How is it that I don't speak more to you about love?
I have been avoiding the subject even though it would appear that all these words have grown from that root. And they have.
But I have avoided the pain of speaking of that other who, I believe, we all lean toward. And even while I dug the ground, planted the seeds, watered and waited, wasn't it love I was attempting to find there this whole time?
There is the survival. There is the learning. There is the being. And perhaps I have passed through all three of these stages since moving through the first pains of having a life completely torn apart in ways I wouldn't have constructed as a "future."
But it was.
And All Is Gift.
How can I live this fully, when the hammers in the heart (as Rilke says) have sounded both their demolishing ringing and the gentle, purposeful, regular tapping of something being constructed? I am struck and resonating. Not so much reconstructed (how does one reconstruct a sound, that invisible song?) because I feel new additions here--ones I know I wouldn't have designed myself. Because maybe I think I don't deserve it. But these are killing words that cut this building apart at odd and useless angles. Leave them be.
And perhaps this is what I am reaching for here:
I have thought I had it under control. Is it this very sense that I had finally "gotten it right" that meets me here now, placing me in a field I've never seen before? Watching things end and begin?
In every moment of my life, I have known God's superabundant presence pushing me firmly and gently as one would teach a child to walk, to speak, to share, to love.
All is movement. Toward the other. Sheltered by Love's Guide.