On Love that Won’t Last Forever

The RUSH, the high, the stimulation, aroused senses, the sudden infusion of springtime energy, the rose-colored glass, the golden hue, the erasing of pain and sadness … all of these effects of blossoming love seem analogous to the desired effects of a drug we may choose to use.

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© isabel cooney

 

Perhaps more so than any other common addiction, some love addicts are able to keep the scene contained to their imagination – yet this doesn’t make the sensations, or dependence, less real.

Of course, many love stories are actually acted out, in the flesh – but others need no more than a moment’s eye contact to ignite the flame and keep it burning. The object of our desire needn’t even be aware that she is causing such unrest within our heaving chest.

So, whether the love story has come to pass between two conscious, consenting beings, or has simply been nourished by the powerful mind and heart of one being, there inevitably comes a point where the “substance” (in this case, love) no longer produces the same intense effect.

Tolerance has increased, so to speak. The very same caress, tender declaration, or bouquet of flowers, produces less excitement. Glee fades to contentment. Old pains and longings gradually resurface, no longer held at bay by the centrifugal power of new love. In contemplating our love’s personification, we now see their shadow, previously invisible in the bright glory of it all.

What is the most healthy way to proceed when the drug’s effects begin to wear off? Clearly, it cannot solve much to drop this “substance” in search of a new one, complete with the potency of everything new? Abandoning this love for naught, blaming it-him-her for not staying the same, not flowing endlessly, giving up on love in general because of its volatility does not seem particularly clever either.

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© isabel cooney

 

Is there something to be learned, on Love, by turning to the Universe – our source – and its child, our ancestor, our parent: the earth?

Perhaps rather than looking upon love as a source that runs dry, as a crumbling heap that was once a solid mountain, we would do better by stepping back and seeing love in the larger scheme of it all. After all, what, that we know on this planet, remains static? omnipotent? infinitely charged? Are not the things that we know best, that have created us and all that surrounds us, but phases in a majestic clockwork of interjoined cycles?

From the cycle of our birth, growth, and death, to the cycle of the moon and the planets in space, to the cycle of the seasons, to the cycle from seed to sprout to plant to fruit to decomposition and back to seed, and on and on and on and on … who are we to imagine we can vanquish the force of life cycles?

Railing against the slowing down, and the deaths, that surround us and are integrally part of us, only serves to create a chasm between us and our source. And to be severed is to not be whole.

The death of a loved one – not fair?

Our own inevitable demise – to be feared?

The engraving of time and living, in the form of wrinkles, creases and the ceasing of fertility – to be combatted?

Leaves falling from their tree in great number, branches left bare above them as winter nears – deserving of protest?

After all, one wonders whether that which is doomed to lose steam, and even disintegrate one day, is necessarily less valuable, less beautiful, less worthy of our attention and wonderment. Is it not the other way ’round? Is not that which is fleeting and constantly changing form, the most precious thing we could possibly hold?

In the very holding, not to be confused with holding on, everything is said: you are here now. One day, you won’t be. So now, let me love you with all my being.

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