At the end of this week, my friends and are getting married. I’m the one doing the ceremony.

I was humbled and a little frightened at their request. After all, I’m the one who recently went through a divorce; what the hell do I know about being in love? About being married?

Well, a lot, actually.

I can’t help it; I fall in love. I fell in love with the whole world a long time ago. “Fall in love.” Falling. That sensation of weightlessness, of plummeting. A helpless descent. Trick is, you need someone on the other end to catch you, else you hit the ground at terminal velocity.

Currently, however, I’m doing my best to stay a little sane. Every affair I’ve had has ended in some kind of tragedy and I’m just keeping away from that right now. Not because I can’t handle the fall – I think I’ve proven I can survive a descent from even the furthest heights – but because I don’t want to be the cause of someone else’s sorrow. Right now, more than anything else, I’m being as un-selfish as possible.

I’m not afraid of love – I’m just…

… just…

…

It’s a power. Like lightning. And you have to be strong to survive it. There are a lot of powers in the world: love is the one that kills you slowly. A long, slow process of dying. A poison. A degenerative condition that can only be cured by the cause.

When Tristan is poisoned by an envenomed sword, he asks his uncle to put him in a small boat: the poison in his blood will lead him over the water to its source. Of course, it does, and he meets Ysolde, and when they drink the magic potion that makes them fall in love, the potion and the poison that carried him there are one-and-the-same.

For the longest time after the divorce, we tried to remain friends. We talked on-line, we met for lunches and dinners. We made promises we’d remain in touch because we were so important to each other. But as time passed, our lives became separate… we became separate. And the connection we cherished slipped away.

We still talk. We still chat. But we don’t share like we used to. It’s gone. And there’s a hole in my heart because of it. Hearts truly are made of glass: they can only be broken so many times before the pieces are too small to be put back together.

Some may try to use glue. That won’t work. The only way to heal a heart is by throwing the shards back into the fire and re-shaping them. They were once sand, melted with fires too hot for human hands. White hot to the touch, they emerge from the crucible. The glass blower uses his breath to shape it and water to cool it. The sand is the Earth. The crucible is the Fire. The glass blower’s breath is the Air. Finally, the Water gives the glass its final shape. It’s new shape.

Love is that crucible. The crux of the matter. Transformation. Metamorphosis. In my chest are the shards of broken promises, shattered dreams. There are times I can’t take a full breath without feeling them. They are razor sharp and they do not forgive.

I remember being in love and feeling the same way. Not able to breathe…

There are a few women in my life I’d like to give my heart to. But I can’t. Not now. Broken shards are not a proper gift. I’m still looking for a heat so potent and so powerful that it will melt them down, transform them into something new.

Until then… what I have is what I have. And it will have to do.

* * *

The greatest love song in the world is one first sung by the Everly Brothers, then by The Big O (Roy Orbison to all you whippersnappers out there), then made famous again by Nazareth in the 1970’s. Just recently, Heart has done a cover — proving that Ann Wilson still has the sexiest voice in rock ‘n’ roll.

When I thought I first heard this song, I heard The Big O’s version – on an old album owned by my father. Being all of eight years old at the time, I had no clue what the singer was talking about. It wasn’t until later, that my heart was broken the first time that I understood what was going on. I was driving home through a Minnesota winter, in my Oldsmobile, blinded by the snow, driving so slow. I was driving home from being told that she didn’t love me anymore. Maybe never did. I was still stunned, still numb. Still pretending I didn’t feel anything. I turned on the radio to the local classic rock station and the DJ played this song. The Nazareth cover. I had to pull over and weep. Not cry: weep.

Weep. From the Middle English wepen, from Old English wEpan; akin to Old High German wuoffan to weep, Old Church Slavonic vabiti. It means “to call (or cry) out.” And that’s what that song is: a weep. A desperate cry to any and all who can hear.

This is my pain!

This is my sorrow!

This is my weep!

I knew, right then and there, sitting in that car, off the side of the road, the white snow falling slowly around me, the warm hum of the engine in the background, that I had never heard that song before. Not until that moment. That very moment. And I sang. Sang until my throat was sore. The song was over and I was still singing. As loud as I could.

I was singing. Weeping.

This song is not a disavowal of love. It is not a condemnation of love. Far from it. It is a weep for love. A call. A prayer. A prayer that someone is listening, and that someone will feel what the singer feels, and be wiser for it. And for me, singing it is a holy thing. A ritual. I sing a lot of songs for people, but this one… it ain’t just for anyone.

It is a song of magic, blood, tears, and sorrow. We are human, and that means, we do not know what we have until it is gone. And so, this song – this weep – is not a condemnation of love, but a call to those who have it. And a prayer that they will hear it for the first time. And when I sing it, I sing it’s beautiful and terrible weep:

If you have love – hold on.

Hold on tight as you can. Because I once had what you have now. And it is sweet and powerful and beautiful. And now, it’s gone.

So hold on. As tight as you can.

* * *

Love hurts, Love scars, Love wounds and mars
Any heart not tough or strong enough
To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain
Love is like a cloud, it holds a lot of rain
Love hurts

I’m young, I know, But even so
I know a thing or two – I learned from you
I really learned a lot, really learned a lot
Love is like a flame It burns you when it’s hot
Love hurts

Some fools think of happiness, blissfulness, togetherness
Some fools fool themselves, I guess
They’re not foolin’ me

I know it isn’t true I know it isn’t true
Love is just a lie made to make you blue
Love hurts

I know it isn’t true I know it isn’t true
Love is just a lie made to make you blue
Love hurts