I wrote this for you: On loving, in the face of the critic, the judge.
**Part of the I wrote this for you series.**
To love is a noble endeavor.
To attempt to love is something quite brave.
And love itself is a working effort,
an unknown adventure, an exercise
in setting up mirrors in your life.
Through loving one, the more
you see them, really see them,
the more you see yourself,
really see yourself.
HD, hypervision,
every surface and depth of you
in stark contrast.
The more you see others.
Because love is like a pair of glasses.
At worst, everything is cloudy,
off, and puts everything into
a blurry haze.
At best, flowers have never been so vibrant,
the clouds and skies so vast and textured,
every freckle and wrinkle in focus,
and you remember that they too were young
and they too are aging one day at a time,
and everyone shares this in common.
And suddenly you feel an expanding
in your chest, you’re filled with love tender for them.
Because when the lines of these fleshy hands
come into focus, you realize the fragility
of this thing called life.
And when you hold those fleshy hands of the one
you love, the impossible possibility
of this thing called love.
That you could attempt to love at all,
despite every mistake and trauma of lives past,
that you could courageously crack yourself open.
You, are brave.
You, are blooming.
Rising through gravel and soil,
wild and breaking through.
Friend, there are those that regard the wildflower
with childlike delight and wonder.
There are those that consider them
a weed, a nuisance.
May you surround yourself with wildflowers.
So that you may then reflect the love in you
onto fields, infinite, unending.
Written for you and your story.
Thank you for sharing and for the honor of being able to hear you.
Can I write something for you?
Share your story here.
