But, I'm smiling. In a tent, furiously typing away, while Me, Myself & Irene plays for the thousandth time on one of the walls (rapt crewmates fanned out around me, in various stages of half-dressed uniform,) tapping my foot to O-Hum piping through tiny, tinny earbuds from my laptop.
I have just read all my favorite bloggers' most recent posts. With the notable exception of INPY, they seem to have recovered from Happy Hour (my jealousy is real). Oh. It just occurred to me that it is Monday in the Real World.
Nonetheless. Everyone seemed in a similarly good mood. And, coincidentally perhaps, to have written about dating. In the good way, not in the Requiem-ish emo way.
I am inspired. As I so often am by you anonymous literary heros.
My last post, directed to the Blogger Formally Known as Shadowsofourselves, seems to have met its mark. It really is a strange dynamic: that we can write to better understand ourselves, yet somehow be tangentially helpful to someone else.
No sooner had I made that post, than did I receive an email from my daughter. Others (as well as I) have made allusion to tears-in-sadness; I caught myself with those glorious mini-tears that crowd into the corner of my eye at pure, unadulterated and uncomplicated happiness.
Here's what she wrote:
Mommy is typing this for me because I'm too tired.
Yes, I went to the birthday party and climbed all the way to the top just like gymnastics. I really miss you. Will you get to call me again? I already made you a couple of things. What have you been doing out there? Last weekend, I went to an indoor water park. It was very fun. I rode on every single slide in there. Have you been to a water park before? I hope you have. Mommy wrote a silly sentence, but I made her erase it. Once there was a snake in my basement but Papa killed it. I love you. Are you going to email me again? I hope you get this letter. Have you ever been skiing? Do you like Sponge Bob Square Pants? How about Scooby Doo? Once I went to the zoo and I slept there. The alligator was very scary. That's why I didn't go near it. Good thing we had two flashlights because I dropped mine and it broke. I had to borrow mom's flashlight. I love you.What a trip. I am a grinning Cheshire for having just re-read it. Only a precocious little girl could go from "...there was a snake in my basement" to "Have you ever been skiing?" What an amazing child. Lazy, clearly. But amazing.
Oh, and I had a great run last night. Or, yesterday-ish. You know. Time here is increasingly irrelevant. Anyway. 5K in the "savannah." The Marines (as they can be counted on to do) have stationed pullup bars and an incline situp board at the beginning, middle and end, and I made good use of them, too.
Where was I? Oh yes. Inspired. And inclined to ask questions.
S was Persian. I am, decidedly, a Persianist. I speak Farsi fluently, and my studies have all been centered on the Middle East. I can quote Hafez with significantly more ease (and authority) than Frost.
It is important to note that I had an affinity for all things Persian before S came crashing into my life. Yet I would be remiss to ignore the fact that she and her family (in accepting me as one of their own) served only to further deepen this affection.
I have previously mentioned realizing that a great portion of my mourning has been over the life I thought I'd have with her, as much (at least) as the actual presence of her, herself -- S. An unmeasurable part of that life I'd imagined I'd have forever included surprising unfamiliar people when I spoke Farsi with skill and confidence, celebrating Now Ruz (Persian New Year) and giving my own little American spin on haft-seen, going on didani (family visits), drinking Persian tea after every meal. Attending Baha'i functions (only to go out for a beer soon after.) Telling jokes only an Iranian would appreciate (sorry, Turks.)
S's appearance in my life was serendipity. So many things that I love and in which I am passionately interested were found in her. I am reluctant --very reluctant-- to part ways with the idea that I can have them again.
But, in having lost her, haven't I lost them, too? It would seem the only way I could replicate those interests would be in exclusively dating Persian women. Yet that is patently ridiculous, even to me.
I wonder, though: can I not find those same feelings, just in a different way, in an unexpected source? Perhaps what I loved about S's family didanis, I can love in my next love's family's mandatory poker nights? Or whatever.
I don't know. Everything is so complicated. So clouded. I will certainly miss arguing in Farsi, though. *smile*
Have I reached some point where I am now (hesitatingly, perhaps) ready to take that next step away from S? Where I'm okay-ish with her being gone, but now I'll drive myself mad pursuing the impossible -- before coming to the inevitable conclusion that the next (and God-willing final) love-of-my-life will be a completely different person?
Of course she will.
I suspect so, anyway.
And if anyone's wondering... I'm still in a great mood.