There is a lot written about the magic surrounding the number three. Good things, bad things, sacred and evil things. What I know is this: I have had three dates with Brooklyn Boy in 4 days. I don’t normally have two dates with anyone in one week, let alone, three in 4 days. Let alone, canceling dates with one individual to go out with another. Let alone, Let alone, Let alone.
Google turns up many things regarding the significance of the number 3. One of my favorites was the Three Gifts of Grace. I feel that these are symbolic of the cards we hold in our back pocket whenever we go on a date. We have Faith, Hope and eventually, perhaps, if we are lucky, we have Love.
The first gift is that of Faith. A belief that is not based upon proof. A trust in an individual. Faith in a process, in a cup of tea, in the honest truthfulness of words that each of you say and in the way your body confirms or denies your words with its actions.
The second gift is that of Hope. To believe, desire, or trust. Hope exists as you let go and give in to faith. As you look at the individual before you and hope that all will be, as it should, as it is meant to be.
The third gift is that of Love. A profoundly tender affection. What is there to say of this gift? Most of us believe that we have felt it, experienced it, and shared it. Sometimes, as we mature, often in fact, we realize that what we once thought was love, truly wasn’t. This occurs when a richer, more truthful and accepting love comes into our lives, providing us the ability to reflect and to grow.
I’m not sure where any of this is going. This journey of mine, your journey, or of our mutual journeys… all bound up together. I spent two hours curled up in a bookstore with Brooklyn Boy yesterday. We whispered, laughed, talked and kissed, our modus operandi; beverages and then a bookstore floor. A stuffed green dinosaur, a kids toy, abandoned in the stacks of self-help books, stared down at us and watched as we became familiar with one another. A bookstore feels like the right place to explore each other, discuss lofty ideas, philosophical quandaries, romantic overtures. Surrounded by musty scented tomes of poetry, sociopolitical discord, crafting and humour. Books older than our grandparents, in languages we rarely hear spoken, written in voices that will sadly be lost due to the modern dilemma of convenience via digital lifestyles. The next generations may never hold a real book in their hand, smell it, and peruse book stores in dreamy fogs thinking of all of the hands that a particular Walt Whitman 1st addition might have gone through, or the well-worn hardcover by Kingsley Amis that smells like the stories of a hundred people. The younger generation will lose the romance of the bookstore with their eBooks and iPads. While these places do still exist, Brooklyn Boy and I will hide away in them and swim in their stories as we make our own.
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