Love is a commitment to the well being of another person out of free will and not duty. It is looking after their best interests or at least not willfully causing or contributing to their damage. Love cannot be had when there is manipulation or untruthfulness. Love can involve sacrifice. Love cannot involve manipulating someone into sacrifice. Love is about forgiving. Love must forgive. Love cannot be taken away with disappointment or not getting what one wants. That most definitely is not love. Love is strong. Love, when pushed to the limits does not make sense. At the edges it is unexplainable. It is illogical. Like the love Christ has for us. Love cannot have a reason. True love, by its nature, makes no sense at all.
It is unshakable. It gets stronger with time. It finds new delights every day. It rejoices in all healthy aspects of its object. It finds joy in the person’s being, in his/her expression of their humanity. It sees the good parts and loves the diseased parts. It allows and encourages them to be fully who they are. It wants what they want. It wants their good. It wants the full expression of themselves.
In a relationship, love also shares what it needs. It trusts and shares itself. It opens itself to each other. It retains itself but joins the other. They share without competition together. It lets the other take the last slice of the pie. Love allows one to leave if that is what they need. And it allows them to return.
Love, in the face of dishonesty, selfishness, even evil, still stands. Love is the last thing standing. Love is always good. Love is good.
Love comes from health. The more healthy, the stronger and more complete the love. Love can be trusted. It can be relied upon. It can be an object of faith. Love can be hoped for. Love is the greatest. It is chief of all our abilities. Love is only achievable among humans and God.
Love heals. Love gives us strength. It pushes us to find what we need to continue to love. It finds new resources and power. In an imperfect world, love will always ask for sacrifice. And it will be done with an open heart, heavy and laden with love. Waiting to do it again.
Why can’t I see you Wind? Where did you go?
Where did you come from to blow my hair,
caress my skin, push me up hill,
only to disappear again?
I wait for you on a warm day.
I climb up to where I’ve met you before,
but you are late,
or not coming.
Don’t you know my body is hot from the hike?
And I thirst and need your breeze?
I walk another distance,
take a different turn.
Who can know where you will meet me? When I will get my relief,
Where are you?
As I walk I notice the air brush against my arm.
It flicks the hairs on my arm.
You crafty one!
There you are!
You blow when you will,
in the direction you choose,
as I walk, or as I stand,
from where I am.
The painting stood covered with multiple layers of paint.
Each describing the layer beneath it.
A common picture, an archeology of togetherness.
A familiar scene,
deriving its grandeur only from its commonality,
their noble desires.
A simple beauty
The layers shifted subtly
Objects began to float.
A chair adjusted
slightly to face a wall.
The horn of plenty disappeared altogether,
replaced by a pile of
garage soaps and common stones.
Glasses morphed on the table,
no longer useful,
The wine bottle was emptied,
one wine glass remained.
Successively less beautiful,
brushstrokes became distorted,
with more and more paint – confusion and anger.
The sunny window,
once a portal of sunbeams,
boarded up with the wood of the table.
The last layer had one of the chairs,
tipped over in haste,
bounced off the table.
That table, the only constant,
anchored each frame.
The first layer was doomed.
It’s crooked top and wobbly legs
could barely support the fruit,
and they could never dine on it.
When the artist left
it sat alone,
And the rains came
washing away the soaps and the stones,
and the window board.
The fallen chair disappeared
leaving only the crooked table
and the portal of sunbeams.
for the next artist to finish it.
I am an untethered infant
In the coldness of space
When I die,
who will remember
all the little things
that make me me?
I will miss me the most.
The peach was smooth and presented itself perfect.
Classically round with a light soft fuzz.
A faint scent of fruit. Fresh.
Cool to the touch. Perfect!
Drawing near to take in the scent,
the unbroken outline gave way to the tiniest of bumps.
With a swift slice of consummation,
the knife draws high and proud.
Slicing through its delicate skin,
through the core and to the other side.
Even the seed was split in two.