You Haven't Lived....

I sometimes worry about my boys. I worry because I see myself in them so much. Jackson has much more confidence than I had at age 5, so I can sometimes more easily relate to Diego's shyness and general sensitivity. He's a kid who feels his feelings in a very real way, but quietly.

Jackson, on the other hand, is full of passion, and it's written all over his face. It's what gives his eyes that sparkle, and what gives him the magnetism he's possessed nearly all his life. It's easy for me to imagine him as a young man, falling deeply and heavily in love with some beautiful young woman. Like his father before him (and likely mine, before me) he will throw his entire soul into loving that special person.

All that stuff is good, you're probably thinking. So what is there to worry about? Well, those of you who, like me, have had your heart broken are the ones who can understand about the worry piece of things. When you allow yourself to love as hard as you can, the fall from that flight is meteoric. The pain takes your breath away, and you're convinced for a while that there is no possible way you will survive it.

I'll never forget -- and this is nearly thirty five years ago now -- when my first girlfriend told me she thought it was time for us to give each other space and see other people. I couldn't catch my breath. Once she drove away, I sobbed uncontrollably. I don't know where my family was at that time, but I was glad they weren't there to console me and share their wisdom about how things that don't kill us make us stronger. It also allowed me a grand gesture. I went inside, still breathless and sobbing, and collected up everything I could find that had anything to do with her. I grabbed photos, books, letters and put them all in a metal trash container in my back yard, and yes, I lit them on fire.

Of course in hindsight I now wish I had saved that stuff, as I realize what a lovely and innocent relationship that was. Sadly, no evidence of it exists today! At the time, however, it was cathartic to burn that stuff, as I cried, remembering the way her hair cascaded down on either of my face when she would lie on top of me and kiss me. The tears and the fire made me feel better, giving me the sense that I had taken control of the situation, and allowing me to move on with my young life.

This evening when Jeanette and I were discussing the way Jackson's friends tease him about his classmate Gabriella, whose birthday party is tomorrow, saying that he "likes" her, we looked over to see that he had tears in his eyes. "I don't like Gabriella," he protested. "I don't!"

The poor guy, I thought to myself. He'll feel that same pain and I'm sure he'll make others feel it, as well. Like me, he'll come out of it, and will eventually find the love of his life. It will be a bumpy road, as it is for many of us. But in the end, you haven't lived, until someone has broken your heart.