Love & Loneliness

Today I pause to ponder on an all too ubiquitous motif in my communication with the universe of late. Everywhere I find my wandering feet unexpectedly anchored - from my current relationship, to the theatre last night, to my morning jaunt through today's New York Times online - I see so much loneliness and so much love.

Last night, I was overwhelmed by Terrence McNally's portrayal of an aging Maria Callas teaching Julliard students in Master Class. Here was a woman who overcame seemingly insurmountable odds to do what she loved most, who swallowed - in silence - every wound she ever received, who swathed herself in armor of finery and fire, and who brashly dared the world to oppose her at every turn. If ever there was the epitome of the silently suffering warrior, Maria Callas must have been it.

What I found most compelling was how Tyne Daly's interpretation of Maria exposed the vulnerabilities and consuming loneliness that Callas successfully hid from most of the world. It was inspiring, yet incredibly sad to relive one of the final chapters in the life of this extraordinarily talented, driven woman. One can only imagine what thoughts must have percolated through her mind as she watched her passions and hopes publicly mocked and dissected by gleefully wicked colleagues and shameless media publications.

She had so much love to give, so much love for her art, for the idea of love. Yet she was conditioned by everyone who should have cared for her that she was ugly, not worthy, never enough. The hard exterior she sought to mold into invulnerability ultimately drove away everyone who wanted to love her. I couldn't help but see my grandmother in her, and more worrisome, a bit of myself.

It's rare to be gifted with such insight into the essence of another person. Even rarer still to see a piece of theater whose commentary suggests the perils of theater. McNally's central thesis expands beyond the realm of the theater, however, to any story where fame, success, wealth, power - devoting one's life to oneself, and/or to proving everybody wrong - comes at the high cost of a chance at true happiness.

This morning, an refreshingly candid article, "A Gift That Came Too Soon," by a young college student reminded me of the good things about love, the novel, encompassing, heady feeling you get when you fall head over heels for someone for the first time. Not to mention the pain, confusion, and frustration when it ends: 

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/03/fashion/a-gift-that-came-too-soon-modern-love.html?pagewanted=1&nl=nyregion&emc=urb1

I'm sure my isolated office desk and near empty office (holiday weekend for most, but I'm still here) isn't making it any easier to pull away from this permutation on love & loneliness. Thankfully I am reminded of a simple piece of art that once evoked the sweetness of hope when I needed it most:

Through all the uncertainty, the loneliness, the struggle to make permanent a feeling that defies control and seems so fleeting... there is always hope. As long as our hearts are beating and our minds are dreaming, there is always hope.