A talented songwriter once said “we know who we should love, but we’re never certain how.” Sometimes it seems that I have forgotten how to love. Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend as I was driving her home. She said that she didn’t know if she had it in her to love romantically again; she thinks that she can love as a friend, even love unconditionally, but somehow romance has lost its appeal and become an impossibility. When she said that she could love unconditionally I didn’t believe her.
We pulled up to her house. It barely stands and is on the slate for demolition. But my friend and her room mate, both painters by trade, have been using Bejamin Moore’s off-tints to spruce the place up. The have painted the kitchen avacado and gold (Ralph Lauren), the bathroom purple. The job is far from perfect and permanent objects are shadowed by white. As I sat on the bed they talked about what to paint next, who owed what for paint and groceries, when they had a break in schedules (an appointment was scrawled on the bathroom mirror).
This friend is probably the person unrelated to me I have loved the longest. I have known her since her sister was in a stroller. We built forts and bathed worms together. I don’t love her well enough. But as I saw her interact with her roommate I saw that she loves very well and I want to learn from her.
Tonight I was uncertain how to love. But some part of me remembered a pattern. Not the part that wishes to be loved in return. Not the part that considers consequences. Not the part that will sometimes dangle a hand by my side hoping that it will be held. I have learned love without knowing how.
