is it love if you're all cranky when you give it?
I’ve been searching the archive of my emotions, looking for the root source of the notion that love is easy. Romantic comedies and new age bookstores. Glossy hopes, like my prom picture and all those journals I burned. Smiling martyrs and serene Saints.
Love. Just love. Love makes it easier. Just love and it’s easy. Easy. To Love. Love flows. Love graces. Love doesn’t grind. It doesn’t wince. It doesn’t lug. Love ain’t heavy. Love is light.
Somewhere in all this I got snagged and questioned my capacity to love. Thinking that if I was resentful, or felt burden, or a little on the crank whilst I was dishing out the love, then it wasn’t … love. It was faux love, pseudo Buddhist, fallen Catholic, contrived agape. Unlove. Not quite right.
It’s still love. Jagged, cranky, lip bitten, heavy sighing. On delivery, it becomes love.
It’s the intention that reaches.
The surmounting that teaches.
Good, hard, real love.