I've always been in love with the idea of being in love. I have measured my life by my loves and have imagined a kinship with others -- artists, writers -- whom I think have also wandered shamelessly and often, open-mouthed, into the wake of love. My loves have taken many forms -- have been cruel, kind, tempestuous, vicious, even distant and diffident. I believe I have made the greatest and most unforgettable mistakes in my life in the pursuit of love. Yet even those most painful moments have been some of my most vivid memories. Like the summer I lived in Cooke City, Montana. Although I got myself there, it was the pursuit of a love that made the summer so dreamy. The love sharpened up the edges a bit because I had a partner to push me past my own edge of comfortable adventure. I wouldn't have camped on the side of the mountain, taken the backcountry geyser hike, sneaked into an abandoned mineshaft, walked without a flashlight up the mountain in the dark... any of it had I been alone. The affair ended miserably, but the experiences it brought were phenomenal and even carved out the direction my next steps would take, planting deeper in me the seed for adventure.
Life changes though, and now I have a new love. The tenderest moments with my baby are some of my favorite. Hurrying to the crib in the dark, where Finn is on his belly, propped on his elbows, wailing with his eyes closed in the moonlight. His head is velvety soft, and I stroke it gently, hoping to calm him, but the cry only intensifies as he searches to be picked up. In my arms, he latches quickly on my breast, and I study him in the low light, notice how much he has grown in these 5 months. He spreads easily across my lap now, and he feeds so quickly. His cheeks are so soft, and I would stroke or kiss them, but it makes him stir. He is unfathomably soft in my arms, pure in his shameless greed for milk and nurturing. I cannot help but stare at him, despite the fact that the dimness reveals very little to me. Yet there it is -- the outline of the cheek, and then I breathe in the weight of him relaxing into my arms. The moment is intoxicating. It happens every night. And while I could complain, and sometimes do, that Finn keeps me from sleeping properly, he also offers me these tenderest minutes that easily compare to any night walk through the woods.
The relationship between the two, though -- why are they simultaneously on my mind tonight? What chord do they form, when played together? Me, becoming more of myself in the woods, finding a new form inside me that explores, sees wildly new things, expands. Me, nursing a child in my arms, pulled toward a unyielding passion for the tenderest being.
Sometimes there's God, so quickly.