Love Surrounds

I think I'm finally realizing how much love surrounds me. In my grandmother's tearful prayers, I see love. In my friends' telephone conversations as I commute home from work, I see love. In my brother's ever-ready loans, I see love. In my dog's eager, ever-playful eyes, I see love. In my former manager's comments, I see love. In my solitude, when a text of well-wishing comes to the screen, I see love. In my mother's calls, no matter how many times I ignore them, I see love. In my best friend's understanding gaze, I see love.

I am just now realizing how much love surrounds me. And I am so, so grateful.

I hope that I can express my gratitude, sooner or later.

The Art of Racing in the Rain

After spending the afternoon in Seattle, drinking coffee and sending emails, meandering through Pike Place Market, I stopped by Half Price Books in Tukwila on the way home. I don’t remember the last time I recreationally read, and especially finished, a novel (though many valiant attempts were made, but the starting proved to be much easier than the finishing), so I browsed the aisles aimlessly, just waiting for something to catch my eye.

En Entendant Godot crossed my path, a French version of the beloved Garfield, both securing a place in my hands, but I kept on. And then, from the corner of my eye, the top of a dog’s head peeked out. The Art of Racing in the Rain. By the title, I would never give it a second glance, but why the dog on the cover? My curiosity piqued, I opened the front flap.

“Enzo knows he is different from other dogs: a philosopher with a nearly human soul (and an obsession with opposable thumbs), he has educated himself by watching television extensively, and by listening very closely to the words of his master, Denny Swift, an up-and-coming race car driver.”

A novel told from the perspective of a dog. I needed nothing else. (Not to mention it was a mere $2.00 – a steal!)

The Art of Racing in the Rain is the most heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, dog-loving book that I have ever read. The tears began on page 4 and the flood gates were released by page 317. The novel begins with Enzo, our narrating canine, knowing that he is about to die – and wanting to. The following chapters are written in retrospect, following the lives of Denny and his family, but through Enzo’s eyes. 

Now, for those of you that are heartless dog-detesters, this novel is not for you. You simply wouldn’t understand. But for any and all dog-lovers, this is a must read. It will make you appreciate your canine companion so much more and will provide you with a warm, soul-cleansing cry.

The Art of Racing in the Rain. Two paws up.

Now excuse me while I mull over pictures of my Ellie and wallow in my melancholy.

Young and Beautiful

I've seen the world
Done it all
Had my cake now
Diamonds, brilliant
And Bel Air now
Hot summer nights, mid July
When you and I were forever wild
The crazy days, city lights
The way you'd play with me like a child

Will you still love me
When I'm no longer young and beautiful?
Will you still love me
When I got nothing but my aching soul?

Will you still love me when I'm no longer beautiful?

- Lana Del Rey, "Young and Beautiful"

I'm Not Sorry

I'm done apologizing for what I want and what I need. Never again will I utter a "sorry" after texting you, again, after I've been drinking because I stop myself when I'm sober. When I'm sober I rationalize and tell myself, "No, there's no need to bother him; he's busy, he'll talk to me when he has time." But those rationalizations don't overcome my desire to know that I am present and on your mind. I am done apologizing for wanting to know that just because I'm out of sight, doesn't mean I'm out of mind; I am done with waiting on you to grace me with your attention; I am done with hanging on to your every word. I want affirmation, and this does not make me "clingy" or "needy." (The audacity, wanting to know that I am appreciated and loved...) This is what I want, this is what I need, and for that, never again, will I be sorry.

Shooting Stars Behind Closed Eyes; Hidden Wishes

As I finally laid my weary head down, trying to calm the whispers in my mind
I squeezed my eyes shut and saw
a shooting star

and instantly thought
Of you.

Backdrop

"You want me to be a tragic backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say 'Wow, isn't he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?' You think I'll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I'll swallow you whole."

- Warsan Shire

Kisses to the Wind

Standing, with the cool night air
all around,
I'll look at the street
   the trees
      the stars and
you will pass my mind.

And I'll blow kisses to the wind
   send them sailing with the breeze
      with some strange hope of reaching
you.

A Late Walk

"When I go up through the mowing field,
       The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
       Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
       The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
       Is sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
       But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
      Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
       By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
       To carry again to you."

- Robert Frost, "A Late Walk"


That last stanza -- beautiful. It makes me sad, in a melancholic way.

Goodbyes

"You don't need me to love you."
"But I want you to."

Forgetting & Loving

Forget the ones that forgot you but never forget the love that you're capable of.

Will You Still Love Me On Sunday?

It’s so easy to be head-over-heels under the loud music and the overfull glasses of Saturday night. Everyone loves each other, everyone wants to be best friends. Everyone sees only the best in everyone else. And there is a certain magic in Saturday night, as though you’re so far inside the weekend — so buffered on each side from the unforgiving reality of the weekdays — that everything is possible and real if you want it to be. You say things you might not mean on Monday morning, because for the moment in between the sixth and seventh drink on Saturday, it’s all you can think about.

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But when you wake up on Sunday morning, when your head hurts so badly you feel as though it will never return to normal, when everything that was beautiful and mysterious the night before has been rendered harsh and unflattering in the relentless daylight — will you still want to turn over to me? Will you still be interested in all of the things I have to say, all of the coincidences we took as divine intervention last night when we were only so happy to tell each other how we feel? If the facilitators of alcohol and dim lights and a group of laughing around us are no longer part of the equation, do you still want to hold my hand?

------

I will love you on Sunday. If I told you all of these beautiful things when we were standing under the red light of the bar, peeling the label off a beer bottle, it’s because I want you to remember them the next day. I want to pounce on my momentary lack of inhibitions to say all of the things I’ll later want to sweep under the rug, but which I truly mean. I am telling you these things on Saturday because I won’t be able to on Sunday, but I’ll want you to know that I mean them. And I hope you know me well enough to know that I never say anything I don’t mean — even if they’re a bit embarrassing to remember in the morning.

Will You Still Love Me On Sunday? | Thought Catalog

Kisses

"I love you. I love you. I love you." He repeated time and time again, kissing her fists, her scars, her fingers, her wrists, her hands, her knuckles, her palms. Thoughts, feelings, words, hopes and fears swirled in her mind, and her mouth opened - silent. Instead of release, instead of letting her go, they grasped at her throat, clawing, and choked her from the inside out. Her head swayed slightly, side to side, and she tensed fleetingly, unable to bring her exhausted, diffident eyes to the eager, desperate ones that were fixed on her, a mere face-lengths away. Again, she opened her mouth; again, she closed it - silent. "But I love you."

Love Me

"Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does."

- Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

The Day Your Dog Dies

You repeat to yourself - she's just a symbol. She's just a dog. Don't repeat this too many times, before you realize tears will be running down your cheeks to form tiny pools in the cracks in your palms.

The Day Your Dog Dies | Thought Catalog

RIP Max, RIP Jack. 

Unconditional Love

Unconditional love is a puppy (whether it is two months or twelve years old). When they let you blow in their face or take their paws to make them dance or mummy wrap them in blankets or pull on their ears, without so much as a snip or a bark; when you leave them for hours or days or months at a time and every time you come back, they're just as happy to see you; when you neglect them and forget to take them on a walk, but they don't have the capacity to hold a grudge; when they follow all your ridiculous commands and put up with your teasing just to get a treat and give you kisses just as soon as your face is in reach - that's love. Unconditional love is man's best friend.

Deserving Love

"We accept the love we think we deserve." - Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

So what do we do if we do not believe we deserve it? Do we reject it? Run from it? Hide from it? Push it away? Or do we go along with it, hoping that one day we will wake up feeling worthy and in the mean time, pray to God that the one giving us their love doesn't give up.

Questions, questions, questions, and as always, so few answers.

Patience

Be steady, my heart. Good things come to those who wait.

Feeling Sentimental

I don't often get very sentimental, but my heart is simply filled with love right now. I do love this place, and I do love these people. And I do love that place, and I do love those people. I've realized that no matter where I go, I will always be missing something and someone else. But I'm okay with that. I'm okay with leaving bits and pieces of my heart scattered about, because what good is a whole heart, not shared, kept to itself and alone?

Distance

They say that distance makes the heart grow fonder, but no - no, this isn't true. Distance simply gives a delusion of fondness. The further away you are, the more appealing it (whether it be a person or place) appears. The faults and shortcomings shrink, producing a false portrayal of perfection. Your memories trick you into viewing it through a more pleasant, more loving, more joyful filter, making whatever your current state is seem so incredibly dull and ordinary.

The mind loves to play its tricks, always teasing with skewed nostalgia, always making you want something that is no longer (or not yet) within your reach. Distance does not make the heart grow fonder; it tricks the heart into fondness.

Thankful

It's amazing how your whole day can be changed by something so simple as talking to an old friend. I hadn't talked with Tim for several weeks and this short hour that we just got to Skype was exactly what I needed. I don't even have the right words to say - it was just as if a wave of fresh air, relief washed over me.

God bless whoever invented Skype and God bless my best friends. I'd be drowning without them.