I have come to love the movie "Sabrina" in the past few years. Something about it is calming, and something about it makes me think my dreams aren't that crazy, that Paris is just an ocean away, not a universe, and it's OK to be honest and blunt with people instead of just appeasing and passive. And this line, the one written at the top of the page, it has become more poignant as I've gotten older, seen my friends in and out of relationships, seen my friends get married, and see myself by myself year after year. At times I am embarrassed of being alone, no matter how much I profess to enjoy and even prefer it. But I like to think I'm a step beyond the character Sabrina at that point in the movie: I have become content, happy actually, with where I am and who I am and who I do not have beside me. Yes, sometimes, when people ask me who I'm dating and the answer is always the same, I feel a little silly. But the majority of the time I am proud, yes proud, of my life and who I've become. And more than anything, I'm excited for who I will become in the future. And yes, who that other person will be that will become a part of me in the future.
It seems that in this Provo, Utah culture — and really, the overarching American culture — people do not talk of love unless they have it or have been spurned by it. That longing for love, it is left on one end of the spectrum to the online dating sites, and on the other end, to poets and writers. Why? Why are we ashamed of expressing that deep, natural and beautiful desire for love? Instead, Provo-ites hide it and Americans in general replace it with one-night flings, satisfying a tiny part of the greater masterpiece. I lean toward the former, being a Provo-ite myself, writing snippets of my hopes on this seldom-read blog, and filling a journal page or two with the rest when the occasion warrants.
I'm not saying everyone should suddenly express every secret desire of their hearts for the world to examine. But wouldn't it be grand if we weren't so ashamed to do so? How much better we would know each other, perhaps even getting to know ourselves better, and forming deeper relationships through commonalities other than bands, books, sports and movies.
I'll start it off. That's only fair. So here it is, a honestly expressed desire of mine that I am neither ashamed nor entirely confident in sharing. It is my starting point.
June 19, 2011
I visited Sarah and Mason (Victors) today. ... It wasn't weird at all, thank goodness, but I left with a bit stronger aching for married life. Or rather, just a companion to lean on, to share things with. I so want that. I want to find someone to trust so implicitly that I can smile at him because I know he'll smile back. How simple is that? How, almost juvenile. Yet it's the truth.
I'm not jealous of others who have that, my aching is not that type. My desire for a connection to another human being is subtle, yet poignant, if that's possible. It doesn't consume my life or take up every spare thought, but it is there, deep in my chest. I can feel it, lumped in between my lungs, above my stomach. It's a lump of desire and love and longing and trust and anticipation and care and concern and a million other things that I want to give away if only the right person would come.
It's like the weeks before Christmas and you've found the perfect gift for someone, and Christmas can't come fast enough and you're tempted to give it to them early because it's just so amazing, but they're not in town yet anyway, so you wait and you tell people about it, but that just makes you more excited and anxious to give it to them and it's all you can do to keep yourself from exploding!
That's how I feel. It's by no means bad, yet the term I think to describe it is 'excruciating.' When will relief come? I so want to share these things. Christmas seems like it will never come.
(But, it always comes, doesn't it? Sometimes, especially as I've gotten older, it even sneaks up on me.)