Lately I’ve been absent from the writing game, mostly because I’ve been in the trenches of war, attempting to make peace between my heart and mind, between authenticity and wisdom, between love and good sense. Ha, damn, that last line sounded a lot like something grandma would say. Maybe I am learning something.
For my readers who are not aware, I’m All About Love..in the bell hooks sense. I’ve been writing for the last few years about the notion of critical love ethics, building upon hooks’ notion of love ethics and countless bodies of work concerning the practice and praxis of love. During my last relationship I began to become more intellectually curious about those systems and ideologies that had formed and informed my understanding of what is and isn’t, what I desired, how I desired it and why. When that four year experience ended, I found solace, argument, discipline, freedom and liberation in hooks’ work and that of Brene Brown. Previous to this year of stewing, trial, error and liberatory chaos–and before my last major relationship–I had guarded my heart as dutifully as a country dog guards the winding road to his owner’s ranch house. Guests were always suspect. They could gain favor and regular access, but even that access was circumstantial, limited, temporal and dependent upon a perfect aligning of the cosmos.
I had always been a loving a child. Some might call me a flower child. Much like the problematic, Jungle Book, character Moglee (spelling?) I had loved everyone and everything. I found join in the simplest of creatures and existences. I’d spend my days catching and releasing tadpoles, rescuing and attempting to heal injured animals and cuddling family and friends who simply needed a hug or a silent ear. I ran with flowers in my braids, and was a slightly left of masculine version of India.Arie. However, the trials of poverty, racism, struggle, domestic violence and the like led me to transform my heart from an an accessible gooey constellation of rich chocolates to a thick fudge encased in a peanut brittle increasingly hardened by life.
In any case, when it comes to dating, I’m generally unbothered. I receive a lot of attention, offers and propositions, all which I find quite flattering and help to lighten my sometimes weighted mood ha. However, I mostly find myself disinterested and something just a bit short of cynical. It’s not a judgement to the quality, character or specific attractiveness of the men that approach me but instead of my state of satisfaction with myself. When I am interested, I tend to watch from afar and await to see his true character, his politics as performed and articulated, his morals, his quirky nature and believe what I observe apart from his scripted performances with/for me.
So imagine this. I’ve recently found myself sending flowers, writing sonnets and spending hours over facetime and phone in attempts to woo and court someone half away across the country. I’ve had internal dialogue, after internal dialogue, after internal screaming match, about the what the fuck I’m doing. My mind has counseled me about the ways of vulnerability as a double edge sword…while my heart emphasizes the necessity of risk taking to love producing. Needless to say, my country-boy loving style come out victorious each time. I’m a courter. I’m a romantic. I love to show, display, prove and articulate love through deed, word, affection and affirmation..in increasingly meaningful ways. He affirms and resists, wisely noting that a foundation is key, but unwittingly producing an irritant of insatiable proportions. I have no idea what the future holds. No one does. But I know this much. I’m not falling anywhere, I’m walking forward, intentionally. Admittedly though, I’m sprung and I’m losing grasp of the safety latch.