A Nod

Before I begin this, I’d like to go ahead and say that underneath my clothes, I’m naked.

Do with that sentence as you will.

Do you ever do that thing where it’s about to be four in the morning, and you know you want to sleep, but there you are, staring at the ceiling, counting all of those splots of paint your friend left accidentally that day you painted your room? Or maybe you watch the shadow of the evil fan that you can’t get to turn off no matter how many times you pull the cord. This happens to me. Literally. I have an evil fan that I can’t turn off…slow…fast…ah ha off….nevermind. slow. Fast. Slow. Sigh. I give up.

You close your eyes, and there it is; there’s that little thought…that little annoying thought that won’t go away. And it burns so bright with your eyes closed that it hurts, and you have to open them again, and look at the egg yolk colored splots on the ceiling, or blame the tick tick of the fan for your lack of sleep.

So you get up. You get up and you go downstairs and you get a glass of water, or a cup of water, or a bottle of water, or maybe you get a mountain dew. And you walk up the stairs and you turn off the light, and you drink your water or mountain dew, and then you lie back down.

And then you turn to your side, but now the idea is so big that it’s staring at you. It’s lying there next to you, and you’re looking at it, wanting it to go away, but at the same time, you don’t, because for some reason, the thought of it, even if it’s sad, or weird, or whatever, you like holding on to it. You like remembering it.

So you and the idea are now face to face. You can see it so clearly now, remember it so clearly now, or imagine so clearly now, that it could be real, and thus, this little thing called hope is born. Or maybe a tear is born. Or maybe a poem or story is born. Or maybe a song is born.And that hope, or tear, or poem, or story, or song begins to sing, or cry, or write, and you listen to it, or you find a shoulder in a pillow, or you read it over and over again.

And you can’t sleep.

Because it’s so big it’s taking up all the room in the bed, it’s taking up all the room in your room, it’s taking up all the room in your heart.

And that weight. That pull. That awakening, is too big to ignore.

And that’s why you’re awake.

Because you’ve just had a thought.

But not any thought.

A big thought, a real thought.

And it’s the real ones that matter, all the other ones, the ones about school, and finals, and what kind of dog do I want after I graduate…those don’t matter. But the real ones…is God up there, what was I created to do, who was I created to be, how did I use to be, who will I be, what story do I have to tell…those matter.

Those aren’t particularly my thought tonight, but I’ve wondered over them before.

Nope, and sometimes I’d like to trade the nameless, faceless, ghost of a man I find myself thinking about for the something else, anything else. Anything is better than wondering who will love me.

That’s the worst.

Because thinking won’t get you anywhere, not like thinking about God or where you want to be or what you want to do. Thinking always gets you somewhere with those thoughts. But you can’t think someone into loving you. You can’t imagine it. You can’t hope for it. You can’t write it into existence, or sing it into existence. You can’t even cry it into existence.

You can count all the dots on the ceiling, and drink a hundred glasses of water, and you’ll be no closer to being loved that you were before the dots appeared or you turned the faucet.

The best words in the world aren’t, “I love you,” they’re “I love you too.” Because loving is easy. It is. Strangers who nod their heads at other strangers on the street, at the corners, or in the store because their overflowing with love is easy because it’s in their nature. When I say, “I love you,” I mean it. And even if I don’t say it, I still mean it. Sometimes I love people I don’t know.

Like my Great Aunt Lottie Laurie. I never knew her. But I know she died young, too young, around 23 or so. And I know she wrote in a journal about a boy she loved for five years before he married someone else. And my hearts breaks for her because she couldn’t think him into loving her, or hope him into loving her, or cry him into loving her, or write him into loving her; not even after writing about him for as long as she did. And I love her because I understand, just like you understand.

And that nameless, faceless, ghost of man, who I don’t know. Who might not know me now. Who, someday, out of some courage in his heart will talk to me. And laugh with me. And listen to me talk on and on without asking me to not talk so much. And read all the things I write. And makes mistakes, and has flaws, and thinks I’m good, and sweet, and beautiful, though I too make mistakes, and have flaws, and am too often hard headed, and rambling, and afraid. That day, I’ll love him too.

Because one day, I won’t have to hope for him to love me, or cry him to love me, or write him to love me, because he will already love me. And he won’t have to hope me to love him, or cry me to love him, or write me to love him, because I already will.

And that’s the point I’m getting at, I guess. I don’t know how it happens, but it does. It just happens. It’s not planned. Thinking about it for hours won’t really get you anywhere. It’s just one day you’re walking along in your life, and there he is. Or there she is. And I don’t know how long you have to look them in the face, or hear their voice, or watch them before you know. But eventually, you just do.

And I don’t really think it’s that easy, but I’d like to think it is.
I’d like to think that this faceless person exists, but sometimes, if I think too long, and if the idea gets too big, it’s easy to imagine he doesn’t. And when that idea gets too big, I can’t sleep, because, ironically, even if he is nameless, and faceless, I still get little glimpses of the kind of person he may be, or the kind of laugh he may have, or how funny it will be if he’s tone deaf and doesn’t even know how to make sense of a guitar.

And then I start hoping. And I start writing. And I start singing. And I could care less that the beautiful dream I’m having won’t last past the morning, because inevitably the idea that he does exist- that he could exist, that he just might exist- is too big, and too real to even consider the alternative.

And the fan clicks, and the ice melts, and I fall asleep knowing that one day someone will love me. Just like one day, someone will love you. And until then, as the stranger on the other side of a screen, consider this a nod.

love you.