There is a big, full, bright, amazing moon over London tonight, and I feel a bit romantic.
Its peaceful, pale presence lulls my thoughts and takes them away from all the complications of modern dating. I shut my mind to issues like guys who ghost you, who send you completely unsolicited dick pics, who turn out to be first polyamorous, then pansexual, because bisexual is so 2014…
I also smile at the journey that some of us undertake as a result of poor luck in love, where we might start counselling, depressed after too many years of being single. Others gingerly take their first steps into a spiritual journey where meditation, Qi Kung, rebirthing, gong baths, lucid dreaming, circling and shamanic journeys become their day fillers… And I smile even more broadly thinking of those women that become cat ladies first, and vegan afterwards.
All these concepts are so tied up together that they become too intricate a bundle to disentangle. And yet, at the core of it all, I see only one thing: Love.
We women spend so much time dreaming of love, waiting for it, talking about it, analysing it, dissecting it, trying to recover it… And yet, if someone, let’s say… I don’t know, Haddaway, for example, were to ask me: “What is Love?”, I would be lost for words. How can you define it? What would describe it?
Let me tell you one of my favourite stories of all time. When I was little, my parents allowed me to fall asleep in their big bed. (I mean, with them in, otherwise the story takes immediately a sad and slightly weird turn). They would allow me to fall asleep in their bed with them, and then take me back to mine when I was fast asleep.
One evening, however, my mum decided that it was time to make me grow a little, time to make me understand that there was a world out there that I had to start facing on my own. That evening, she told me to go and sleep in my big, dark, threatening bedroom. I was only 3 years old, so maybe she could have waited a bit more, but that’s another story. This story instead goes that I obediently trotted away, yet pointing out: “I don’t know how to fall asleep on my own”.
My mum answered with these very words that I still remember nowadays: “Pensa a cosine belle. Pensa all’amore.” For those of you that don’t speak the lingo: “Think of pretty little things. Think about Love.”
I must have tried, to think about Love and pretty little things in general… I must have tried for at least 10 minutes. That’s when I went back to my parents’ bedroom and asked: “Mum, what is Love? Is it a dog?”
I love this story. For a three-year old child, Love is a dog (probably a Golden retriever), a soft hairy lively sweet creature, that goes with you everywhere you go, is always ready to play with you and is madly happy to see you every morning.
36 years later, I don’t know much more. If anything, I’m just more confused. Actually, now I know that dogs sometimes piss on your carpet and generally stare at you when you are eating your food.
What is Love, then, I wonder… I only know that I’m really curious to discover more about you, Love. And I am dying to see what face you will have.
Come and find me, Love, I’m ready. So ready, in fact, that I might actually come and find you myself. Because of the few things I know about you, there’s this one: that you are everywhere. Some days, this is all so crystal clear to me. And some nights, too.