Letters to an Unknown Girl

Dear XXXXX:

Often have I stopped to consider whether or not I am special for believing in a “true” sort of love, a selfless love notable for great depth, infused with pure spirit, more powerful than anything else and discoverable by only a select privileged few �" a small group of people who themselves are unrecognizable. What that means is that, for better or worse, I sense love as an endless river, something that runs under and in between everything �" impossible to contain, alter, or negate. But, like oxygen or electricity, it can’t be seen. It’s left to higher awareness, and it’s found in fragments of evidence, like pottery sherds scattered across the landscape �" clues to something that existed, a whole set of lifetimes now in layers under the dirt. You don’t know it’s there, and the quest to find it is all-consuming endeavor.

If I’ve managed to endure what I have up to this point and still believe in the immanence of an infinite invincible invisible river, does that brand me with a special mark? I’m starting to wonder if it’s a particularly unique quality I have, to sustain injury and still allow myself to sense that current, to not lie down and abandon the quest forever. Why don’t I give up?

To believe that love is larger than any one of us means I am subject to its movements. No one is exempt. While my injuries may or may not be my fault in part or in full, I am obliged to release ownership of them. Because the current is going to move anyway, and sometimes it’s not going to move in my favor. I have to remember that what I sense and believe about the stream is not mine to contain, alter, or negate. It simply is, as I simply am.

In that light, holding onto the idea of the infinite invincible invisible river is evidence itself of something. How many people can be flushed through the ultimate personal nightmare, hypersensitive at every step and loyal to a self-destructive fault, absorbing pain beyond measure, and then wake up, collect a few breaths, and flex fingers again toward something that can’t be seen? It hasn’t destroyed me, nor has it been destroyed. It still is. And I still am.

Why continue to reach for it though, you might ask? After such unquantifiable agony? Because a long time ago a potent wave of relief graced my suffering soul. It was a vision from the unknown, and it consisted of reaching blindly into the dark swirling winds, desperate and lost, and finding a miracle: the soft embrace of another’s hand. I was more alone than ever in that moment, and for no observable, rational reason, something from beyond saved me, telling me it was okay. That being alone was the right thing for me at the time, but that I wasn’t truly alone anyway. Maybe that was you; I don’t know, but it was someone. It was a feeling I’ll never forget �" and in the whirlwind maze of confusion and despair, it fixed everything. Vision or not, the experience restored my soul.

I dunno, for all my physical ailments and weaknesses, I do seem to have a solid inner structure. When I see it written down in words, I’m suddenly kind of impressed. It’s no wonder no one was able to save me as I was being dragged along through the nightmare phase �" I’d gone way past any perimeter they could identify, and was long out of their sight. I’d committed myself entirely to the river and had been swept away to a place unseen and unknown.

That actually took a lot of courage, didn’t it? Stupidity, some may say, but I don’t think so. I think I knew what I was getting into and I still did it. It didn’t happen to me; I chose it.

In fact, maybe “nightmare” isn’t even the appropriate word anymore. My spiritual resiliency, commitment to integrity, and the will to evolve were tested. And because of the injuries, all were strengthened. Considerably.

A lot of women seem drawn to men who flout courage for having survived extreme physical experiences.

They have no idea.

I’m glad you understand.