Anywhere is a good place for love to manifest itself. This past weekend I went back to sorting through the remainder of my mother’s recipes. I was again overwhelmed by memories. “Date Loaf” instantly brought to mind the time my little sister was sick on a weekend, and she wanted meat loaf. But my mother didn’t have the ingredients and had to wait for Monday in order to go shopping (the good old days when stores were closed Sunday). Once the meat loaf had been made, it turned out that what my sister meant was date loaf.
The recipes in her handwriting and the memories they evoke, make me feel alone, estranged from family, and like I’m wading through molasses. And yet, suddenly these same memories float up from the Sea of Love, bestowing buoyancy, possibility and strength.
Anywhere is a good place for the love story – my dining room table; down the back lane between Davie and Burnaby Streets where the autumn leaves are shouting in shades of rust, red and yellow; exchanging smiles with a stranger. I need to remember love is all around. Love is the connective tissue between me and sanity; me and reason; me and accomplishment.
In the past two and a half weeks, I’ve been on more job interviews than in the past two months. But now the possibilities have all disappeared; back to the silence of square one again. Right now, my life does not seem like the ideal place for a love story – more like a prison or a whirlpool or a patch of quicksand.
I try to remember this when I get impatient or upset or lose hope – love is stronger than defeat; the past; and darkness of any kind, mental or physical. Anywhere is a good place to be kind to myself.