About passionI never understood passion until I had children. I thought that I just couldn't feel it; that I was iceblooded and could not be moved much, because I always felt detached and mechanical when I had sex, and I thought that was the only place you could really have passion (it never occurred to me that I was just bad at it--now I am content to recognise that I am doing it wrong and probably always will). I have never really had anything I lost myself in. Always there was some part of me observing, taking notes almost. I might get carried away singing at the football, but I'd need to have way too many drinks to get to the place where that was possible.
But I love my son passionately, and it has nothing to do with sex, of course. I see him lying in his bed, his face beautiful and calm in sleep, and I want to sacrifice everything so that he can remain untroubled. I do not just resent people who want to do him harm; I resent the notion that anyone could want to do him harm, that there ever should be anyone who would want to. I used to believe I was a pacifist, that I would never kill a person no matter how I was provoked, but now I know I am not. I would not kill or die for my country, but for my son, I would not even blink.
That seems overdramatic, but isn't that what passion is? It's whatever can make you fierce, whatever can make you lift yourself above the grind, the shit job you are making of your life, the sweet notes that rise above the noise. I am blessed that I learned that I too could find those notes, in fleeting moments, when I see him sleeping and I think, god I love him, and I know that the capacity to love is what has made being human, having this life, worthwhile.