“The soul may be trusted to the end.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
First Essays: Love
She
didn’t tell me when I’d fall in love.
Alma,
my soul’s asomatous guide, didn’t tell me that when I did, I’d feel as if
struck by lightning, and that every romantic experience I had thus far
encountered would be put to shame. She didn’t tell me anything.
I
understood that she possessed a transcendental discernment that I would never
know, but I resisted her pleads for my trust all the same. I didn’t believe in
soul mates, and she all but gave up convincing me otherwise. Soul mates
existed, she countered; beneath all the collected, clichéd goop there existed a
bedrock of truth.
And
so throughout my younger years I longed for a man I could love and tolerate,
while Alma impatiently awaited her male counterpart. That’s how it worked, she
said – each individual soul was not a fraction of another, but rather the male
or female complement. I received many scoldings from her for even thinking
about settling before she reunited with her mate. Saying things like that
practically forced me into skepticism. What did she really expect?
I
should have relied on her more. Wiser than I gave her credit for, she was
guided by something I could neither see nor understand, and she tugged me away
from the wreckages of relationships before they became unmitigated catastrophes
through ill-formed foundations of commitment. I thought I knew what I was
doing, but she knew better.
I
was stubborn; if my affections were a ship, I was white-knuckling the handles of
the wheel on one side, and she the other. Eventually I was taxed beyond my
means, and when I fell to the deck in exhaustion, Alma took command of the
vessel with unfettered gusto. Finally serving as captain for the first time,
she steered us right into the heart of New York City. She didn’t tell me we
were close to her counterpart there, but she accepted my apologies without
judgement as I genuflected before her, relinquishing any and all authority over
my affections. The consequences of my poor relational decisions previous rendered
me weary; she could call the shots from then on. All I needed was for her to
tell me where to be and when.
Eastern Psychological Association Conference, New
York City - March 4th, 2016
No
memos appeared in my dreams, no ethereal hints prodded me on. Alma didn’t tell
me that with one look I would know. With one look, I would recognize a man whom
I had never met. With one look, I would feel the heart of the universe beating
inside me.
Marbled
eyes of orange-flecked green met mine and Alma wept in the long-awaited embrace
of her mate. Burrowed deep in the plush hallways of a hotel conference room, lightning struck
me in the form of a man named Joseph.
Alma
prepared me for none of it. She didn’t tell me I’d fall in love with the way he
said psychology. She didn’t tell me
he was a man of deep faith, words, and intellect. She forgot to mention the
profound attraction I would feel toward him in every conceivable realm of life.
I trusted Alma with my soul, and what did she give me in return?
A
man beyond dreams, ideals, and expectations – a man crafted by divine hands to
be my match. A man suited for me beyond perfection itself. The male permutation
of my own soul.
Alma
led me here.
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I'm posting this here to commemorate my engagement to the subject of this piece. I wrote this on May 2, 2016 - almost six months ago. Like I said in Addressing Skepticism, when you know, you just know.
Have a drink for us. We are blessed beyond belief to begin this new, exciting chapter of our lives together!
V
