talking about love

 

 

So let’s talk about love.

Let’s not talk about it like we know what it is. This one single syllable word is so easy to just throw around – love love love love love love love.  What the fuck is it?

Today it’s been sacrifice. I didn’t get a chance to love myself really, to do the things that show myself that I love myself. Like write when my eyes aren’t half closed or feed my body something other than sugar or let the ground hold me up and stretch my back to freedom or call the damn dentist finally to take care of this awful pain in my tooth.

But what I did do was play short order cook, drive them around from here to there, friends houses to bookstores, frozen yogurt to real food to home.  Made sure the fire was lit and the yurt was warm and the beans weren’t burning. Hid the kale in the beans so they got their greens. Made sure they brushed their teeth and flossed. That songs were sung before bed.  

I don’t know shit about love. 

But I say it all the time.  I love you! I love that! Love is all you need! We came here to love and love hard! Love until you bleed to death.  Love until your heart somehow grows wings and flies out of your body!  Love until your legs buckle and your pores sweat out jasmine oil and if you get touched your body shatters to 10,000 pieces.  Love until you can’t talk. Love until you can't walk. Just love.  Love big.

All I know is that love has made me crazy. Utterly crazy.  Love has made me move back and forth across the country three times.  Love has made me rescue dogs.  Love has made me turn my back on one thing and my front to another. Love has made me risk my life. Love has kept me up all night.  Love has pulled my nipples until they were sore and cracked. Love has made me beg for mercy.  Love has turned me to prayer. Love has turned me.

Love has made me throw chairs across rooms, snap records in half and rock beds until they broke.  Love has bit the shit out of me.  Love has made me way too fat.  Love has made me starve myself. Love has gotten me hired.  And fired.  Love has gotten me nowhere. And everywhere.  Love has gotten me totally lost.  Love found me, too.

I always thought of love as perfect.  As gentle.  But love is as flawed as we are. Love is an imperfect badass motherfucker you wouldn’t want to meet alone on a dark street.  And Love is what comes to your rescue when you scream help out your window at night.

I just assume Love means never hating. Never hurting. Never taunting. Never testing.  That Love means the opposite of war. That love is what we get when you chose not to fight.  But I don’t know.  Maybe love means being anything.  Maybe love is anything.   Maybe love is something we have no business talking so we should shut up about it and understand that every single breath, every single step, every single moment of doubt and fear and self-deprecation, is just love in full expression. That the most fucked up things are the purest of Love.

Maybe love has nothing to do what we think it has to do with.  Maybe love was some word made up by some asshole that wanted us to be preoccupied with an idea, an illusion, and a quest to keep us busy.  Maybe love is a big bad mean monster coming to get us and capture us and lick us to death.

Maybe love is just beams coming from our hearts that shoot straight up and make pretty patterns in the clouds.  Maybe love can save the world.  Maybe love hasn't even been born yet.  Maybe mothers are the only people that can really feel love.  Maybe children are the only people that can really receive love.  Maybe love is nothing more that an L an O a V and an E.

I don’t know.  Maybe love is just the thing that got us here. What keeps us here.  What tries desperately to knock some loving sense out of us and into us.  To wake the love up inside us, to shock us with it’s electricity, to strip off our skin.  To make us feel bare naked exposed and cold and ready to hide. Maybe love is when we get burned by hotter than hot fires and the scares we wear like beloved jewels.

I think we should talk about love like love isn't what we think it is.   Maybe love is just waiting.  Just like that.  Waiting.  Not coming, not going, not falling, not floating, not right, not wrong, not pretty or ugly. but just sitting there, legs crossed, reading a good book, drinking a nice glass of syrah.  And waiting.