When it comes to matters of the heart, Iím a rank amateur.
A dysfunctional childhood home stunted my growth in that area.
But Iím strong mentally. So I learned to use my mind to feel love. I arrived as a Gemini which grants aptitudes in quick wit, verbal & written communication and interest in multiple topics at once.
So in the days before websites, social media and email, I became a skilled pen-pal. You know, writing real letters on real paper using real ink and real stamps.
Pre-Margie, romances developed from those letters. Coming from no experience and even less self-esteem, I was like a monkey dabbling with a nuclear weapon. Without understanding the machinery or knowing the coordinates, my written missiles flew 1,800 miles and bullseyed directly on one girlís heart.
She was a waitress and I was a cook. We were both 16. We only shared a shift for three hours a week. Those rare hours boiled down to a few work-related sentences and as many stolen glances as we could sneak. It was a mutual crush, each of us intriguing mysteries to the other.
I donít know who sent the first letter. But we exchanged a few more before my dad suddenly moved our family from Minnesota to Florida when I was 17.
Distance absolutely made the heart grow fonder. I set up a shoebox for her letters. She set up a shoebox for mine. When she turned 18, she inventoried the number of letters Iíd sent. It totaled 49. She'd sent me 45.
Two months later, she traveled 1,800 miles south to visit me in Florida. She decided to stay.
Our relationship lasted until we were 20, dancing very close to marriage.
I donít have copies of my letters so canít see how I expressed love. But I have hers. And felt the love all over again from rereading them.
I know this is silly. Itís been 45 years. I don't lament the breakup. Parting was the right move for us both.
But the lasting gift is the feeling of love that those letters share.
I find it fascinating magic that written words cause feelings.
When I deeply enter the writing "zone," I detach from my body and get pleasurably lost. Detached from myself, love is the default emotion. Once there, I languish as long as possible.
With todayís perspective, I see that I love to write because writing makes me feel love. My best published work is superior because it exited the writing zone burnished by that love.
Everyone deserves more love in their life.
Whatís your ďzone?Ē
I suggest you find it and visit often. If your visits help others along the way, all the better.
But be careful. Youíre going to want to stay.
More Love Nonsense:
The Lost Wallet Stuffed With Cash
What If We Know Before We Arrive?
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