Balance

I find great comfort in the universe’s ability to right itself; to maintain harmony; to counterbalance each action with an equal but opposite reaction. I can tend to forget about life’s splendid capacity for symmetry while wrapped up inside my head, particularly when my thoughts are darker than usual.

Until now I have made a point not to write about love here much because, frankly, I suck at it. My ego doesn’t like me to be that exposed and would prefer I stick to chat about things I have or wish to accomplish, issues that I need to rave about or in the telling or retelling of tales funny, curious or moving to me. In retrospect though I see how flawed this thinking is. I began this blog with the goal of discussing not just my book lust but also my struggle to get more active, lose weight and improve my health. Talking about being overweight and how that feels is about as personal as it gets. It’s not easy. I often feel awkward and raw around the topic.

But as tough as that might be, it ain’t nothing compared to how writing about love feels to me. So one might wonder, why bother?

First and foremost, it is important to note that writing is how I process. It is my chosen and most comfortable form of expression, and a sorter outer for me as I communicate the good the bad and the ugly of life.

Secondly, I am certain I cannot be the only one who feels from time to time that they have a defective love gene. There must be others who think that this isn’t how it’s supposed to work. Case in point, I stumbled upon this commentary from the eminently talented author Neil Gaimon earlier this week.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

Paints a pretty sad picture eh? My soul-hurt isn’t as dark as all that. It’s more just a disappointing ache. A realization that things are not what I thought them to be. But, man! Gaimon’s description is emotionally visceral. I loved tripping into it so much that the drama queen in me could not help but reread it over a few times and then share it with a friend or two, relating my situation to that which is described above. A bit of wallowing ensued.

And then, just like that, the very next day the universe righted itself. Perspective was restored and a wonderfully dynamic group of people in the form of a new writers group entered my life. Something good, something creative, something to remind me of the beauty of being me doing the one thing I love most.

I still do not feel all that comfortable writing about love. Maybe that is because I am not that comfortable in love, generally. But if I know one thing for sure, it is the more comfortable I am in my own skin, the less it matters. The emotional ebb and flow is fodder for my writing. So in the end, it all balances out nicely.