Dear Mr. True Love,
It may not seem like it to you, but I am actually in one of the Spring seasons of my life. I would much rather that you had met me, if in fact you have met me at all, in one of the summers of my life. I know you are wondering what in the world I am talking about, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. You may think that this is selfish, or you may think that this makes perfect sense. Either way, I can only be responsible for telling you how I feel. If it doesn’t work between us, Mr. True Love, then you will at least have my explanation for it. There will be no reason for me to try to explain it to you after you’ve already decided it really doesn’t matter but your logical brain just can’t help knowing. Yes, I know that you are/will be logical; I am the illogical one. We have to balance each other in that point if nothing else. Allow me my feminine tendency to lead with my emotions, and keep to your masculine role of being levelheaded and pragmatic. I know they’re only illusive stereotypes that don’t fit us well, but we should wear them anyway.
I wrote this on my phone one day at work, and it describes exactly what I mean:
I wish I’d met you in summer,
In full bloom so you would know
The colors of my thoughts
on sight; but Spring’s tight buds fooled you
into thinking you could predict the hue. The potent
pollen had you high, the seductive bee, buzzing her
swollen way through the thick air, obscuring the soud of
my voice in its melodic intent. You don’t have the
words to describe your disenchantment; I know them well.
They strip the dying blooms with every breath
breathed in impatience; the killing time.
Winter’s oblivion opens before me. I grow
closed in on myself to keep the light out. But you
called to me your siren’s song asked me to open…
all I got was scorched.
Now do you see what I mean? I’m not one of those females who “puts it all out on the table” the second you meet me. There are things you have to stick around for. “The truth must dazzle gradually or every man be blind,” as Emily Dickinson says. But I think it’s the other way around. The longer it takes me to open up and show you all of who I am, the more likely you are to be blinded by the little delights of me. You will probably like my smile; most do. I don’t say it in arrogance; I don’t have great teeth, but people like my smile. You may like my eyes, my long hair. You may like that I know big words and can hold a stimulating conversation. Maybe I will be cultured, knowing the right things to say and do when we go out, or maybe you will love my gauche naiveté. But as we get deeper into this, will your interests wane?
In the Spring I have little to offer in material things. I have a job, not a career. I sometimes am silent when I should probably speak up. Sometimes when people get angry with me and say things, they think I am quiet because I am giving them the silent treatment, but that’s not so. I am quiet because they have hurt me. Their words have slashed my throat and all of the life giving flows–of words, actions–spew from my neck and stain all of the walls and floors without making a sound or leaving a trace. I clutch at my throat to save some of it, but it’s too late; it merely trickles through my fingers. Besides, nobody really listens when I talk, do they? Who really hears what I am saying, and not just the way I said it? You?
The fact of the matter is in Spring, I am uncertain, unself-assured. I am constantly trying to figure out what others will think of what I am doing, or what would be best for them. I drive myself into the ground trying to please them and wondering when it will be worth it, when someone will be seeking to please me and fulfill me in some reciprocal way. I am mired in indecision.
But in my Summers, I know what I want and I go get it–jobs, degrees, great hair, nice shape, publication. In the Summer, I could care less what anyone may think of what I am doing, except God. I still try to be helpful and nice to people, to be a friend to them, but I could care less if they reciprocate because that is something they will have to answer for and as my mother always say “that don’t make me no nevermind.” In Summer, there is no fear. Yes, I get hurt, but I dust myself off. You hurt me, I may hurt you back, or I may just walk away and let God deal with you. Nothing shuts down my drive in Summer. What you see is what you get. But every now and then people managed to scorch even that…to kill even that.
You see, I’ve been withered on the vine before. I don’t give all of myself to anyone because I know that in a lot of ways, I’m just a flower, and we flowers can’t grow just anywhere. Did you know my name is a type of flower? A beautiful purple one with many different species, but just the one genus. If you are still here in the summer to see it, you’ll know that. But as Van Hunt says “I wouldn’t have a second thought bout the Fall, but I’m wondering who will love me in Winter?” Could it be you, Mr. True Love?
*Mr. True Love is referring to whoever my future husband is, not an actual person as of yet. So don’t go making Mr. Perfect jealous, lol!
**This isn’t the picture I wanted, but it will do for the moment.