The One

Frankly, I don’t buy it. We spend our adult lives looking for our One True Love, but I don’t believe there’s only one person out there for each of us. Aren’t we approaching seven billion human beings on earth by now? There must be 10 or 12 guys out there I would get along with just fine.

But whether it’s because the media tells me to, or my mother, or the social messages society gives to girls, my romantic ambitions are more important to me right now than my musical ones. Yup, dish out that tired cliché of marriage and family and I will lap it all up.

It is likely just a matter of time before I settle down. I view it very dryly as a straightforward systems analysis: I am of proper marriageable age, I will look for others of proper marriageable age (much in the way I would search for a job, apartment, or sandals), I will locate one, and that will be that. Done. I know from friends’ experience with all types of dating, that it is absolutely never that simple. And often, my friends have given their hearts to men who have disappointed them over and over. I guess you could say I’ve been lucky of late; I haven’t had my heart broken in nearly 10 years. (“You’re due,” commented a friend recently.) Instead, I’m the one who entices men only to break their hearts. A perfectly nice man will grow fond of me and offer me his heart, which I then rip out of his chest and eat while it’s still beating, dripping blood all down my sleeve.

My parents named me Amanda, which comes from the Latin and means “one to be loved.” How could anyone be mean to me when my name so clearly instructs otherwise? Overall, the name has served me well. I’ve felt surrounded and buoyed by love, especially as I’ve gotten older. Because for the most part, everybody loves me.

Follow my imagination for just a paragraph. From store clerks to boyfriends, long-time classmates to week-long co-workers, perfect strangers to true friends, people fall in love with me. I walk into a room and conquer them with my face. What could it be? The blonde corona that completes my robin’s egg blue eyes? My golden tresses? My slender wrists or graceful walk? True, there is the occasional ignoramus who finds me to be a hyperactive bore, and I’m certainly aware that classier, more beautiful women abound, but otherwise, I’m enjoying being at a place in life where my self consciousness just might be matched by my self confidence.

Anyway. So, without launching into a sweltering stew of trite, what’s love actually supposed to be? Infatuation? Deep admiration? Partnership? Friendship in the extreme?

“Yes,” you answer unequivocally, when I ask you if you’ve been in love. “Three or four times.” But that last qualification naturally leads to the question: “Three or four times?” It raises the issue that has bewitched anyone who has ever been in a mental institution: What is love? I would define love as something that doesn’t end. And as willingness to sacrifice a bit of yourself for another person. And as being unable to take your eyes away from your beloved. “I love you” has crossed my lips countless times with various people, but by my own definition, I was misguided.

You, whose white shoulders I’ve never touched, might I love you? And you, who broke my heart so completely, that I surely must have been in love. And, my dear you. I am sorry, but it might not have been love at all, but it was certainly loyalty. And you, I don’t know what to make of you at all just yet.

Amanda, Amanda, one to be loved. Since I was a little girl I’ve wanted nothing more than to find someone who would love me forever. That turns out to be the easy part. Amanda, Amanda, how strange would it be if you could not love?

The one pure love I can claim, (apart from my family), is what I feel in the practice room and on the stage. To open my lungs and relax my throat, to turn my body into an instrument. To feel words form on my lips and sound vibrate across my chin, cheekbones, and brow. It is a love for the passions of the composers and poets who created the works I sing. The very love they describe in art is the love I hope to discover in life, but have felt only vicariously, like a person who knows the ocean only from paintings.

Let me share with you a prayer that I’ve been listening to lately. It’s not a prayer at all, actually, but a beautiful Mozart trio. Any of the vocal lines would be exquisite on their own, but combined, it is brief glimpse of perfection itself. Listen to it here, read it below, and even if you don’t speak Italian, say the words out loud, for just a bit of Italian on the lips will make you feel amazing.

Soave sia il vento
Tranquilla sia l’onda
Ed ogni elemento
Benigno risponda
Ai nostri desir.

May the winds be soft,
May the waves be tranquil,
And each element
Respond gently
To our desires.

So fortune goodnight, be gentle on our souls, and on our wishes, whatever they may be.