08-23-03 - 8:45 a.m.
in a song called spanish dancer, patti scialfa sings of the evolution of love, from our first naive, idealistic vision to the eventual gritty heartache of reality, when "all those illusions strip and fall...he is just a man after all." i recently took notes from patti; these were bittersweet lessons for a hopeless romantic whose early philosophies reflected more charity hope valentine than gloria steinem. instead of amputating patrick from my life, i decided to dissect this love, examine it, and reduce it to its basic form. find a bottom line and somehow accept it. yes, soon i will leave this place and move on, but until then, i will take what he can offer and learn to savor it without craving more, without anticipating the next call, the next kiss. i will distance myself from the life he leads beyond my doorstep. i will allow him to take responsibility for his own guilt. i will cherish what he is and accept what he is not; he is just a man, afterall. i practiced this last night, in a field of sagebrush under a vast blanket of stars. he wanted to rediscover me, reconnect, he wanted to teach me about the universe, about constellations. he wanted to show me mars. i allowed him to. he told me the cowboy was a fool. he asked if he could share my life until i move away. we kissed like teenagers, because despite our age, that is our way. and when it was over, when he dropped me off at home and drove away, i quickly filed the night away in my heart, kissed my kid, and went to bed.