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Love is more than what happens between two people. It is all of us—dreaming, healing, caring and sharing.  

Hearts that have been broken like to close for a time. Broken hearts need quiet and solitude, creativity, comfort, company, lots of sleep, good food and time to fantasize. Then we need to move solidly back into reality once again.

This little teahouse on the corner in the old-brick-downtown in the mountain town where I live is one of my favorite spots. Scattered wooden tables—cozy stuffed-chairs, the long coffee table, (now covered in magazines and gourds for the season) and a long red couch—make it inviting.

I like to people-watch while sipping my Dark Forest Chai latte, thick with cinnamon, cardamom, and honey-bush. It warms my bones and clears my mind. I peek over the top of my silver-sticker-covered MacBook Air spying on people and eavesdropping a little. 

If he—the love I long to know—were here we might lean into each other, inhale each other’s scents and stories and make up stories for those around us. But he is not here and today I play alone.

A kid pulls a grey sweatshirt over his head and picks up his phone. Is he texting his girlfriend? She might be his first, if he is. He might flush pink as she responds. In his eagerness his grip tightens on the device. He hops tables engaging in conversation with a young-red-bearded man. I bet they are study buddies. 

 “That from here?” A young guy sitting next to me on the long red couch looks up and smiles, asking me about the pastry currently filling my mouth.  

 “Mm yea,” I mumble mouth full of cinnamon teacake. We smile and make small talk before he returns to his book. I can’t see the title but his face is serious. I return to my typing and we both sip our chai. 

He’s wearing a white cap backwards that highlights his Asian features—strong brows, inquisitive eyes, and a lightweight-black-jacket layered over his slim build. His sneakers remind me of the white Keds’ I had as a kid. I wasn’t shy; I’d talk to anyone. I am still kind of like that kid I was. I like that about me. 

They’re probably students—all these kids—and not as young as I think, for I am getting older and they look younger than I remember being at that age. I did not go to college. I was a mom at their age, already. Some part of me knows I missed out on certain things, like learning how to date for fun instead of falling into trauma-bonds, and soulmate-traps. I will not fall like that again. I will do something different this time.

My tea is going cold and I’m full of tasty cinnamon teacake. I would like to sit on that long red couch and curl up with my love on a rainy day and read and be in our own little worlds—together. 

A shudder of loneliness passes through me and I accept this: as close as I may ever get to someone that loneliness will still be there. It will always be mine. 

It’s funny to feel loneliness as if it were its own presence. It is a presence—not an absence—for I no longer feel I am missing anything. The gift of this moment is: I feel a bit lonely. I don’t feel melancholy about it. It’s not a sad thing—it just is. Life is lonely and bubbly.

Fantasy is fun but I come here, to places like this, to be pulled out of my head, to pay attention and tend to the bustle of others peoples lives and to make room for a little chaos in what some might think as the boringness of mine. 

It’s not boring; it’s reliable and comfortable: walks up windy hills with Grom, my sweet pug, quiet evenings wrapped in my hand-made afghan, a few friends I trust, and my community who I run into, here and there. 

My time gets filled with writing, and talking, and holding space for the hard, holy and human in all I do.  

The young Asian man is reading about Leonardo Da Vinci, not for school as I’d imagined, but because he is interested in incorporating aspects of people—whom he admires—into his personality. He understands that personality is fluid! I am enchanted.

We flow into conversation about how understanding human nature can be used to manipulate or be of benefit. I find myself explaining to him the concept of right livelihood: combining skill, passion and joy with service to make a living. His name is Luke and meeting him has changed my day. 

He says, “Education does not equate intelligence.” And I love him a little.

Amidst a flurry of light-down-jackets and snow pants, a team of bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked elves come rushing in hovering, wanting but too polite to ask to pet my pug, the precious nugget, Grommet. He is now sleeping in his throne, a large red Victorian chair that everyone agrees was made for him. 

People love Grom. I love people and so does he. They love to pet him and take his picture and I encourage it. He is a celebrity.

The elves’ grandmother hovers telling them, “Don’t disturb the dog.” But I wave them over and say, “Please do! He’d love it. Nothing would make him happier than to wake up to you” And they do—rushing at him as if he was a tree laden with gifts on Christmas morning. As the petting commences, he wakes groggily, stretching into their eager fingers. Curiosity stoked, questions begin to fly.

 “How old is he? Does he have all his teeth.” 

 “No”. 

 “Does he have brothers and sisters?” 

 “A cat,” I say, “who is kind of like an adopted brother.”

 “Does he like to be scratched here and here, and there?”

There’s about five of them, of different ages, one with a cast on her arm and I ask, “Did you yell, Geronimo! before you jumped?” 

She looks at me soberly, and says, “No. But I did say, I wasn’t going to break anything right before I did.” My heart melts and I love her a little. 

Their grandmother gathers them—those sweet little elves—and bundles them off to the North Pole again, or more likely off to dinner and homework. 

My teapot is empty, my teacake gone; the cinnamon lingers. Today I will meet love in my heart—in the bottom of a teapot, in my imagination and amidst the mundane beauty of this reality with tenderness and appreciation for my community. 

“Writing is a job, a talent, but it’s also the place to go in your head. It is the imaginary friend you drink your tea with in the afternoon.”― Ann Patchett, Truth and Beauty

Author: Justice Bartlett

Image: Louis Hansel/Unsplash