As I sat in the sauna, I began to feel a burning sensation. It was the chain I had been wearing for a week or more. I had put it on before my last trip and hadn't removed it since. Metals heat up quickly, and the sensation became unbearable. I managed to remove it, but then couldn't fasten the clasp again. One of the young men sitting to my right offered to help after seeing me struggle for a good five minutes. I couldn't do it with my beautifully strong nails; he couldn't do it because his hands were shaking; the chain travelled further, and another boy had nails that were too soft. The chain ended up in another's hands (yes, it was a large group of boys) and finally got closed. I was devoted to keeping it better than the matching earrings that got undoubled during my travel (the whole set — a wedding present from my husband!).
Then, randomly or not, I started to think about my first private French tutor. I was in high school then and began to visit her after my father met her and her mother at a sports-related gathering. She had progressing multiple sclerosis and had returned to her mother's apartment after many years spent in Paris. She had better and worse days with her body but rarely cancelled the lessons. I won't lie; we mainly met for conversations, mostly in French, but diverted to Molière, Hugo, and other great writers whom we both loved. She also showed me her photos. They included her ex-husband, whom she called a prick, mainly for leaving her straight after the diagnosis. He must have been very advanced following the modern trend of “end-what-no-longer-serves-you” type. I wish I knew his name. I am sure he would have a well-arranged social media profile, not including any past photos of this beautiful, tall, short-haired blonde who worked for a tourist agency and, in her free time, was modelling and currently well—seeking financial support from France to buy costly medication to help slow down her condition.
“For goodness sake”, I think to myself.
I exit the sauna and swim back and forth until the time is up.
The same week, I drive the motorway to hit immense traffic. The first one makes me feel uneasy. It doesn’t look too serious until the old man sitting at the back swings down out of a car with French registration plates, he drops on his knees and his daughter, the driver at fault, who wants to attend to him, redirects to her goldilocks daughter, who is breaking into tears. The next accident 5 minutes away is already dealt with by police, but it must have been even more serious.
“Gracious me”, I think.
I arrive home just to learn that my French-speaking colleague from DRC who just sang a song that I wrote, is stuck in a location enclosed by a group of rebels, who are overtaking his town.
“Goodness me!” — I say.
We cannot predict how long our relationships will last and what will end them. What a privilege is it then to form lasting relationships, those which go beyond just one stage of life in an age where "cancel culture" often dictates swift judgments and severed ties.
As Heidi Priebe aptly stated,
"To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be."
And then Jullian Turecki writes:
To love someone long-term is to be brave. It takes courage to work through problems. It takes courage to love someone who you could lose. It takes courage to break patterns.
To love someone long-term is to accept their humanity. Their nuance, depth, limitations, and complexity.
To love someone long-term is to be an advocate for what you need so that you don't become resentful.
To love someone long-term is to be aware of the ego. To know how much it needs to be right. Then keeping it in check so it doesn't sabotage the relationship.
To love someone long-term is to recognize that love isn't just a feeling, it's also a practice. And sometimes, we can do a better job at loving.
To love someone long-term is to be challenged. Challenged to communicate more effectively, to be vulnerable, to listen, and to give love when you're not in the mood. It's to be challenged to become a more patient, self-aware person.
Besides the inspiration that these words can serve, don’t we all see people with their shoulders rounded and their heads and necks extending forward and down? This is caused by excessive thinking and worry (which is an epidemic in Western culture) and from always being on our phones, which affects vision. It's also a common sign of depression, anxiety, or fatigue.
In contrast, what I learned lately from Kazakh culture is that friendship and love between humans bloom from being seen, so “I like you” in Kazakh, “Men seni zhaksy koremin” means “I see you clearly”.
So, to get back to the title: LV doesn’t stand for:
Left Ventricle
Lead Vocalist
Limit Value
Los Verdes
Liverpool Victoria
or not even Louis Vuitton, a French fashion designer from Paris!
nor 55 in Roman Numerals (although Driving 55 is a good publication of a Gen X writer on Substack)!
LV is my new abbreviation for Lasting Vision
"The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out to meet it."
—Thucydides
I love this!