Love is Strange

I have been given great chances to love on this planet, in this life. Some were not-to-be-missed white-hot relationships and some were truly great loves. Some I've blown mightily. Some I've made magnificent. But always they've been felt at the deepest level. And they've all been important, historic, and shaped who I am. I bless all of these great loves of my life. And to borrow someone's great line, all of them were you.

But there's nothing, nothing that even comes close to the love I feel for my daughter and my son. My son because he's my first, my sought after, my soul longing to express itself in a new first creation. And he's so amazing. So insightful. He's like talking to my smarter self. I feel his great love, his compassion and understanding of life, which he's slow to express in his maleness, but it's there and it's deep. And sweet.

But ah, my daughter, my daughter. What kind of love is this? Love for myself, perhaps? We're so different, and yet so alike, in so many ways. Letting my son go to college and on into his own life was torture for me. And now, letting her go is agony. Missing her beautiful looks, her warmth, her calm intelligence, her fabulous wit, her simple beingness in the room with me. Watching her flower into her potential. I'm missing that.

To love this greatly is to feel so much. Sometimes I almost think it's better not to have loved at all. But it's not. It's not.

Maybe I should get a dog.