I was just hit with the reality of love's presence in my life; of the incredible abundance in which it appears and in the many sweet and endearing facets it's brought to me; some more ambiguous than others.
They've flooded my hours all the same. Waking to my family calling on me, my best friend, a new dear acquaintance who carries a tinge of lover-ness in him, a stranger, my real-life mentor--they've all expressed it in one way or another and I've been impressed by the chances they take on loving me.
Loving someone is vulnerability backed by courage. It's the substance of life: our relationships--not our work. We work to relate, we work to serve in one way or another. We are serving each other, trying to make each other's lives better in some way or another, trying to distract each other with things we've created and the things we've found passion in.
Love is my profession. I'm not oblivious and I'm not immature to be so consumed by love. I'm not naive, nor am I simple-minded. But if the compulsion to love is considered simple, I am as plain as a sheet of paper.
My days are consumed with finding that one love and loving my stepping stones along the way. Loving the rocks beneath my feet: my friends, my family, my strangers and my roads.
The only thing we can do in love is to live in reckless abandonment. This is not selfish, this is not absurd. What is the significance of a day we live when we think not of love? What is the goal in that day if not seeking love? What is love if it's not given freely, if it's not expressed in abundance? If it's simply blinded by problems and tasks?
I will unabashedly lose my days to the reckless abandonment of living for love.
