My first movie going experience was Empire Strikes Back. My dad took me, my sister, my cousins and shockingly, my mum (who cared nothing about movies; she was a librarian) to a little theatre in the city. We sat in the balcony. I cannot replay the experience in my head anymore. But what stays with me is the feeling. The feeling of bigness, of awe, of love, of sadness. That is the magic of movies. That is the power of Star Wars. Movies help us chase the impossible. Star Wars helps me love. Star Wars helps me grieve. Star Wars helps me hope.
Liking loving people to fictional sci-fi space cowboy movies may seem odd, but I do not think so. I think it is very normal to have Chewbacca show us how to always show up for our best friend. It is very moving to have Luke love his father through it all. It is transcendent to watch Andor grieve through rebellion. The universality of the human experience is there for everyone to take in, to collectively find and take to heart. We are so lucky to have Star Wars.
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A long time ago in a galaxy far away, I fell in love. Against most kinds of logic. It was realistically illogical. It was risky. It was not cautious or cerebral. It was reckless and full of incendiary raw emotion. In dark corners it was full of a mask off kind of union. In daylight it had control but a lightness that belied any desperate desire. The unconventional nature of this love wove its way into the fabric of everyday life. New romance energy became a flat line I braided into my psyche. Love became hope.
The challenge with feeling hopeful is the outside world is conspiratorial. Work, family, health, capitalism, and time itself do not hold love in the care our hearts do. We are constantly running against the forces that allow us to love as aloud and as wild as we can. Love is not free; we pay a price for it. Sometimes we must let it go. Sometimes we must love past an end date. Sometimes the forces win. Sometimes our heart is broken.
When our heart is broken it is the worst kind of feeling. It is an out of body experience you cannot quite describe. You marvel as you watch a piece of you float away. You cannot catch it; it is unreachable now. You do not know where it is going and ache to follow it. If you could grab the end of the string and reign it back in, you would at least still be whole. Wouldn’t you? But that is not how any of this works I suppose. Those forces, those constant battles place you in the space of grief, something I am all too familiar with. Grief is love with no where to go. You have no where to put this stuff. You walk around looking for the balloon string. In time you look for it less and less, but you will always be looking.
The best balm for loving, losing, and grieving is rebellion. Relearning to love yourself is the single largest act of rebellion we can bestow upon ourselves. This is not easy. This will suck. (To be fair I am not sure I am up to the fight at this stage of life.) It will be arduous, and you will likely fail over and over at making you the love of your life. Because in rebellion you lose and you lose and you lose, until you win. I take my hope and hope it to win.
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When Andor commits to the rebellion, he commits to honouring what came before. He commits to fighting for himself because there simply is no other choice. It is the bravest choice in a world that is a cacophony. Because he, one, simply can not put blinders on to acts that are crushing his hope. He is the truest form of Star Wars rebellion.
In that galaxy of far far away there is a space where those pieces of us float and entwine with others. We may never find that place again, but we know it is out there. We know that our love and hope and grief connect us to that place. We will eventually know none of what we gave was for nought. We know none of what we felt was a lie. We know we are broken but in places that will heal. We know we are not all the ugly things we think. We know we are scared but will keep giving the love away.
Rebellions are built on hope.
Gingerly 