My first real post about this day was on the count of 10 years. I evaded all means of being clear, meandered through the real point of the post, and engulfed it in a ball of emotions. Which, apparently, made for interesting reading, as most comments on that post will demonstrate. It was the first time I ever wrote about this day – as such – but in spite of my deflective attempts, the post sounded out the day – loud and clear.
A year passed by.
You could have easily concluded that it took me a whole of 11 years to know that it was love, after all. The title, was such. But then, love is a many-fangled and often-mangled thing. Each makes his and her own meaning and assumes that the other feels the same.
Another year passed by.
Now that love was (apparently) understood, 12 years later was all about beauty. Not the visual kind, but the one that we experience and hardly pay attention to. And the thing of wonder is the experience of experiencing such beauty. The actual process of it – as much as I hate using the word in such a post, in such a context.
One more year has passed now.
At 13, I think I am blessed. One theme has been recurrent every year – since the first one to this day. We ask each other one question every year this day – does it feel like these many years – and the answer is always resoundingly negative. We do not know why – even after thirteen years – why we don’t feel the stretch of the time as a strain on us. But we don’t care. I think, after a while the sharpness of it all blurs away, making understanding much easier. In the detail, is the strain that time imposes. In our lives and our work this sense has been growing beautifully on us.
Over thirteen years we have been able to let go of looking life in small detail, somehow. Apart from marking a conventional stamp on a calendar, this day’s significance has also begun blurring to a more meaningful abstraction.