This Love of Mine
This love of mine has played God for years now. It governs all–my choices, major life decisions, the people I fall in love with.
It’s not climbing. Climbing is just my excuse. Climbing is simply the way in which I choose to interact with this love of mine.
This love of mine has molded me into the lover that I am. When I love, it is hopeless and deep, I surrender completely. You can have all of me. Every last drop. You can occupy all of my thoughts and I will move through this world with priorities such as making your days feel easier. Loving someone means that I pull out of me my most tender parts, hold them in my hands like first grade show and tell, this is where I hurt, this is where I have lost, this is where I’m happy and this right here is my heart, it loves you. I love you. Once I love you I will always love you, no matter what happened or how things change. I am yours. I have loved you since our first date. All I want is to sit next to you. We don’t have to talk. Let’s just walk through this together.
Sometimes this causes problems. I scare people, I scare myself, the whole thing stings and throbs. But I know of no other way to go about loving a person. I know of no other way to go through this life.
However, my devotion is not senseless. I no longer put up with people who treat my heart with recklessness, because when I am reckless, this love of mine does not put up with me. If I do not give and act in accordance with the inherent goodness and tenderness of which I am made, this love of mine will flee in the instant. I try to do the same.
The places this love of mine has showed to me. Frosted mountain peaks, salty ocean waves, so many rivers, floors of canyons, bluffs and crags, Mayan caves, Tuscan hillsides, volcanoes, forests thick with vines, frozen lakes, high deserts, wildflower groves, meadows, sandy coves, high above the tree line.
The people this love of mine has introduced me to. Lovers, best friends, little girls who don’t own shoes, lead singers of death metal bands, old men without teeth, old women without left eyes, convicts, Jehovah’s witnesses, a guy who grew up on a hare krishna compound, alcoholics, mothers, crazy cat ladies, unemployed photographers, soldiers, men who swear they saw God, traveling nurses, people who know twelve languages, babies that were born three days ago.
This love of mine, it has grown my roots so deep into this ground that I touch the molten core, I am tangled in the planet. This love of mine, it has launched me into the sky, I soar with the wind and touch the face of things that are ethereal. I am in a constant state of being pulled, my feet press against the dirt and my scalp flirts with the clouds, I am stretched and infinite. This love of mine planted my body like a potato and then dared me to act like something divine.
I am so small, I am so expansive. Rooted in the soil, flying like voices from the choir.
This love of mine, how my heart beats for it, it is my cathedral and my playground, keeper of secrets. How it rules all and how it pulls me. My eternal trump card.