The Space Between

Tis’ the season for gratitude, and I don’t mean to brag, but I have a lot to be grateful for.

At the risk of sounding self-absorbed, I genuinely think I’m one of the luckiest people to have ever existed (I’m kidding…kind of). But honestly, the people I’m surrounded by and the love they bring to my life feel so rare and meaningful that it’s hard to believe I’m not divinely favored in some way. If you’re reading this newsletter—which I am unable to fully articulate my appreciation for, by the way—then it is likely that you are a part of this rarity, this depth. You make me feel like I’m one of the luckiest people to ever have existed. This letter is for you.

Before I go on, I want to clarify that my hope is to avoid anything too sappy or sentimental. I don’t want to make anyone emotional or touched to the point of distress (I can practically hear the collective sigh of relief). Jokes aside, I recognize that there is no amount of time or care I could invest into any piece of work that would come close to capturing the intensity of the connection I share with my loved ones. Each of you is so incredibly important and unique that it feels arrogant to think I could sum up your essence—or my gratitude for it—through any mortal means. I would need every star in the sky, every invisible force in the universe, to even have a fighting chance.

The idea I’m getting at is that love is a mysterious, cosmic, energy that resists any earthly expressions attempting to contain it. It’s something we can grasp at but never fully get our fingers around, a phantom string that tugs at us, tethers us together, yet remains unseen and untouched. It’s the subject of every story, every song, every life—whether openly declared or quietly implied. I believe it is the point of everything—this letter included.

Astral Affection by Johnny Seithèn

I also believe that, although every effort to ground it is doomed to fail, the desire to try is a declaration of love itself. It is a profoundly human aspiration to attempt the impossible, which in this case means putting words to the indescribable; and, seeing as I am profoundly human, that is exactly what I intend to do. So take this into consideration as you continue reading and see this letter for what it really is: an insufficient yet sincere attempt at trying to express the inexpressible, to convey my love for you.

For the reasons I’ve outlined above (and the simple fact that there are too many of you—again, I’m the luckiest person in the world), I’ve decided to keep this short and nondescript. As a result, there will be no direct shoutouts, but I hope and assume you all know who you are. Instead, I’m going to simply state that when it comes to making meaning (who remembers that newsletter?), you guys are it. You are the literal meaning of my life, and as much as I whine and complain about (and adore and praise) the small, material, things in life, I don’t want there to be any confusion over what really matters. The intangible, supernatural space between us is what this life is about.

Last winter, I watched the second season of Fleabag (a fantastic dark comedy written by and starring Phoebe Waller-Bridge) with my brilliant friend and sister, Mackie. The season follows the main character, known only as Fleabag, as she falls in love with an Irish priest despite being a steadfast atheist. The season finale is an absolutely gut-wrenching, beautiful bit of television. Most viewers seem to hyper-focus on the heartbreaking exchange in which Fleabag confesses her love for the priest, only for him to deliver the sucker-punch response, “it’ll pass.” But I gravitated instead toward the moment when Fleabag asks, “It’s God, isn’t it?” and the priest responds with a simple, “yeah.” The scene conveys the priest's decision to choose faith over romantic love, but in my interpretation, it also represents Fleabag’s spiritual realization that what she feels for the priest—the space between them, if you will—is what we humans call God.

This is the religion I subscribe to. I’m conversationally agnostic because it needs no explanation and leaves room for spirituality, but in truth, I believe in God as the personification of the magic that is love (that’s a super cheesy, almost insufferable description, but it’s how I feel 🤷🏼‍♀️). I also believe that while romantic love is a profound version of this magic, it exists in the space between most things, romantic or not, if you know where to look. I feel it in my friendships, family relationships, and even work relationships. I feel it when I lay with my dogs (who are family), when I look up at the sky, when I suck in a breath of air and let it inflate my chest. I feel it everywhere, coexisting alongside the trash on the street and the war in the world. For the record, there are also days when I don’t feel it everywhere—most of you who know me know I’m not always a “love and light” type person—but if I try, I can find it. And I’m lucky enough that the people in my life make it so that I don’t have to look very far.

Just devastating. Absolutely devastating. Fleabag (season 2, episode 6).

I’m not the only worshiper in this religion, either. I was reminded of this while watching Before Sunrise one recent weeknight with Kerry. The movie is a meditation on the meandering conversations of two strangers falling in love, and in one scene, Celine, played by Julie Delpy, articulates my exact feeling:

“I believe if there's any kind of God it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.”

In the effort, there is love, too. Before Sunrise (1995).

Reading that scene back, it almost feels like I plagiarized it to write this letter, but I think that speaks to the fact that my doctrine isn’t new. Frankly, I believe if you approached most theological texts with an open heart and mind, you’d find this idea hiding between the lines of poetry and scripture. In my opinion, religions are just very human ways of understanding this invisible lifeforce, this indescribable feeling. I’m not ruling out the idea of a big guy with a beard (this is where I’m truly agnostic) but I don’t think the specifics really matter. The way I understand it, to love is to know God.

I’ll leave you with this final idea. Though I have experienced some form of romantic love in the past and certainly hope to do so again, I’ve come to realize that I’m content with love’s other forms, too. I now understand with painful clarity that the love I already have (and have had, will have, continue to have, etc.—I don’t think love necessarily begins or ends) is more than I deserve, and it’s more than enough.

Again, I’m not alone in this conclusion. Claudia Morales, a writer who you can find here on Substack, wrote a beautiful and moving essay about the year after her boyfriend, Ryan Carson, was murdered. I recommend you read it for yourself, but in it she says something that has rung repeatedly in my head like a bell. When talking about her support system who leaned on each other after Ryan’s passing, she acknowledges something that I have come to believe is true for myself and the platonic love I share with all of you: “This is the love story, too. This, too, is the love of my life.”