THE OLDEST MAN ALIVE JOURNAL
This Hub is a series which you can follow like a daily journal. I will probably not have time to write in this journal every day, but perhaps, at least several times a week. I am not sure of the mechanics of it yet, whether to post a completely new hub each day or to keep adding to this one. I will figure that out later. Suffice to begin this new project, which I hope brings inspiration to you, especially to men. I hope it is a nudge or urge to grow love in your own garden. As men, we tend to experience love as a capturing and an enslaving of the person we love. We control and eventually suffocate this precious other. And all of that is about our own brokenness. Has absolutely nothing to do with the person we say we love. NOTHING. Except that perhaps he or she was broken enough to go along with our sick program! Sorry!
ENJOY and start writing your own love letters.
The Oldest Man Alive
So they asked him, "What is your secret? What makes it possible for you to live to such a ripe old age?"
He just sat there for the longest time. He loved to do that in interviews. It drove the reporters nuts. Besides being a lover, he was also a guy, in other words, a control freak!
He finally looked up and answered their question.
"You know, I heard that French woman, who lived to be almost 118, tell you guys that she stopped smoking when she was ninety-seven! I thought that was hysterical.
Yeah, so what is my secret? What has kept me alive all these years? Well, that's pretty simple. LOVE. And to keep that love alive in my soul, I write a love letter every day to the woman of my dreams."
"Who is she?" they pushed him.
"Why do you ask such stupid questions? You gotta know who she is for crying out loud."
"Is she still alive?"
"Another stupid question. Are any of you reporter types intelligent? At all? Come on, of course she is alive. How or why would I write her every day if she were not alive? Soulmates never die. You live on each other's hearts, forever. And no matter where you might be living physically, you need to talk to each other every day, in here." And he tapped his heart. "Now, I've told you enough. Leave me be. I have a letter to write.
How I miss you, sweets! But when I go inside, deep inside, the yearning fades, as inside, I can feel you once again next to me. I am so blessed having you as my soulmate. And I am so grateful for each and every moment we have together. Yes, I am too vividly aware that the last time we were physically together was a long long time ago. At least it seems so. But when I come back inside here, into my soul, there is no time. It is all a big NOW.
I was thinking back today to the first time we met. Do you remember? I saw you as a pretty woman, but never imagined anything more than that. Yes, men are thick! I remember you telling me how you layed claim to me almost from the beginning. Women! What do you women folk call that? Nesting? Well, I guess you nested me well, although I don't think I ever became the listener you deserved me to be. Perhaps, as men, our hearing is not only selective, but perhaps on an evolutionary level, tuned only to the sounds of wild and attacking animals. And so I finally noticed you when you became wild and attacking! I loved pretending I was fighting you off. I know it is supposed to be the other way around, but I so enjoyed falling prey to your attacks!
I continue to feel driven to write to you. And I will continue to do so in honor of who you are in my life. I have no idea, at this ripe, very ripe age, why I am still here, but I will always remember the day I became alive, perhaps for the first time, and it was the day I realized you love me, and I could no longer dismiss my soul's yearing for its mate. I dont know why it took me so long to know that I love you. Yes, as men, we are very slow, sometimes too slow, sometimes slow to our own detriment. I cringe when I think I could have passed you by or let you go.
As men, we are kind of handicapped. You know that, don't you? Yes, of course you do. We sit on the outside of our gardens, thinking that garden work is for women. And our souls lay dormant, unsown, or worse, dead. Nothing gets planted, nothing has a chance to bloom. Whatever ravaged our gardens as little boys, the destruction remains. How sad. How tragic or worse, pathetic.
I will always treasure the day, you opened the gate to my garden, and you tenderly, but nevertheless insistantly motioned me to enter and to begin taking care of my garden. Do you remember that day? And to this day, every day, I go into my garden and care for my soul. I do the "work."
Yes, I still get on my hands and knees. I still dig in the dirt. And when I do, I always notice you right there next to me.
I will write you tomorrow, sweets. I love you dearly. I miss you so. I had French Toast for breakfast. The syrup reminded me of your lips.
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