There are levels of loving.
As a young woman, riddled with angst and wearing my pain like a black leather jacket, I imagined 'love' to be a singular emotion with enormous magnitude. Time has softened my angst and I wear my sorrows more like an airy shawl than a heavy jacket. My concepts and thoughts have equally enjoyed a few somersaults and contortions in response to experience and the almighty teacher time. 'Amore' is no exception. From my present vantage, through the peephole of life, the word itself now seems insufficient. Being a singular word, it appears unequal to the daunting task of relaying so many layers of symbolized emotion. Perhaps that is as it should be. All great mysteries are cloaked in superficial simplicity masking an intricate knit of complexity, which reveals, once more, its original simplicity.
I love Owen and Bodhi. I love Shane. I love my friends. I love my family. Very different loves and yet my heart is exercised by all. I remember studying the smooth muscle fiber of the heart, the way it tirelessly relaxes and contracts. Similarly, love ebbs and flows with an unseen tide pulled by the lunar affect of emotion. I watch Bodhi wrapped tightly in his fathers arms, both faces alight with radiance and my love changes, it grows, it flowers. Yesterday, I watched Shane flying Bodhi thru a blue sky, the accompanying sensations were palpable. It's as if the love we experience is merely a seed, holding enormous potential. It has the ability to expand and contract. Interesting. Perhaps we could reclaim the word 'love' from the rubbish heap of sentimentality. In the end its singularity may be all that remains.
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