She is lovely, and looks at me with loving eyes.
Eyes that remain open and giving,
Despite all the reasons they should not.
She has made her own way in this world
Without becoming bitter;
I wonder at the true toughness of such a woman,
For she has not leaned on others’ shoulders just to get by,
And complained when she did not get what she desired,
Nor built a fortification to hide behind.
And dear God, she is honest in ways inconceivable to some.
Do you know what a rare thing that is?
You and I like to believe we are honest about ourselves, at least.
But few of us have ever looked at our failures directly,
At the little disasters that pepper our days,
And said – without any sense that we were merely acting:
“I did that.”
But to then look deeper,
Finding those terrible motivations that drive such things:
Petty and myriad hatreds,
Cruel and pointless jealousies,
Cravings for attention;
Desires to destroy what we cannot have;
And, seeing them without distortion,
To cut them out.
To actually become different.
No. This is no common person.
She has seen her blemished soul,
And has said, “This is not good enough for me. I am not good enough for me.”
And has not rested in her quest
To be good enough.
Not common at all.
And she can be hurt.
She can be tricked,
Made a fool of,
Taken advantage of.
She can play.
Her smile comes from a place
That is as warm as a fine day at the beach.
If ever there was a blessing, it is that smile.
She looks at me with loving eyes,
And I weep for my good fortune.
Which she understands completely.
Los Angeles, 28 October 2013.