Maybe a Poetic Thought about Love. Or Maybe Just a Thought.

I've written this before:

There's this magical thing called Love. Actually, it's not always magical. More often it is made of hardy stuff, like trees and mountains. Or a day full of steady spring rain. Or the way the sun shines on the earth day after long day, curiously and patiently helping the grass to grow. Less magical, and more hard work, perseverance, sweat and tears. Hardy stuff. And like steady rain, sometimes makes you just sit down put your head in your hands, and think long and hard, and maybe cry, if that's your fancy.

I think love is meant to be hardy. I think love is meant to set the broken bones and hold up the sky, some days. And some days it's hardy in pinks and oranges, the song of the sunset, its beauty offering steadiness to weary souls. My poetry professors would ask me to use more specific words than pink and orange, but I don't want to, tonight. I think love is supposed to be messy, some times. I think love comes in out of a rain storm up to its ankles in mud and sopping wet, the last one in. Or maybe the first, depending on the situation, if love needs to come in first and start the fire. I think love isn't afraid to roll up its sleeves and dig the spoon out of the garbage disposal or plunge the overflowing toilet- or clean the overflow. I don't mean a person, acting in love, would do these things. I mean love itself. I mean love would write songs into the clouds and tell the waves to hush, heal the woman with the bleeding disease, and have lunch with the lepers, prostitutes, IRS agents, and extremists, and die a gruesome death.

May we stop the fake sterility. Love's not sterile. He's driven to the mess. May we be driven to the mess and also able to recognize and be vulnerable with the messes inside of us.