Loverly Things.

I danced around my kitchen in an apron this morning, cleaning and almost in tears. I was listening to a song about love ending and I was searching to discover who my first love was. What time that I fell was it so real and so complete that I would consider it to be my first? The time that had topped all others and would from thereafter be regarded as the standard to which all future loves would be measured.

Well…when I put it that way—all of them.

For the purposes of the song bringing me to tears, some cases came to mind more accurately than others. I do tend to be the one to break things off, and here was a girl singing in pleading tones for forgiveness for her need to move on. (If you don’t know Adele, you really should.) But even the times when my lover left first, those were first loves, too.

Each time I’ve fallen in love, I’ve sworn it’s better than the last. And it has been. Not always because of the new love entirely though. With every relationship I’ve had, I’ve learned something new. Every time I’ve fallen in love, it’s been for the first time because I’ve never loved like that before. It’s a new person that I’m loving, and it’s a new me—freshly healed wounds from my last lover’s battle, etching teachings on my being.

I got to thinking about what I had learned from each of them. Each of these men who had shared some part of their lives with me before one or both of us realized it couldn’t continue past a certain point. The men that I’ve missed, sometimes never seeing their lessons until I was far, far away from the occurrence. The men that I can look back on and remember that I loved, with no recollection of how it felt when I did. No memory of the desires and the longing every dawn. Just vague shadows of what they came into my life to teach me. The affinity there once was.

I think I’ve been missing the point of relationships and their place in our lives. I’ve dismissed anyone I used to love as not being genuine because it came to an end. Feeling concern when my current lover once loved another because if that was real, then perhaps he can’t really love me. I’ve felt this need to reject that I have ever been in love because if it was real love I wouldn’t have stopped. It was real. But being real doesn’t mean it was meant last. I think instead of assuming it’s real love I’m still looking for, I should accept that all love can be real. It’s just a matter of sustainability.

I have a tendency to run ahead in love. I rush, rush, rush things, anxious to see the ending in sight—often causing my own crashing because I become so concerned with whether things are meant to last or I’m wasting my time. But maybe if I accept that love doesn’t have to have a happy ending to mean something, it will be much easier to slow down. To not miss all the pretty pictures along the way because I was too busy trying to zoom my focus in on what lay ahead.

I guess only time will tell.