The act of loving. Of receiving love.
It has been a rough year – a brilliant year – a privileged year – a busy year. It appears, if one is willing to do the work and do it hard and as best one can, that opportunities accrue by an order of magnitude.
Which also attracts well-wishes and envy.
I have a friend who stores anger, who demands recognition (read, love) and, when given it, deflects. They insist that those who love them best, albeit most delicately and subtly, have no feelings for them at all.
Another friend, whom I’ve known long enough for our friendship to have borne school-aged children, blossoms when commemorated, responds with wonder that we’ve travelled so far together.
And another, who doesn’t quite live in my temporal world, whose perceptions are so at odds that they will let something slip to the floor and deny its dropping because it bounced back up – this friend loves fiercely, possessively, and I am grateful to be claimed.
Yet another, whose filters are so clogged with life and resentment that love comes through as its opposite, who only feels alive and beloved when strife and strain rule the day.
Is envy the opposite of love? Does it transmute one’s celebration into the other’s perception of gloating, humility into glee, opportunity into theft? And what does one do with the result of such blatant alteration? Perhaps, walk away and send love like dandelion fluff.
Do you get the idea that even in the loneliest hours, love is transmitted on the æther and accrues? That despite our personal zaniness, we are each and all beloved for who we are, unconditionally, if only we leave open our souls’ windows?
Love is given not to be deflected or perhaps even absorbed. This morning, this sun-saturated, brilliant morning, I read the words, “I love you, too, Deb,” and bask. Loll. Revel.
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