Of Love

I have been in love more times than one,
thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
whether active or not. Sometimes
it was all but ephemeral, maybe only
an afternoon, but not less real for that.
They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway beautiful people to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
that some of them were men and some were women
and some—now carry my revelation with you—
were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
which was the first, and the best, the most
loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
my eyes, every morning. So I imagine
such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its
innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine
this is how it began.”

I am startled that Mary knows that love was the core of her life.  How many of us can say this?  I imagine that you strive to make it so, but do you sense that you fall short? For if you truly touched love with your very essence your life would be lived in bliss. Right?

I think not.  For to be in love is to ache with the separation that is ever present.  To be in love is to know the intimate caress of loss. To be in love is to give oneself over completely to that which is loved.  This doesn't sound like happiness to me, but torture. 

Oh Lord, who would want it any other way?

May we begin this day with the innocence of first love, so hungry to love that we do not take our eyes from the sun or the infinite beloveds that surround our days in beauty.

With whom have you been in love?