love – Clara Hsu

The Eternal Word

“A word that exists joyfully through creation, that alleviates every pain and sorrow, that absolves all guilt and humanity…”

“What word is that?” asked the Devil.

“Love.”

The angel pointed his sword toward the Devil. His radiance slowly consumed the Devil and the screen.

Faust, the 1926 movie directed by F.W. Murnau granted salvation to Faust and his beloved Gretchen. They were burned at the stake, but their souls rose to heaven. Love transcended morality and age. When Gretchen gazed at Faust, who had caused the death of her brother and mother, and appeared as an old man, she saw only her young lover.

Is morality the devil then? There is no judgment in love.

Artists in Love

brownings — Elizabeth and Robert Browning

The movie Sylvia portrayed the stormy relationship of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. While Hughes received recognition, Plath felt trapped as a housewife and unable to write under her husband’s shadow. A sad tale, and I wonder during the peak of their romance whether there was a time when they were able to influence and elevate each other’s writing.

Love and art merged for sculptors Rodin and Camille Claudel (she died in a mental hospital), composers/pianists Robert and Clara Schumann (he committed suicide and she raised eight children), and poets Robert and Elizabeth Browning, and each became formidable in their own right. The synthesis requires humility and trust; and love, which does magical things.

A Special Day

Special because Dore offered his creamy oatmeal in the morning. Special because there was a stream of birthday wishes on Facebook. Special because Jack Foley took me to one of his favorite haunts (Binh Minh Quan) in Oakland for lunch and prepared a “Clara Box” filled with poetry books. Special because Vern brought flowers. Special because Lawrence and his girlfriend Corrine drove two hours (stuck in traffic) from the East Bay to have dinner with me. Special because Julia wrote a poem: a poem of memories, of laughter and tears, of growing pains and love. It’s the most beautiful poem that a mother can have.

Birthday. What a concept!

Dream Messenger

My sister-in-law dreamed of my mother, whom she had never met. She knew instantly it was her, dead over forty years ago, a young woman of 39. She said my mother watched me walked away, turned around and hugged her. My sister-in-law expected a cold body and icy breaths, as a ghost would have. But instead the feeling was warm and loving. She got scared nonetheless, and her knowledge of my mother pulled her back into consciousness.

Ghosts have not been successful in visiting me. There might be some kind of barrier between us.

“Was there a message?” I asked my sister-in-law.

“Only that she loves you,” was her reply.

Love Dance

“If you ever doubt my love, hurt me. If there is no reaction, then my love for you is dead.” Passion comes and goes. To sustain loving feelings is a mammoth task. In time we change and grow and become different people then when we first fall in love. There is a lot of stuff to work out if we want to stay together. Most of us fail. Some receive another chance, but most of us are lonely.

“Deal with it,” a friend comments, “That’s why the clubs are full of people.” We are isolated social beings, dancing in a room, coming together, breaking apart.

A Dozen Red Roses

No matter how busy, Chi-an and Tom of Angkor Borei are always the gracious hosts. Tonight their restaurant was filled with customers. We were lucky to squeeze ourselves into its narrow hallway so we didn’t have to stand in the street to wait for a table. Tom was surprised to see me. Ever since we moved away from the neighborhood I hardly frequent the restaurant. He gave me a big hug and went about with his take-out delivery.

There were times in the past when the restaurant was not so busy. After they serve us lunch, Chi-an and Tom would come over and chat with us. We learned that theirs was a second marriage for Chi-an. When she met Tom she already had two children.

“Tom takes care of my children as if they were his own,” Chi-an told us. “Every time I come back from Cambodia he comes to the airport with a dozen red roses.”

“Is that why you married him?” asked Dore.

You can tell when a woman is truly loved by her blushing smile, gleaming eyes, and her seemingly inexhaustible energy. And the man she loves has springy steps, a hearty laugh and generous disposition.

Photo from The Chronicle.

Gift of the Magi

Night is a time of ownership. People are sleeping, and obligations are temporary suspended. It was good not to feel needed for a few hours, especially after the big Christmas cooking and cleaning. There was a need to give myself a present. Reading O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi came to mind. Long ago my children received a thick volume called The Book of Virtues, edited by William J Bennett. O. Henry’s story was in this book.

The characters: Della and Jim. The gifts: a fob chain and a pair of hair combs. The sacrifices: her hair, his watch. The irony: neither of them can use the gift.

I looked around my room: my children’s paintings when they were in preschool, a note from my daughter after her hat nearly fell off while dancing on stage, a plaster dinosaur, a red silk cocoon…I had never considered these things wise, but they had come from the Magi, who bore the gifts of love.

The Power Of Influence

While “no” was not my son’s first word, it was certainly his main vocabulary whenever he encountered parental power. He saw it as a struggle. I saw it as imparting wisdom. He did not want my wisdom.

I don’t think you can influence someone if they don’t want to be influenced. “I’ll break him.” My ex-husband once said, meaning, making my son submit to whatever it was that we desired at that moment. But in fact we were the ones who had to break open and humbled before any kind of communication was achieved.

Compromise is not influence. It is temporary appeasement; useless except to catch a breath. In the end, I think it is more important to just love.

To Love An Artist

Brent Benaway, painter, my daughter Julia’s boyfriend, left a stack of his paintings in my garage. The one in the front is a girl in a hooded sweatshirt sitting on the floor holding her knees with her hands. Her sneakered feet crossed at the ankles, jeans has a small torn in one area. Her face is pale, mask-like, and her eyes are two black holes without pupils. “Is it Julia?” I asked Brent. “No, she was my ex. I painted her as a birthday present but she didn’t appreciate it so I took it back.”

To be indifferent or uncaring to an artist’s work is to say goodbye to the relationship. I don’t think one needs to understand the art or to like it, but there needs to be an intense interest in the artist’s expression. The soul of the artist resides in his/her work. If the soul is not nurtured the body rejects the closeness.