And finally she asked herself the question, "What is love?" For it is more than merely passion flowing, more than just emotion's gain, more than the sense of flesh on flesh. And it seemed to her as if she were asking, "What is God?" or "What is creation itself?" Yet now it seemed to her that this was the question she sought an answer to all her life.
So now, at this point in time, she queried, with all the varied experiences she'd had, what could she truly say of love? For one, it is an opening of the heart, so very hard to describe. It is compassion, yet it is self-interest too. It is giving, yet it is receiving. It is caring, yet it is letting go, saying yes and at times even saying no. It is to empathize, yet to realize another must learn to feel for themselves. It is a mother's nurturance, and a father's tenderness, yet it is also a mother's insistence and a father's authority. Yet it is even more somehow. It is order, yet it is chaos too, that then brings a new order, but then chaos will always come again, won't it?
So perhaps she could say one thing of love - that it is cyclic, like nature, or like the ocean's ebb and flow, the tides moving in and out in their own rhythm, in their own season. Love is the peace of nature and the storms of her fury, the warmth of a summer day and the coldness of the deepest, darkest winter night. Love is the flower opening out, yet the passing of its innocent beauty too. Love is life, breathing itself, creating itself, destroying itself.
Love is forever, of that she is certain. Yet can anyone forever be love? Love is commitment, yet love is also a setting free. Love is personal yet universal. Love is mind and heart and body and soul, all at once somehow, so love is also totality, is it not?
Love is thought-provoking, yet without thought. Love is having everything and knowing nothing, yet it is knowing everything and having nothing too. Love is the closeness of togetherness, and love is the solitude of isolation.
Love is inspiration, intuition, joy. Yet it is also heartbreak and loneliness and solitude. Love is the trembling excitation of newness, and the shaking of the grief of loss. Love is a slow and steady pace, yet too, it is the exuberance that makes us want to run and dance and sing. Love is ecstasy and misery, sureness and confusion. Love makes us feel as if we could do anything, yet love also makes us feel like nothing at all at times. Love is being light-headed and dizzy, yet love is feeling heavy and as if about to die. Love is the slow and steady heart, yet the flutter of its racing too. It is freedom, yet it can also be the bars of a prison found deep within, can it not?
Yes, love is all of that… Yet still there is an illusive answer on the wind that she hasn't quite caught, so she sits in stillness, and moves as she must, and waits for its arrival. For once the question is asked, sooner or later an answer forms out of the everything. And now she wonders if perhaps love is everything - all that we feel, and all that we think, and all that we sense - even all that we are. In essence, undefinable then, for love is life itself, the path of many windings, the foot upon the path, the movement and the stillness, the taking in and the letting go. Love is the illusive moment of now and the memories of yesterday and the longing for tomorrow, all at once.
But she has that uneasy feeling that always comes before the answer, so still she waits, while waiting has always been the most difficult of all for her…
Love is ageless and timeless and without dimension, yet love is here and now in this moment of forever. Love is ancient and new and ever-becoming. Love is what we always and ever and never can have, for love is dynamic. Love is the worth and the meaning and the quality of hope and hopelessness. Love is the glory of enlightenment and the darkness of unknowing.
Love is the white lotus of the seventh chakra, the brightest, deepest red of the first, and all the many, varied hues that are forever creating yet another shade of beauty in between. Love is the high note and the low, played at once in harmony, the crescendo, yet the deepest chords resounding. Love is expression, yet non-expression too - a cacophony and symphony of composition.
Love is the sleeping and the dreaming and the waking. Love is real and yet invisible, felt and yet the deepest mystery. Love is existence and its annihilation. Love is the question and the answer ever changing. Love is what we want to do and have to do and refuse to do. Love is pain and comfort too, the illness of disease and also its healing. Love is the beauty of perfection, yet the difference of disfiguration.
Love is the height and the depth and the width, yet love is immeasurable. Love is darkness, love is light. Love is emptiness and fullness, the yin and yang - forever and always distinct yet flowing within and through and with each other. Love is the yearning for life and the illusion of death. Love is continuance in time and time's obliteration. Love is its own beginning and ending and becoming.
Perhaps the only answer then, is this: Love Is. While in its allness and in its nothingness, we simply need to let it Be - in us…
So now, at this point in time, she queried, with all the varied experiences she'd had, what could she truly say of love? For one, it is an opening of the heart, so very hard to describe. It is compassion, yet it is self-interest too. It is giving, yet it is receiving. It is caring, yet it is letting go, saying yes and at times even saying no. It is to empathize, yet to realize another must learn to feel for themselves. It is a mother's nurturance, and a father's tenderness, yet it is also a mother's insistence and a father's authority. Yet it is even more somehow. It is order, yet it is chaos too, that then brings a new order, but then chaos will always come again, won't it?
So perhaps she could say one thing of love - that it is cyclic, like nature, or like the ocean's ebb and flow, the tides moving in and out in their own rhythm, in their own season. Love is the peace of nature and the storms of her fury, the warmth of a summer day and the coldness of the deepest, darkest winter night. Love is the flower opening out, yet the passing of its innocent beauty too. Love is life, breathing itself, creating itself, destroying itself.
Love is forever, of that she is certain. Yet can anyone forever be love? Love is commitment, yet love is also a setting free. Love is personal yet universal. Love is mind and heart and body and soul, all at once somehow, so love is also totality, is it not?
Love is thought-provoking, yet without thought. Love is having everything and knowing nothing, yet it is knowing everything and having nothing too. Love is the closeness of togetherness, and love is the solitude of isolation.
Love is inspiration, intuition, joy. Yet it is also heartbreak and loneliness and solitude. Love is the trembling excitation of newness, and the shaking of the grief of loss. Love is a slow and steady pace, yet too, it is the exuberance that makes us want to run and dance and sing. Love is ecstasy and misery, sureness and confusion. Love makes us feel as if we could do anything, yet love also makes us feel like nothing at all at times. Love is being light-headed and dizzy, yet love is feeling heavy and as if about to die. Love is the slow and steady heart, yet the flutter of its racing too. It is freedom, yet it can also be the bars of a prison found deep within, can it not?
Yes, love is all of that… Yet still there is an illusive answer on the wind that she hasn't quite caught, so she sits in stillness, and moves as she must, and waits for its arrival. For once the question is asked, sooner or later an answer forms out of the everything. And now she wonders if perhaps love is everything - all that we feel, and all that we think, and all that we sense - even all that we are. In essence, undefinable then, for love is life itself, the path of many windings, the foot upon the path, the movement and the stillness, the taking in and the letting go. Love is the illusive moment of now and the memories of yesterday and the longing for tomorrow, all at once.
But she has that uneasy feeling that always comes before the answer, so still she waits, while waiting has always been the most difficult of all for her…
Love is ageless and timeless and without dimension, yet love is here and now in this moment of forever. Love is ancient and new and ever-becoming. Love is what we always and ever and never can have, for love is dynamic. Love is the worth and the meaning and the quality of hope and hopelessness. Love is the glory of enlightenment and the darkness of unknowing.
Love is the white lotus of the seventh chakra, the brightest, deepest red of the first, and all the many, varied hues that are forever creating yet another shade of beauty in between. Love is the high note and the low, played at once in harmony, the crescendo, yet the deepest chords resounding. Love is expression, yet non-expression too - a cacophony and symphony of composition.
Love is the sleeping and the dreaming and the waking. Love is real and yet invisible, felt and yet the deepest mystery. Love is existence and its annihilation. Love is the question and the answer ever changing. Love is what we want to do and have to do and refuse to do. Love is pain and comfort too, the illness of disease and also its healing. Love is the beauty of perfection, yet the difference of disfiguration.
Love is the height and the depth and the width, yet love is immeasurable. Love is darkness, love is light. Love is emptiness and fullness, the yin and yang - forever and always distinct yet flowing within and through and with each other. Love is the yearning for life and the illusion of death. Love is continuance in time and time's obliteration. Love is its own beginning and ending and becoming.
Perhaps the only answer then, is this: Love Is. While in its allness and in its nothingness, we simply need to let it Be - in us…
