A while ago I wrote the post below. And I really didn't know what to make of it. Due to timing and a number of other things I never posted it and it has languished in draft ever since. Earlier today I followed someone new on Twitter @andygirl, and was very much taken with both her blog and the post that was at the top of it... 'On Love'. And it cast my mind back to this...
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This is a post about love.
Love is fleeting. It is full and deep and everlasting. It is a subtle slow thing that ties you and frees you over the course of a summer, or an overwhelming deluge that drowns you and scours you and leaves you broken and bare.
Love is many things. It has many levels, many depths, many layers and flavours and inflections. Love is smooth, is rough, is kind, is unforgiving. It can be harsh and horrendous, or taut and suffocating. Love is divine, devilish, dubious. It is cautious and reckless, contradictory and complimentary. It can arrive in an instant and be gone in a flash, or stay until the end of days. It can be joyous and happy, electric with need and chemistry, or gentle and soothing.
We think we can only love one other, or that we must segregate our love into compartments. We forget that we can love many, in many different ways. We forget that love need not be reciprocal, that it can be one-sided, foolish and lonely; and yet still be a worthy wonderful thing.
We can love another, and another, and another; with the same depth and joy and richness, and yet be only with one. We can love unknowingly, and love too the unknown. We love simply because we can love.
Love changes, it grows and fades, it is like the ocean, or the sky, or the eternal earth, full of seasons, rich with their textures.
Love is mutable, changing from moment to moment, from person to person. It is a tension, a bond, between two people, that flows and spins and ties with unforeseen consequence. It can exceed expectations, and leave them wanting. It can be whatever it wants to be, without rhyme or reason. Love is a thing of itself, and yet of us. It is both a burden and a freedom. Love supports, cherishes, holds one close and sets one free. It can be the rock on which we stand, or the sea in which we drown.
Love makes no sense but the one we attach to it.
We forget that to love is really just a simple thing, with all the world's complexities attached, with social mores, with fears and hangups and doubt tainting it. Love is an emotion. It is a multitude of emotions, bound and interwoven into something wonderful. We fear to express our love, we fear to accept the love of others, because we no longer understand what love is. We think it is more, that it demands something, that it has obligation and agenda. It doesn't have to. It doesn't need to. It can simply be a gift, an honesty, a reckoning of oneself as a human being to another.
We can love, because that is one of the things we do. And when we do it right, it is a wondrous thing, a marvellous, uplifting, gracious thing.