What are we on this planet for? Why am I on this planet? I’ve been questioning these things, pondering them in my day to day, often while walking and listening to my ipod. The music in my head is often “Sunday in the Park with George,” which is a refreshing change from the pop crap that pulses out of cars passing by or upstairs in my neighbors apartment. There’s something about that song that I will find eternally refreshing- George’s enclosed world of harmony and light that misses the mark of the real and commonplace, especially in Bernadette Peter’s Dot. She’s so restless and uncomfortable but in love with his vision, his ability to paint. Sigh. On some level, I want so be like Seurat- to have my own life’s vision go unclouded. Of course, I don’t want to be thoughtless and careless as he appears to be.
So why am I here? My faith is such that I believe I am here to love God and seek closeness with Him, partly through a spiritual understanding of Him but also in how well I treat others- those finite connections we make in our human relationships. And while I think my relationships are good, the newest insecurity is that I am missing out on love. Yes, I have been in love. Painfully and totally with a boy who did not love me enough to get married and have children with me. The nagging realization that I may have wasted four plus years of my life on someone who wasn’t giving what I gave is horrible. But I loved him and I have really pleasant memories, although these memories seem to boil down to good vacations at bed ad breakfasts but not much else. How awful and sad. I’m starting to forget exactly why I was so in love and yet. . .the feeling remains. Not that I’m still in love but that I remember how breathless and exciting wanting to be with another human being.
I’d like to go back. The word wasted is glaring out on the page at me. Time is not wasted- not really. Those experiences were the experiences I was meant to have. My mind knows this and I can be sensible enough to think in this way but my heart feels small and resentful at four years gone by. Often, I think I am even over the resentment. I am torn between wanting to stay angry and wanting to be free and forgive.
. . .i love your eyes George. . .see, here’s where Bernadette’s voice intrudes. It’s sort of lovely to write and have other things going on in the brain. My brain wants to think of the day I had at the Art Institute of Chicago and how it is JUST as possible to love a painting as much as you love a person. I tend to fall in love with books and songs and flowers and my puppy’s brown eyes that look up at me as if I am the greatest thing since milk-bones. Maybe those are the things I am destined to love. Maybe it’s ok to hope for love with a man but be prepared on some level for its absence, whether temporary or permanent.
