A Trio of Musings on Love and Marriage

I.


"There is another world, but it is in this one."
—W. B. Yeats

I will never know another person in this world as I knew Harvey, and no one else will ever know me as he did. There is the knowledge that is the body's, which grows the knowledge that is the soul's; and it is that becoming one flesh that shows me that I was put here for a reason: to give praise and pleasure to another person and thus to know the world, this world.

Earth's the right place for love. Robert Frost, "Birches"

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II.



"Knowledge is erotic."
—Jane Hirshfield

To know someone is the ultimate in erotic knowledge; as one partner continues to learn the other, all that knowledge helps love to deepen. It also keeps one's sex life vibrant. I know what someone else likes, and in terms of that like, what else might he desire? Someone knows my particular responses and is interested in what else will further that reciprocity.

Staying interested means staying sexy, even when the hair falls out and the jaw sags and the skin feels more like crepe paper than vellum. The palimpsest of those younger faces, younger bodies, continues to emerge at the strangest times. (It also helps to have, as I did, a partner who likes antiques. The older you get, the more weathered, original patina that remains--the more beautiful and valuable and valued you are)!

My beloved is mine, and I am his. (Song of Songs)

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III.



"Worrying is praying for what you don't want."
—Chris West

I tend to worry, even though I believe it is the deepest of sins (and belongs among the deadly ones). I've been told over and over and over again not to worry. This leads to meta-worrying. I am sick of it, as I am sick of loneliness. Don't Worry, Be Happy ought to be the hymn of atheist, agnostic and believer.

I worry that I'll never write another poem. I worry that my hair is turning grey. I worry that I'll never feel anything remotely like love for another person. Does worry make me write? No--it makes me afraid to try. Does worrying make me dishwater-blonder? No--it makes me examine my hair for its shade and not appreciate the fact that it is full and thick again, after years in my forties when it seemed so thin and lank. Does worry make me love? No--it puts me in a prayerful attitude where I'm asking the universe to recognize badness, when my repeated mantra opens me up for hurt. I'll never have that again, so why look at this?

I worry that I'll be alone for the next couple of decades and worry that I'll never have anyone to love or to love me again. That's not for me to say. I should remember that I had a great love and still have its warmth. A stone in the sun holds that heat well into the darkness. I still have moments when I bask in remembering how much Harvey and I loved each other. I should remember and celebrate and savor what I had, and I will, as long as I have it in mind.

I really was there/insists the self./Insists, insists. (That one's mine).