The best line in a Robert Frost poem, as far as I’m concerned, involves neither roads less traveled nor birches. The line comes somewhat unexpectedly at the end of “Hyla Brook” when he says, “We love the things we love for what they are.”
I have the firm belief that every now and then the universe reaches down and smacks me upside the head, effectively saying, “Hey you. Pay attention.” My discovery of that line was one of those moments. Sometimes the self-evidences in life aren’t so evident to me; fortunately, the universe seems to be looking out for me.
How many times have I thought in my life, about some romantic interest, “This guy would be perfect if…” I am not the only heterosexual woman of my generation to have the distressing tendency to take a romantic interest in, for lack of a better term, “fixer-uppers.” My own beloved father was a fixer-upper, and he and my mother make each other incredibly happy. I guess it isn’t that strange that, working from that model, I’m drawn to guys who would be perfect if only…
Granted, some of those guys in memory were not worth the price of the caulk. However, for some guys, it was incredibly unfair of me to have ever hoped that they would change. That change may have only been the alteration from “not in love with me” to “completely in love with me,” but it’s a change nevertheless.
I have a friend named Ian, but I never call him Ian. His last name happens to coincide with a ubiquitous cereal brand, so it’s the cereal that stuck. I recently ran into him when I was visiting my college for Homecoming weekend. Stepping within a fifteen foot radius of him is one of those dependably marvelous experiences, like getting a package in the mail when you aren’t expecting one or sinking into a hot bath after you’ve been cold all day. He’s a cookie straight out of the oven: he’s just that wonderful.
Naturally, when we first became friends, I was quite interested in his being in love with me. Unfortunately, he was not.
One of the best decisions I’ve made in my life of friendships was to let go of wanting to nudge Ian towards a version of himself who would be madly in love with me. As we became better friends, I reflected that, in fact, we were remarkably unsuited for each other. The best thing we could do for each other was to be friends, and we are wonderful friends at that.
Ian is one of the only men I have met who can really, truly dance. In my experience, dancing is a lot like speaking a foreign language: you have to be willing to screw up, look or sound like an idiot, and just move on. Ian intrinsically lacks self-consciousness, so as a result, he has become an amazing dancer. One of the happiest places in the universe, I have discovered, is half way through a particularly pretzel-shaped spin with Ian holding both of my hands. I have absolute faith that the strange and impossible weaving of our arms will suddenly and miraculously release, like a human slip-knot, and I will be exactly where I should be, spinning with a grace I could never accomplish on my own.
That is a very happy place.
You can’t pin Ian down—he’s too buoyant. His enthusiasm is an incredible, enormous, weightless energy. And it’s catching. When you enter that radius around him, you get lighter. Seeing him recently just reminded me how really loving someone is function of accepting their own terms of being. It’s only unbearable to love someone if you’re holding out some hope that he or she might change.
Fortunately, I’ve come to my senses, and I love the Ian I love for who he is.
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