Elisabeth Writing

Here’s one thing I hear quite often: “I notice your writing is mostly about love.” The question there, unasked, is why? There are, of course, all the usual reasons that love is the main subject of many poems, songs, books, plays, paintings, etc.: love is powerful, love is terrible, love is beautiful, love is a wild beast, love inspires, love destroys. It is truly awe inspiring what love can do to a person. How it can break you and remake you. In some ways my story is no different than any others, but in some ways, I think it is. So why do I write about love constantly and endlessly?

Well, let’s go back in time, back and back, all the way to an innocent young girl wearing bright dresses, Mary Jane shoes and frilly socks; her platinum hair is a tangled mess from her quiet and comforting talks with the trees, and her shifting jade eyes shine with hope and naïveté.

School was difficult for young me, to say the least. It seemed as if everyday a bully took a chunk of my skin while I stood there, a black sheep in a sea of cream and nameless bleating. It started to wear on me, made me curl within myself until I was too small to notice, hoping that no one could find my soul within this conch shell. In this sacred space I began to tell myself stories about a prince. He would sweep me off my feet, riding a rare periwinkle unicorn, horn gleaming with promise, and the prince’s eyes alight with love. I never got much further in those fantasies than the prince declaring his love and riding off into the sunset (what came after I did not yet know) but it comforted me. After all, my parents had a fairytale of their own. Oh they might not have had wyverns or gremlins or fey in theirs, but it was certainly magic. At least, it was to me.

I always asked for their story, too, in those dark moments where I felt like I could drift away in a northern wind, body coming apart like daffodil seeds, a wish taken and given.

Once upon a time, a handsome King was betrothed to a Princess from another kingdom. A woman that, though as beautiful as icicles and the glitter of snow, was just as cold – and whom he was not in love with. The King helped the children in his realm who had seen war, lived nightmares, and committed crimes. He, himself, could relate to these misfits and outcasts, being one himself. Sometimes he would perch a child on his knee to wipe their tears away, healing the inner wounds within his own heart, a magic salve of spirit and generously that no spell could match. And on another day of comfort and care, the King looked up and saw her. Her hair was dandelion light, her eyes a glacial blue that sparkled and warmed every spot within him. And he knew he’d found the one. She was no princess on soft slippers with hands unmarked by calluses of strength; she was a priestess, a warrior, a mother, a lover. She was his. The King left his betrothed Princess and fell on his knees before the Priestess, her name a prayer on his lips. Free at last, he swept her into his arms. She was now Priestess and Queen both, just as she was always meant to be. And he, this gentle giant of a King, brought peace at last to his kingdom. And they, of course, lived happily ever after.

I’m simplifying the story of course, but theirs was the first love story I ever heard. Love at first sight, soulmate signs within the sky, truth within the worlds and hearts. Is it at all surprising that I grew up believing in love, and wanting love, so badly? And so I spun my own stories, my own romances, too awkward and unlovable to believe it would ever happen to me, but hopeful nonetheless. When I made friends I told them tales of their own love-stories-to-be. We all watched the towers fall, we heard of wars and wounded soldiers, we saw that people were the worst type of monsters. Is it any wonder we retreated into fantasies and happy endings?

I did not know that the gentle touch on my shoulder was from Aphrodite herself. I did not know that she gifted me with a peony and rose quartz heart. No, that truth was many years off.

I grew, awkward birch limbs and silver torso, into lush willow curves. I came to high-school in vintage coats and prom dresses. The world decided that, at last, I deserved love. It was the one thing I always wanted, always craved, always fought for. Swan wings dusted with the ashes of my former self, I rose, and flew towards the sun.

First loves wreck and remake you. First loves tear you apart and put you back together, just slightly different than you were before. First loves are pure, wild, undiluted with the bitter aftertaste of regrets.

I ruined us both. Yet… the drug of love seeped deep within my valves and aortas, and I knew I would never be the same.

I chased that high, wept, fell, scarred my arms, broke my own heart, broke their hearts, became the villain, became the savior: became.

Love is who I am. I am love. I am the handmaiden of Aphrodite herself. I come here, to this place, to these people, to show what love can do. I came here to find love for myself, and to find love for others. I approach you all in supplication, tattooed thighs curled beneath me, adoration in my breath and a twinkle of magic in my oceanic eyes. Will you join me?

I am writing a memoir about love. It is about my journey with the men I’ve given my heart to. Writing it has been painful and wonderful. If you’d like some excerpts let me know. Blessed be 😉