Love of my Life
Yesterday was the six-year anniversary of my relationship with Rose. Six years ago yesterday I arrived in a small Mexican town, got off my bus, and saw two blue eyes among a crowd of people. Six years ago yesterday, those blue eyes invited me to a singing circle in the evening, and then (in a move that never ceases to make those blue eyes sparkle) forgot to turn up. Six years ago yesterday, my life changed. A little flame of love was born in my heart, and that love has slowly burnt through all my old things. Six years later, the flame is still burning. Every day, I pray, it burns a little brighter. Every day, for certain, it burns fresh. Have you ever seen an old flame? Love is the endless newness that keeps us young.
Yesterday we sat together all afternoon in the garden, in the clear mid-winter light of the tropics, the grass rippling green and gold in the sunshine and breeze, the perfume of night flowers rising as the shade deepened, Rose sitting beneath a palm tree, brown and long-legged, her blue eyes just the same, but everything else six years older than it used to be. I lay beside her, reading a book; the cat dozed at my feet, and occasionally rose to chase a butterfly, or inspect a particularly lovely bird. The sunbirds basked, the whipbirds trilled, the fairy wrens cooed, the sky was dabbed blue and white and gold. The air was clean, life was fresh - I kept thinking: when I die, in those last few seconds, I hope I remember a moment like this. I hope I have lived this often enough that I know what to look for when I go off in search of heaven.
All our lives we yo-yo in and out of time. There are moments of hubbub and chaos, birth and creation and progress. There are also moments of death. The blur of rushing life melts into swimming-pool clarity. So many days I live with Rose, and hardly see her at all. Then one day - one moment, out of the blue - I see in through her eyes: I glimpse her soul, her youth, her age, her birth and death, her fleetingness, her eternity, and I realise how lucky I am to have someone to love. I realise she is the most miraculous gift - a galaxy of change orbiting around some sun that knows no time: always new, always fresh, always living; but always Rose, just the same. She is a mystery I will never fathom, but not knowing does not scare me away, for I know that the deeper I look, the deeper I love.
Nothing of any value can be done if we live life in fear of death. Death is not some gremlin battering at the doors; Death is here and now, among us. Death loves us. She is rest, she is the end of things. Sometimes she comes to us in a moment, to calm our racing hearts, still the fleeing time, and let us melt. Death teaches us to forget ourselves. We gaze at the sunset, or we play with a cat, or we look at another human being and fall in love. And we are happy, for we are not there. And so I say - why should I fear the death of me? In the happiest moments of my life, I have not been. There has been no rush, no anxiety, no past, no future, no doubt; there has just been this flame of throbbing life, and like a moth in love, I have let myself burn.
From death comes life. Any artist will tell you that creation bursts blazing and fluorescent out of anything empty. Nothing new is born if the old does not die. Death keeps us fresh, saves us from carrying around a burden of useless phlegm. Death makes us light, light enough that we can fly out to the stars at night. In that sense, death is wealth. What use is all the money in the world if you cannot sit on the beach at dawn, and feel the sun rising through you? What help are fortunes if you do not realise that you own the birdsong, you own the sunshine, you own the summer breeze? What good does it do to own a dozen houses if you cannot close your eyes in the forest, and feel at home?
Death is like a gold thread woven through the cloth of life to make it glint. She is the contrast that makes colours shine. Without her, life would be an unbearable burden, perpetual motion in no direction. Because of death, we own life. Because of death, we can be still. Death makes life precious. She is that tender feeling that makes us look at what we have, and want to cry. She is gratitude for the Gift. She is that sudden vision, as though from outside ourselves, that puts everything in perspective. She is peace. She is reassurance. She is the love of my life.
[Edit: Also Rose.]
The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh