom was well along into dementia and even his picture doesn't register with her. She remembers we kids at times. I feel a burden in having to remember so much, but also feel blessed in a way to be charged with such an awesome responsibility.
But I have been blessed to look into another pair of dark brown eyes for many years and so understand what you are saying. I too would die for those eyes. I feel sad that my mom can't see my father's eyes, for he loved her dearly. But maybe, just maybe, she might see it in my eyes, which are also my father's. If I could even give her that one little gift of memory....
Bless you, Gordon, and bless your lovely wife.
Oh My!
Of all the things you've written which move me, Gordon, I think this one wins the prize. So beautiful, for so many reasons. Thanks for the pieces of your soul you share with us so freely.
Brilliant. Insightful. Inspiring. True. Poetic. Incredibe.
I haven't been at rlp.com in awhile. Not sure why exactly. I dealt with some strong personal and emotional issues last year around this time, and I think I rolled into a ball, really. But it came to my mind tonight to come back and see what you were up to. I was indeed not disappointed.
Your prose about wanting to really KNOW your wife -- as well as the essence of ourselves and those with whom we share a moment of life -- these concepts struck home in a way no other writing has in quite some time. Poetic, real, and amazingly transparent. Might I possibly be so bold as to claim that I, too, feel these same sentiments for my wife of 10 years? And yet, yes, I do -- and have -- and by God's grace, hope to continue to do so for many years to come, all the while learning inklings more each day. How is it that your pen has dipped into the inkwell of my heart, I will never know. However, in spite of the fact that our lives are but a vapor, to be able to strive and yearn for that deep relationship with her is, perhaps, reason enough to live through the rest of the crap (from birth canal to nursing home).
Thank you, once again, for making your visitors feel so welcome -- even those of us who have been absentee for years. I guarantee I will be back sooner next time.
-- Sam
Thank God I Know What You're Talking About!
After failing in three marriages I didn't think I'd get another chance at love, but now I have found someone who evokes the same awe and sense of wonder about 'Who am I to deserve this woman's love?' as you feel about your wife.
God brought Pam into my life about a year ago. We hope to be married by Christmas. Looking into her eyes is like seeing a whole new person on the other side. It's hard to keep my hands off the person I can touch, but how wonderful would it be to connect with the person she is on the inside. I am indeed blessed, and proud, and honored to have her love and to be able to love in return. Best of all, God orchestrated our meeting and we're both committed to relying on Him to lead us in our marriage. It is my privilege to help her realize her dreams because she fulfills mine.
God is good!
Lucky, lucky woMMMan, to be
Lucky, lucky woMMMan, to be so loved.
And lucky, lucky you, to love so.
(deep, satisfied sigh)
One can know another person,
One can know another person, fully and completely and truly, through love. It's an absolute truth... God knows us like that through his perfect love, and we try as we might to emulate it.
Who knows if we'll ever get there?