Love rests somewhere well below the language that tries to express it and far beyond
the mind that tries to understand it.
I could imagine that every gesture springs forth from its Source, even the most vulgar
and disparaging.
Our hate belies the fount of love it protects.
Our sorrow expresses the exquisite pain of its knowledge.
The jolts of its presence are so often felt as having missed the mark.
The sheer act of communication reveals the force of its will to connect.
What a miracle are our attempts at creating new means of bridging the apparent
divides so to make love more manifest.
Every struggle is a testament to its unending desire to illuminate our essence as
grounded in the very stuff of its nature.
To name it too quickly, to narrowly define it is to shorten our journey of it.