Hallelujah! (It’s Neither Cold nor Broken)

Five years ago this month, when I was readying to leave my home in the Catskills and move to the Bay area, I had a tremendous experience. I was meditating in the Temple at Shree Muktananda Ashram and I fell in love. My heart was open and buzzing; my eyes bright and knowing. There was no object for that affection. It was just love, simple and true, and it stayed with me fairly constantly with occasional surges. I still remember one such overwhelm while driving on I-80 West in Iowa in a rainstorm.

A few months after settling in San Francisco, I met a woman who would become the focus of my amorous intentions. The “relationship” wasn’t so much unrequited as it was frustratingly unconsummated and thoroughly impossible. Still, she was difficult to shake from my system, finally clearing out completely two years ago. Since then, I’ve had nary a crush even… and I love a good crush. I guess my newfound rules of engagement have hindered me: no straights, crazies, or otherwise unavailables. Safety first, don’t you know.

So, really, for a good many years now, my heart has lain fallow. It hasn’t been closed, but it hasn’t been buzzing too much either. And my eyes? Inwardly gazing, mostly.

Imagine my surprise and delight, then, when yesterday, whilst traversing the Trans-Canada Highway, I fell in love. Criss-crossing the Fraser River, dutifully listening to k.d. lang’s Hymns of the 49th Parallel, minding my own business really… and, in the middle of “Helpless,” it struck. Open — check. Buzzing — check. Bright and knowing — sure seemed so, but hard to know for sure as I was wearing sunglasses.

Now, maybe it can be attributed to the fact that I’m making a full circle back to my beloved Catskills and I feel really good about what lies ahead. Perhaps it can be credited to recently rekindled and rather persistent thoughts of someone I’d like to have a crush on, if only…

I pondered all of it as I passed Elvis Rocks the Canyon Cafe (which is closed) and Hell’s Gate. I continually checked in on the warm fuzzies in my fourth chakra to ensure their currency. Three songs later, k.d. broke into Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” and it occurred to me that this love is more of a Love. Being as it has no object, it is fully mine. It is of me, for me, to do as I will. I can keep it all my own; I can share it with anyone or everyone I choose. Surely that lack of objection signifies a certain divinity, a definite grace.

Four songs into Ingenue, passing Jackass Mountain Summit (The Canadians sure know how to pick classy monikers.), I wondered if there is someone out there on my horizon who will step into this hallowed love with me. And I wondered if I will be able hold it with gently firm hands so that it is not wasted on frivolous fancies, not squandered on less than is deserved, even demanded by it.

And then I prayed it not cease come morning.

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