To this world you belong. To this moment, in this place where you already stand, something greater has ushered you. To the momentum of a long line of survivors you are bound. From their good deaths, succeeded by new lives, and to the incidents of love that seeded them, your story has been woven. With the wild jubilation of nature, you are in correspondence. By every season’s conditions, and by the invisible holy inclination, your life has been hewn.
finding love again and again….
inquiry for today~ what do you know as wild love today?
There isn’t anything in this world but mad
love. Not in this world. No tame love, calm
love, mild love, no so-so love. And, of course,
no reasonable love. Also there are a hundred
paths through the world that are easier than
loving. But, who wants easier? We dream of
love, we moon about, thinking of Romeo and
Juliet, or Tristan, or the lost queen rushing
away over the Irish sea, all doom and
splendor. Today, on the beach, an old man was
sitting in the sun. I called out to him, and he
turned. His face was like an empty pot. I re-
member his tall, pale wife; she died long ago.
I remember his daughter-in-law. When she
died, hard, and too young, he wept in the
streets. He picked up pieces of wood, and stones, and anything else that was there, and
threw them at the sea. Oh, how he loved his
wife. Oh, how he loved young Barbara. I
stood in front of him, not expecting any
answer yet not wanting to pass without some
greeting. But his face had gone back to
whatever he was dreaming. Something
touched me, lightly, like a knife-blade. I
felt I was bleeding, though just a little, a hint. Inside
I flared hot, then cold. I thought of you.
Whom I love, madly.