And right there, sitting across the table, is my girlfriend — young, beautiful, enigmatic, an inexplicable phenomenon that nature has created, a riddle that will take me the rest of my life to figure out, and even then, it might not be enough. And the most incredible thing is that she exists, and she is mine. In moments like this, I don’t need to be a theologian to know that life is wonderful, that it has meaning, that miracles are real, and that divine providence is unfathomable.
But I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know why everything is the way it is. I also wanted to know what it was like to be her. What is life in the eyes of this enigmatic creature? Could it be that, to her, life is like the ice cream in front of her — sweet, delightful, something you can simply scoop up, place on the tip of your tongue, and savor as the cool, sweet taste lingers, and lingers forever? If I had asked her, would she have told me what she thought? But I was asking the wrong question. I wanted her to tell me what life is to her, but she is life itself, the inexplicable presence that has made me happy, has made me content with my life.
At moments like this, you want everyone in the world to be happy, you want them to experience a moment like this in their lives, where they sit across from someone young and beautiful, and they too are young and beautiful. That’s what life should be like, that’s what everyone’s life should be like. And you wish the night would never end and that life would continue the same way, for every person on earth.
Since we’re in France, we must talk about love. What is love? I thought I knew the answer, but now I’m not so sure. If you ask me for my honest opinion, I’ll give it to you, but I don’t expect everyone to agree with me.
Love is deference. To be in love is to be spellbound by someone you hold in awe, someone you admire, and even regard as holy. Love is like climbing an enchanted hill, where delightful scenes follow one another and captivate the eyes, while the heart beats with joy at each surprise. Just as the enchanted mountain keeps your eyes busy with new sights, love keeps you turning the pages of a book, engrossed in what comes next. When you’re enchanted by something, there’s no time to think about it, let alone reflect on it. The anticipation of what’s to come is foreign to someone in love, because, like climbing a hill, you’re too busy pushing aside the branches and twigs that block your way to stop and think about such things. Love begins to wither the moment the path clears and the road becomes easy; it starts to die the moment you begin to anticipate and make plans. Love dies when your anticipations become plans — something cold, calculated, and intentional. It dies in the same way the thrill dies when you think you’ve reached the top of the mountain. You feel like you’re done with looking up, and all that’s left is looking down and around. When you start thinking you’ve seen it all, you’re sitting comfortably, feeling in control, ready to “size things up,” as they say. Feeling in control and thinking you can now size things up is when love dies.
I’m not sure my girlfriend would agree with me if she heard this. It’s a subject we’ve never discussed. We haven’t had time. Maybe she would agree if I had told her. But when I think back to that night in Avignon, when I watched her from across the table all evening, or that afternoon in Courthézon, where she fed me raisins she found in the vineyards, and all the other things we’ve experienced together — small and big, intimate and public — I think she would agree with me.
Yego’s Chronicles 