Eclipse

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Loving her meant building something new in myself, a portal to discover love’s true capacity. To look at what I had gathered over all my years and consider how that could resolve itself inside her frame. Love meant something different when you could pass it on. To give its sensation a second round. To watch it circulate through someone else. To be greater than it was.

We spend months circling each other, mimicking our shapes. And in the same way the moon will sometimes eclipse the sun, we will indulge in each other’s complete warmth, even if only for a split second.

Love will live on in a thousand different places at the same time. Its boundary can be a thriving territory. It is our instrument of change.

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If the river can be a cloud and know the feeling of falling, and if the cloud can be fog and know the feeling of becoming a wave, then we, too, can change. Our energy is a circular beast. Pulled to follow force or the course, reminding us to re-understand what we have already discovered. In the same way that walking down the same street can be an exercise in observation or in spirit or in discipline, over progress. We learn the true cost of a cheap thrill. We learn that talking about nature is not abstract, it is the only real thing available to us.

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Language is an open basket, a net formation holding the form and structure of an idea, but it is in the act of weaving where we find what it is we are talking about. It is why some of us use hands to emphasise the meaning, why acts of love are so highly valued, why reaching out a hand is the universal sign for assistance. We write more with our body than the arranged characters of the alphabet. Yet, if you take the letter A out for the day, it will tell you how it was once a picture, a fluid drawing made by hand, an wild etch on the ground, signalling a way forward, a place to begin, a siren to gather momentum, exposing its drama in the first scene.

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We gave ourselves up to the red maple tree across the valley, and decided that time, phones, and death belonged outside, if they wanted any claim on our space today, they would have to expand their definition.

The sun, like that great friend that’s always first to call up with an invitation, asks you to notice her in the morning, feel her warmth as she bends angles all over the walls you have iced in paint. A flashback to the afternoon on the floor eating cake, one glass of champagne left in the bottle. And since then, those walls have held our mornings with condensation and our nights with the glowing lamps, our long showers with the steam clinging to its ribs. Like a ship’s portal window and the changing view, or a mirror to our hope. How we live exists within their frame, and yet here we are looking out the window yearning for a porous boundary.

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