beyond the fairy tale [or what is romantic love anyway?]
Prince William married a commoner recently sending hearts aflutter across the Western world. (But not mine.) I find myself wondering if I am jaded or just seasoned in my years—tempered in the fire of pain, loss and the harsh reality of a would-be princess who once imagined being rescued; who once let herself be. But it wasn’t romantic. It was co-dependent and stifling. It was often awkward and tense. The myth of the woman in poverty or peril being rescued by the dashing prince really needs some updating. I wonder: If this royal wedding is not romantic love, what is?
I watch an elderly couple. She is doing a crossword puzzle–her head is shaking a bit involuntarily. She is ancient. He sits next to her. He is solid, flanneled and quietly reading. They have been together like this for some time. No talking. Just being in this moment of time and space. I want to ask them if they are still in love. I want to ask them if they ever were.
I am blindfolded and trusting. I am led to places unknown by unseen hands. Hands both strong and gentle. I surrender and let her love me enough not to let me fall. I follow her rhythm and entrain myself to her. I allow myself to trust until my heart explodes open—twinkling stars in the abyss of my inner eye. The sheer vulnerability of it moves me to joy. To tears.
He sewed buttons on my jacket before I left and later said he and his needle and thread would wait on any chance to stitch me more deeply into their lives. I fall a little deeper. I trust. I lean in.
I wonder if William asked Catherine to blindfold him.
I wonder if he will let her rescue him.
I wonder if she will let him love her.