The History of Love

Love. It's a beautiful thing. I used to be afraid of love. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of hurting someone else. But love is one thing we all experience in one way or another. I'm full to overflowing with it right now, and feel like sprinkling it all over my blog in hopefully a not overly sentimental way.

For today's post I will include a not-so little excerpt from Nicole Krauss' book entitled The History of Love, a beautiful book that I just began reading today. Its insightfulness is just remarkable.

"The first woman may have been Eve, but the first girl will always be Alma. Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone's hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted -- wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don't look at me. If you don't I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.

If you remember the first time you saw Alma, you also remember the last. She was shaking her head. Or disappearing across a field. Or through your window. Come back, Alma! you shouted. Come back! Come back!

But she didn't.

And though you were grown up by then, you felt lost as a child. And though your pride was broken, you felt as vast as your love for her. She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence.

For a long time, it remained hollow. Years, maybe. And when at last it was filled again, you know that the new love you felt for a woman would have been impossible without Alma. If it weren't for her, there would never have been an empty space, or the need to fill it.

Of course, there are certain cases in which the boy in question refuses to stop shouting at the top of his lungs for Alma. Stages a hunger strike. Pleads. Fills a book with his love. Carries on until she has no choice but to come back. Every time she tries to leave, knowing it's what has to be done, the boy stops her, begging like a fool. And so she always returns, no matter how often she leaves or how far she goes, appearing soundlessly covering his eyes with her hands, spoiling him for anyone who could ever come after her."

Love is a complicated thing, but one thing is for certain, love can be the rise and fall of your chest. It can be held between two hands, or pressed between two lips. Love can be as tangible as the wind, always having an effect on the world around it whether in a small way or in an earth-shattering way. We're all objects tossed about by it, hopelessly clinging to each other in an attempt to fly far on a gust of love.