They say love is blind. They say a lot of things about love, actually. Things that betray, I think, their knowledge of love. Many of us boast or curse about having been in love before and profess to know it in its fullness. I won’t make that mistake. I can’t possibly know love, in all her fullness and grandeur, from the paltry experiences of my heart so far, no matter the number or depth of scars I have to show for my attempts at getting to know her. But, if experience counts for anything of substance and if years lived carry any weight, I feel I have just a little inner sight into this utterly profound thing we call love.
There is this idea that love is like a pixie or a bee fluttering from one to the other; here with this thing today then off to that thing tomorrow. Love thought of like this is fickle doesn’t know its own mind (doesn’t even have a mind to know, some would argue). How can love be trusted like this? I wonder, though, if this idea of love is more love misunderstood. Could it be that love neither flits nor flirts all over the place but is ever constant, staring us all in the face with a calm smile hinting at much but promising nothing? Could it be that its our own inability to focus love’s gaze on this or that object of our choosing that causes us to finger-point towards and name call at love for this shortcoming that is purely our own? I sense love is permanent, there whether we will it or not; not moving, not shaking, not shifting, just there.
Some have claimed that love requires death in order to feel loved. Now this position is both disturbing and slanderous. That love demands anything is a complete untruth but that she would demand death in order to feel loved, validated, is the logic of the half-crazed, the dim-witted, the hate consuming. Love requires nothing, not even reciprocity. Instead, she hovers and settles like Sahara dust on a still, breezeless day, lightly rising when stirred only to adjust, hover, and settle again. Love emerged from pure intentions and no questions asked. She neither needs nor longs for sustenance from sources outside of her. Her survival is ultimate, supreme, and never does she depend on nor request the pitiful imitation of mortals to continue on. That death of self, of self-respect, of self- worth, of self-dreams, of self-vision, of self-goals, be a given to prove to love that imitation is sincere is reasoning that I think will satisfy ego behaving badly but won’t impress love. I sense love is now just as she has always been, the ego-less one with no axe to grind, the presence in all infinite space of the thing your eyes haven’t touched but your soul knows is there, the seemingly ephemeral, the forever enticing.
They say love is weak and attracts only her own; that alignment with her brings out the punk in us all and transforms those she touches into fodder for stronger, more determined souls. Their gaze on those who they claim love has surely infected reeks of disrespect, their distain too heavy for them to conceal. Love’s hold, they say, turns men into lesser beings, things to be used and manipulated. These are the minds bloated with ego in need of a diet; the minds that birthed thoughts of gods with preferences, that created half of humankind as an afterthought… and from a complaint no less. These minds profess to be further from the clutches of love and, therefore, naturally superior, this superiority a comfortable mattress of justification to support their deep sleep. In their war against love they would sacrifice the very products of love they created on the shrine of ego’s ballooning sense of preeminence, they would destroy even earth itself cloaked in white lab coats and arrogance, and boastfully poke their sterilized fingers at love’s constant there-ness screaming “SOMEDAY, WE WILL DESTROY YOU TOO!”.
Love’s wisdom says “what a fool sees in the end a wise man sees in the beginning”. Never has she cared to defend against an onslaught aimed at her but with weapons pointing inward. She knows, as surely as she knows she is the ever present all, that all will be destroyed before she could possibly cease to exist. She was before the first starts of anything; she will be there long after the end of everything, hovering, settling, remaining… ever constant.