As I was rereading one of my favorite, previously mentioned novels last night (see post below), a passage I came across really struck home, as it always does. “… it is only pain that changes us ”, to quote directly. The more I think about it the more I find it untrue, whereas I once believed wholeheartedly.
The plot fixated on a heroine and her simple but magnanimous struggles to maturity, to find both faith in herself and love for others; her fate not dissimilar to my own. But the more I consider this presumption, I think that it would more accurate if read as: “…in pain sought from love that changes us”, for pain takes away, but love gives. How can we build upon ourselves if always subtracting from essence but never adding? Though the many countless tears shed over the years have been a mechanism of self-preservation in that they are the consequence of a trial and error process gone awry, my heart has also grown much stronger and palpable over these same years, though not resilient; nor would I ever want it to become. For then it would never succumb to these euphoric moments of bliss over moonlight walks, tranquil conversations at dusk, or bouquets of flowers delightfully appearing as a caring and loving sentiment.
So yes, pain indeed shapes us into beings unalterable, but love will always be much more potent and prevail.
One of the small joys of some free evenings and weekends is the alloted independence to do what I choose. Mostly this is spent unfruitfully basking in long, rambling passages in my journal, catching up on long awaited sitcom viewing, or my greatest pleasure of all, reading. I've now caught up on the 23 books that were gathering momentum on my "to-do" list, in addition to dust on the book shelf. New endeavors are much anticipated, including the Modern Library's List of 100 Best Novels. But in the meantime (as in the last 13 days), I've read, or am currently reading some pretty outstanding literary works in their own right, including: Somebody's Daughter, The Wonder Spot, three Tracy Chevalier's novels: Falling Angels, The Virgin Blue, and of course, The Girl with the PearlEarring, in addition to some quick re-reads: parts of Why Do Men Have Nipples were entertaining though not as well researched and credited as I would have liked, and Shopgirl, a tiny Steve Martin aptly termed novella that I would recommend to anyone as a very quirky story about a wallflower who emerges on her own terms; a storyline that nudges on my very own heartstrings ever so gently. When I was little, I used to prefer the lives of these foolishly quixotic and usually very eccentric characters to my own, and used to relish in the adventures they sought. A tiny remnant of that idealistic youth still remains to this day, but mostly I find immense joy and comfort in the beautifully interlocking words of others. There are times when a very fluid, well-written sentence with perfect turn of phrase requires little thought, but much pondering over its origin and ultimate grace. Until the day I can aspire to ever inspire and unleash my own literary freedom in a manner so prolific, I'll always have others to live vicariously through.
~~It's the heart, afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance. It's the dream, afraid of waking, that never takes a chance. It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give. And the soul, afraid of dying, that never learns to live. ~~
