She will believe in forever if she feels safe with him. When a man looks at a woman like this, it’s difficult to doubt Happily Ever After..
To know the love of an artist is to experience evidence of his passion all around. His pottery fills the kitchen cabinets, his photography brings life to the once dull walls, his sketches spill the sacred stories of his heart, his woodworking marvels make lovely spaces that were empty before, his hand-painted cards serve as reminders for milestones passed. His vision brings beauty to the mundane; his inventive hands make ornamental the ordinary. As a creative, he has no choice but to express his runaway imagination, even at the expense of exposing his deepest vulnerabilities.
How fortunate am I to keep the company of an accomplished artist who decidedly decorates my world with gifts he gives so generously. His uncanny ability to take a lump of clay and breathe life into it, or pick up a pencil and dream paper worlds into existence is a unique gift. Where words may fail him, color and form become him.
Support the passions of your partner–whatever his medium may be. Celebrate his strengths. Illuminate his talents. His aptitude will be amplified exponentially within the walls of your home and of your heart, magnified in the most unexpected ways.
Promise me you’ll never leave me, you’ll learn to love me indefinitely. Promise me you’ll listen to my language, and speak in a tongue I will understand, too, so we will never grow apart. Tell me we will never tire of time together, for years to come, for adventures not yet lived, and stories still untold.
Love left me lost for a long time.
But then love came softly. It crept gently into my consciousness like a quiet dream. Love returned like a familiar friend. It dabbed my bleeding heart. It hushed the doubting whispers and soothed my terminal attitude. It reassured my hopelessness. It comforted my resignation. Love wanted to make peace.
Something about you makes me want to love you.
To the man who gave me two thumbs up and smiled approvingly as you ran toward me on top of the bridge this morning, I wonder if you stop for the same reasons?
I stop at Cole’s memorial everyday I run past it because I am a mother who loves a boy, too. I know how deep and steady that love runs, carved into my heart like a river wears through rock. I know to love a boy child is different than even the love of a girl one. I stop because somehow my obsession to keep running is quieted when I feel my legs might buckle under my stride if I can’t stop to honor his memory. I stop to pray for Cole and thank him for the lessons his life has taught me.
I only knew Cole in small stories, like when he would come into the snack room at school. I volunteered every other week, so much of the story is missing. My memories of Cole are like a book I think I read, but then regrettably remember I never found the time to pick up. I mostly remember his tousled hair and lopsided grin. They told me how down-to-earth and easygoing he was. Cole didn’t care to impress- he just did because of the kid he was. I took for granted that he would grow and go into high school like his classmates and go on to college like the rest of his peers plan to do. Their stories are still unfolding.
After the accident, I began measuring time in terms of “before Cole died” and “after.” Autumn is when things begin to die, but not in Florida. We don’t know winter. How could we become acquainted with death? Cole’s death disturbed me in ways I could have never dreamed. I found my mind was unruly and wouldn’t settle down, running in exhaustive circles all night. His death stirred in me the agonizing pain of regret and grief and loss. Nothing felt safe anymore. I questioned my ability to make good parenting decisions. Was I endangering the lives of my children by allowing them to ride their bikes? Walk to the park? Sleepover at friends’ houses? Eat solid food? Go out the front door? Tie their shoelaces?
I would tell that man running toward me, stranger that he is to me even in this small town, Cole didn’t die in vain. Every day, I squeeze my kids just a little bit tighter. I kiss them and tell them I’m so grateful for them. I don’t run with my back to traffic much anymore and I teach my children to do the same. I would tell thumbs-up runner that I admire Cole’s parents, that they still acknowledge a good God. I would tell him that my faith is too fragile to understand why he was taken from us so soon.
I would tell my fellow bridge runner that I stop to honor a boy who lost his life to a senseless accident, one that has torn a small town apart and left a gaping hole of misery for too many to make peace with. We soldier on, but we still look for signs and wonders and clues. We want an answer. We don’t understand why we lost a boy on a bridge that night. I would tell him I appreciate his kind gesture, but I’m not looking for approval for my quiet ritual. I’m looking for peace and offering my condolences to a family reluctantly of four now, as a mother who loves a boy, too.
He was ruggedly handsome. A man’s man, a fireman. He wore calloused hands and arms as thick as the hoses he lugs for a living. Unassuming and humble, quietly observant, he was content to sit in the shadows and admire his wife at work. But when we invited him into the photos “for fun”, he willingly kicked off his shoes and pulled on a pair of jeans to match. His arm around her, but almost more notably, around her beloved dog, it was immediately apparent he is the protector. Clearly he adores her. I sort of think this is what love looks like.
You are clever and kind, capable and humble. You’re self-assured without being [too] arrogant. You carry your confidence quietly. You are impossibly even-keeled, nothing ever seems to rattle you. I’ve not known you to have a temper, or ever be ugly with anger.
Your quiet presence is reassuring, like sitting under a peaceful starry sky at the edge of the ocean when it lays down at night. You exude adventure, and that is endlessly exciting. You are diligent, always watchful and aware, without sacrificing a childlike playfulness.
You are the perfect elixir of keeper and protector, but also court jester. You don’t give up jovial at the expense of intensity. You are schoolboy naive, and that is ever endearing. I often want to climb into your lap and stay a while, a very long while, or as long as you will tolerate sitting in the stillness with me.
I don’t know how to fold these feelings back up small enough to pack them away into a back pocket. I can’t seem to find the original creases to refold the edges neatly, like a map that’s never been opened, revealing the possibilities. I want to keep the light from saturating the colorful lines because that would only make the potential real.
You have been a hurricane in my life. You blindsided me and took my heart down. You have been the silent one waiting in the shadows, the hero I didn’t know I needed, or more appropriately, never wanted to admit I wanted. I never wished for anything as much as I have for you. I never wanted anything so badly until I wanted to know you would never leave.
Missing you is wondering where you are throughout the day. It’s wondering if you ever think of me. Missing you is the dull ache in my chest when I walk my dog alone late at night,wishing you would be waiting for me at the corner. Missing you is wanting to hear the words you cannot live another day without me, that I have somehow been missing from you for all of this time.
Photography has always been an outlet for me to express myself. It has been a vehicle to meet the many amazing people I might otherwise not have. The camera has been a constant companion, a conversation piece to break the ice, a tool to seek permission into someone’s world. I feel exceedingly grateful for the doors that have opened and the opportunities with which I have been presented because of this particular passion.