love without friction

believing in love as a resting place

little symphony,

good morning/afternoon/evening, my sweet. how are you feeling? what has been your most recurring thought today?

a few updates before I dig into some thoughts of my own:

• I’ve thoroughly moved into the Midwest and

• it’s completely swept me off my feet.

• every tree is the most beautiful you’ll ever see. each stranger I’ve met has been so kind and considerate. 

• recent moments of magic: racing against a storm to see if I could reach the mailbox before the clouds broke into rain (storm: 1 sky: 0), sipping a delicious miel latte, watching Indiana Jones from a classic drive-in theater (more the experience than the movie), witnessing fireflies dance in the field beside my boyfriend’s house while heat lightning sparked on the horizon, meeting up with a poet I’ve admired for years, and having my dog choose my arms as the safest resting spot in enduring 4th of July fireworks. 

this topic in particular, and the way I’ve wanted to go about it, has been on my mind since January. I’ve put it off each time I come to the page to write to you, either worried this love was too new (and god forbid I jinx something), figuring out how private I wanted to be, and I wasn’t sure I could properly articulate the thought. but just as I’m practicing the belief in this notion, I also want to practice leaning into the trust that a well-built love (the same as a well-built idea) doesn’t fracture once written about or laid out to be examined in the light.

in January, my partner and I wandered under a cover of rain in Astoria on a trip he’d taken to visit me. (the same trip in which we finally became a couple.) after a day of what felt like one contented joy after another, we settled into the car to drive back to my apartment. throughout our months-long conversations in starting this (at first, long-distance) relationship, I told him I didn’t want a bubble of perfection in the visits we spent together. I wanted to welcome imperfect moments, awkward silences or anxiety, shifts in plans we couldn’t control, disagreements; so that we’d have an understanding and expectation of how we worked together when things “got real.” (i.e., so we could prepare for how things might feel once the “honeymoon phase” drew thin.) I remember buckling my seatbelt and saying, “I wonder what we’ll argue about. I know we haven’t yet, but,” I joked, “I’m sure we’ll need to have at least one fight before we’re considered too serious.” 

“why would we need to have a fight?” he replied.

the question took me off-guard. “everyone argues.” 

his patience I admire so deeply didn’t waver. “I’m sure we’ll have disagreements. we won’t see eye to eye on everything, but I don’t want to fight with you or raise our voices at each other. I don’t think fighting is as necessary in relationships as we’ve been told. you and I talk everything through, I don’t see why that would change.”

it took a little bit of back and forth in explanation for me to understand what he meant: disagreements will happen in relationships, but fighting shouldn’t be so readily expected.

after my partner returned home that week, I remember running into therapy—this fresh idea burning hot in my hands—and asking, “hey, this sounds like a wonderful thing, but is it realistic?”

“it is.”

she and I talked about how, besides the example of love, or how relationships work, that are set by our parents, there are two age-old (heteronormative) examples we see of love (particularly in the U.S.). the picture-perfect Disney facade of one flawless soulmate for life, or the “ol’ ball and chain” love; snide comments in front of company, hate-’em-but-you-love-’em kind of couples. both high-stakes, high-drama relationships. while in my childhood I set my hopes on the Disney side of the spectrum, my upbringing and past experience led me to expect the latter. 

analyzing the differences here is tempting, but before I get ahead of myself, my reason for writing this is not to investigate the many different types of relationships, what defines an argument, how often “normal” might be, or to dig into semantics. I guess what strikes me most about this introduced idea, and what I want to focus more on, is the expectation I’ve held that love must be a high-adrenaline affair at either end of the euphoric romance/contentious dichotomy. 

what I am amazed to find is possible (and am patient in allowing the time it takes to believe it) is that love is intended to be a calming force; a resting place. we don’t look at love as someone to win over or spar with. both our calm and our opinions matter in equal measure. the deep level of cherishment shown to each other in every seemingly-casual exchange, “hey, what would feel good to you right now?” “could I call you really quick? there’s something on my mind.” “could you tell me more about what you mean?” “would you like me to join you on your walk, or is this one you’d rather take alone?”

peace can look quite plain from the outside. in my favorite moments, we’re sitting on the couch analyzing a movie we just watched, singing the same song I’ve played for every road trip, or sitting at opposite ends of a quiet room; both locked in on a book or a blank notebook page. my diary reads the same befuddled delight, “this love almost feels difficult to write about, but never for lack of feeling. I don’t quite know how to write simplicity as sweet as this feels just yet.” I’ve no doubt Florence said it best in her lyric, “it’s hard to write about being happy because the older I get, I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject.”

here, I begin my second stage of incredulity. “this is allowed? we get to have this?”

when you prepare yourself for the worst, a safe space for your heart to take off its shoes seems both impossible and improbable. but of course, if it is possible, instinct suggests you’re unworthy of it. I realize the feeling is akin to my move to the Midwest, finally experiencing the peace I’ve been searching for; spending my days walking through the perfume of honeysuckle, trailing paths around glassy ponds, watching white cranes strut like tango dancers between the reeds—finding myself still waiting for the punchline. “I get to live here?”

my love stretches his arms out to cradle me close to his chest and we both exhale anything the day has held prior to this, resting in the comfort of each other’s company. without a word, I can sense our bodies ease; muscles loose of their tension, thoughts slowing to a gentle tide.

love that soothes. love that is healing. love that doesn’t fray with mundanity or bad days. love as relief.

yes, you get to live here.

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
miel latte fund (venmo): schuylerpeck