The veins in his hands are large, sinewy. They are always visible, present, strong. I trace the length of them when I hold his hand. I roll the veins gently across the strong tendons that lie beside and underneath. Holding his hand with fingers entwined is interesting. My fingers are splayed to accommodate the size of his. When he puts his hand down over mine, my entire hand disappears under the breadth of his. In the times that my life is overwhelming, unnerving, or needs to take a step back – I often find myself thinking of his hands. They represent him well. They are always the same. They help bind me to who he is.
I have long understood that I am drawn to passionate people. I’m not drawn specifically to the object of their passion, but instead to them being passionate. I define passion by what it doesn’t represent: apathy, cold, indifferent, uncaring, unenthusiastic, uncaring.
And yet there’s a factor that enters into passionate lives. An uncomfortable factor. Try this set of definitions:
Passionate:
1. having, compelled by, or ruled by intense emotion or strong feeling; fervid
2. expressing, showing, or marked by intense or strong feeling; emotional
3. intense or vehement, as emotions or feelings
4. easily moved to anger; quick-tempered; irascible.
Fervid. Emotional. Irascible.
Bringing together the people that I care about isn’t an easy idea. These wonders come from so many walks of life. So many beliefs. So many passions. Often times they are at counterpoints. Or view themselves as polar opposites. They struggle with listening. They hear themselves clearly but may not be able to hear others.
One of my passionate people has recently become less immediately accessible in my life. It will now take effort to keep her ‘voice’ in my head and heart.
In my current life (because whose life isn’t in some state of flux) she is a clear reminder of fierce. Not in the sense that it is usually meant, but instead as a source of controlled quiet resolve. I’m not in agreement with all of her passions – but I am in agreement with the way she owns them. Sometimes it is messy and emotional. Sometimes denial leads the way. Sometimes she rests in self doubt. But always, she accepts. She continues to look inward. To research her thoughts. She seeks to understand. And then she speaks her truths – as they were, as they are, how they’ve changed. Deliberate. Not cloaked. Raw.
I have accepted my own challenge to write – actually write, not just talk about it. As I reflect on fierceness and passion, I am beginning to identify what has tripped me in this journey before. Fervid. Emotional. Irascible.
It is infinitely easier to follow another’s passions then to reveal my own.
The hands that I safely hold (and all that they represent), along with the passionate people I prefer to be surround by – have been my speakers. They have been my voice. Allowing them to step out and just admire their ferocity: leaves me ‘safe’. I can argue in my head. Re-address and think things through. And file everything away. Never revealing my own thoughts and opinions.
For the moment, I accept this will be messy, may be emotional and will often times be absolutely useless and silly. I will draw on her voice, like I draw on all of the meanings of my husband’s strong hand. And I will accept that it is infinitely easier to follow another’s passions then to reveal my own.
wanderingoutinleftfield 