I think love can be a strength. I know love can be a strength. I believe love is a strength.
Beneath this world’s beauty there are scars and pain. Those things do not diminish its beauty. They run parallel. Beauty and hurt, side by side. There are days I am blinded from one or the other. There are times my scars numb me to any feelings at all.
But there is love.
In my body. In my soul. Were you to slice into my spirit, it would bleed love.
But is that something to be proud of? That I love so deeply? That I cherish life and relationships and joy and love?
There are some that say love is soft. Love is sweet. Love is weak. To love lacks power. To love is an inability to confront life’s ugliness. To love is cowardly.
I understand this perspective. My own scars tremble in testimony to its truth.
Someone did something that neither of us deserved. I cannot wish that hurt away — it will stay there, angry at the injustice, screaming, “it’s not fair”. In all my years, I have not understood this — this dichotomy of pain and love. One does not diminish the other, if anything it feeds the other until my heart swells with love, throbs with pain, beats with love.
My scars remain an undercurrent to my story. I approach them when I can, I leave them if I must. And still there is love.
I believe it can be a strength to love.
Bent into patterns beyond conscious control, my body recoils, “You love?”
Certainly there are many ways to describe myself, to identify myself. I am kind, compassionate, dedicated, enthusiastic. I risk nothing if I do not admit I love. I am honest, childish, whimsical, even lyrical.
But all of that dances around the idea that I can be love.
Because I am love.
I am no longer afraid.
I am strong in my love.
For love is my strength.