somehow surfing the web without much of a purpose nor target I stumbled upon Jackie’s blog. The diary of a homeschooling mom bringing up fantastic kids. And the diary of a widow. A loverthat has lost her love. A lonely, grieving woman that however so beautifully makes her way through her days without him. Somehow. I read her logs and just couldn’t turn away anymore. I’ve made it through the whole morning like that: Doing some work – reading a text – doing some more work – reading one more article. It’s just like me writing stories on surviving lovers all the time. Just why, I don’t know. Why do people like me, lovers, that are blessed to share that unique, deep love, trust, support with their beloved one, feel so deeply touched, so unable to move on when confronted with stories like Jackie’s?
I remember how back in senior high school I had a German teacher who was all into romanticism (the period in art and literature). My classmates considered her a little odd but for one reason or another I was moved and fascinated, in a way inspired, by the deep glow in her eyes as she read romantic poetry to us. There was something there. Perhaps a woman who had found some model to explain a world that often seems so utterly unexplainable, utterly unfair. I don’t know much about her, besides her love for romantic literature and nearly mystical circles where she shared this with others, but still reading Jackie’s story reminded me of her.
Romantic poetry, that teacher told us back then, considered impossible love the only real, eternal love. It depicts deep, divine love in death. In where there were only slight moments spent together, only memories of what feeling your lover’s warmth meant. And though she never said so out loud I am sure it is also about love that can’t be destroyed by everyday life, by time. I remember how the symbol of romanticism was a mythical blue flower existent only in visions of love, death and eternity. Perhaps that teacher of mine back then found some kind of comfort in the idea that true fulfillment wasn’t to be reached by a mortal being anyway and maybe that’s just what fascinated me back then.
I have, anyway, always been too stubborn to believe in a life that included any impossibilities. Perhaps that’s what draw me towards magic or perhaps that’s what magic taught me. I’m not sure whether the chicken or the egg was first. I have never believed in the impossible and I have never believed in either-or-decisions. If I want to have both I won’t step back a centimeter until either I have come to the decision that one of the options is not worth the hullabaloo anymore or until I have found a way to get both. In a way that makes romanticism the antithesis to my own philosophy. Is that what causes it to be so fascinating?
Sometimes people cry for both at one time: Happyness because of that unique gift you’ve got and fear to loose it sadness. No, it’s not fear, I think, though it’d be just all too human. Of course the sheer idea of having to go on without C. makes me wanna hide in a corner and only come out if he is there to embrace me until I feel whole again. I can’t as much as imagine what it’d be like to have to “figure out how to do this without him”, as Jackie put it. I don’t want to. But then the only thing I am 100 % certain of is that, no matter what happens in the future, C. and me would have made the most out of our time. That we haven’t spoilt a moment other then for the sheer joy of spoiling it. There is just no more we can do about it …
a pretty philosophical