Aspirations of Love

My parents are married and I admire that about them. I admire how they gave their lives to each other, to five boys, and to multiple businesses. Their example in marriage, in love, is something I can only hope to someday, if ever, aspire to. Their life together is love. From what I’ve learned, love isn’t just the kisses, moonlight dances, and walks on sandy beaches; love is putting the needs of others before your own. Love is laundry, yard work, errands, cooking dinner, and doing for each other without calling it compromise. Love is shown in the act of giving void of anticipated reciprocation.

53 years ago Mom and Dad began their married life. They were high school sweethearts, fell in love, and they’ve stayed happily there. They’ve honored their vows, stuck through the tough times and the good times, in sickness and in health. I’ve seen the wedding photos – black and white portraits and snapshots of two happy people, their families and friends in the celebration. There’s mom in her white dress and my dad in a tuxedo. They look so young because they were.

I’m certain that over their 53 years together there have been moments where they wondered what life would be like without one another, without these five boys, and their life as they know it. Love, true love, has a way of pulling and keeping two people together. The mechanics of marriage may be a legality, but love and loyalty are not. My parents have values where giving your word is a contract, where promises mean commitment, honor is founded on meaningful action, and respect is openly shown for one another. My parents are role models for this divorce generation.

When I married I hoped to follow in their example – to have a long, happy life of marriage, of having a household of kids, and bliss. Well, that didn’t transpire as I thought, as I hoped. I’ve been divorced for 14 years, still single, still hoping. I’ve come to accept that I’ll likely not experience a 53-year anniversary – I’d need to be married today and then live until I’m 93. Care to guess which seems more probable?

There was a stretch in my life when I swore I’d never marry again. What I really meant, I’ve finally learned, is that I don’t want to divorce again. My divorce was the singular most painful, most disappointing event. If you want to see how ugly people can be, watch a divorce. I learned why marrying the right person is so important; I wonder still if there is a right person or just someone who can tolerate me and I her. I don’t want tolerance; I want wholehearted, consuming, heart-pounding love. I’m an all-or-nothing-at-all kind of guy.

I do realize that I’m probably not the easiest person to live with. I’m stubborn, grouchy most mornings, demanding, and I worry enough for two people. I need to be alone and I need to be with others. I question, with a grin, the sanity of women who are attracted to me. I smoke cigars, play poker, and ride motorcycles. I also know that I’m loyal, generous, affectionate, sympathetic, accommodating, long-suffering, and long-winded.

For years there was a callus around my heart, tough, impenetrable, vulnerable to no arrows, no love, no woman. And then somehow things have changed. Maybe it was getting older, the thought of being alone forever, or the Florida sunshine and solo walks ankle-deep in the Gulf, but my heart wants to feel again, has felt again. First it was a rekindled friendship, then came thunderbolts, chemistry, Cupid, a muse, and incredible attraction. It was the way she looked at me and the way she’d reach for my hand. I’ve faded to sleep with thoughts of this woman and woke with those thoughts still as fresh.

But love uses a funny knife, it can stab, but won’t always cut both ways.

In a shoebox somewhere there’s a photo I’ve been looking for. It’s of my parents from a few years ago. It’s Thanksgiving in Nashville when we all took an after dinner walk. It was a cool, gray day. Mom’s wearing a red coat and Dad has on his leather jacket and a tweed cap. They’re ten yards ahead of me and I see Dad reach over and take Mom’s hand. It was an instant decision, camera, click: this moment captured forever if I could only find that photo. Since that day and on walks since I’ve seen them still holding hands, still look after each other, still in love, still loving.

That’s what I want in my life, what I hope to find out there, what my heart longs for. I know what I have felt, how the possibility of love has excited me. And then I’m reminded how impractical, scary, painful it all can be. There are countless things I don’t fully understand and love, passion, hope, rejection, deception, and bitter arguments are a few. For a writer I get amazingly stumped and a little misty when I talk about the disappointment of unrequited love, lost hope, vulnerability, and the bravado of just breathing.

But this isn’t about me, it’s about the people who made me. It’s about the people who looked after me when I was little, encouraged me when I was big. It’s about the people who stoked me to write and gave me my first typewriter, encouraged me to photograph and offered my first camera, and the people who still want the best for me. This is about the people I love and the love they’ve always given to me. It’s about the people who still want the best for me, who want me to find someone to love, to find someone worthy of my love. This is about my parents and my thankfulness for the example they’ve lived.

Happy 53rd anniversary, Mom and Dad.