This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine...

Friday, April 18, 2008

Loving the Mystery

I spend 30 hours a week in a beige cubicle. On a wall right behind the computer screen that I stare at for 28.5 hours a week I have Neruda's Love Sonnet XVII tacked up.

I do not love you as if you were a salt rose,
or topaz or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off

I don't know what all the symbols of this poem meant to Neruda, and not all of them mean anything to me. I have re-read this poem and researched the imagery several times. It remains, not fully known, because the mystery of it is important.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I confessed to friend that I am still quite lost and spend most of my free time seeking sex. I don't find sex as often (or as well) as I seek it. I spend a lot more time than I'd like going on dates with people I'm not overtly enthusiastic about because I am turned on by pursuit, by sex, by mystery. The mystery of others is becoming less and less important to me though. If I cannot love my own mystery, how I can I love anyone or anything else's?

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

...Seeds are blest, my mystery whispers to me...

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I spoke of weariness and it was suggested I write myself love letters. I think that's a wonderful, glorious idea. I am, after all, a Master of love letters. I do, after all, adore writing them. The people to whom I have written love letters in the past were new. I am an obvious neophile. I feel lucky to turn with the moon and the days. I am new to myself often, too. I have learned quite a lot about myself since "getting" the things I spent a few post-college years working to get. My mythology becomes more complex and honest with the passing of time.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

I will spend this weekend celebrating mystery, life, Passover with family, and all the spring buds Everywhere.


dpradz108 said...

your prose
is really
quite lovely

the poem
from neruda
is exquisite

thank you
for this
searching interlude

ShanaRose said...

mmm, thank you. this was a nice post to revisit. especially since it's spring again and Passover again! i love the turning, the changing, the coming back again and again.

Hannah Miet said...

"I confessed to friend that I am still quite lost and spend most of my free time seeking sex." That's a poem unto itself, girl.

ShanaRose said...

Ah, thanks lady