Love is Destruction

Despite everything, rain thrumming the roof and spilling over eaves all night long is very soothing. Hours pass and when you count each one, a certain surrender takes place. Just before dawn, sleep finally came and the world started all over again.

In the dark hours I wondered how often we limit ourselves. When it rains on my window and I hear the universe splashing against itself on the ground, I realize that the disease and the cure is encoded in everything. We have ignored our spiritual sense in favor of the logical and practical. Have we forgotten our interconnectedness?

When my body is alone, it is not alone. I feel Other exhaling on the back of my neck. I ponder stars and moonlight and an army of emerging daffodils; and I am not alone. On my knees, inhaling the first spicy aroma of spring soil, I plunge my fingers into the afterbirth of earthworms and grubs and black life, and I feel Someone with me. I can't see, but I know. I can't work it out, but was it not You who held me against the pine in order to devour everything I had to give?

After walking the dog, potato leek soup and day old coffee. Nothing wasted these days. Nothing lost. I carry my mug with the outline of Kenya on it around the backyard, mapping spring shoots as I go. Siberian squill begins to nod and droop their bright blue, star-shaped bells. One cluster of crocus blooms in the unkept corner of the yard. There were more last year. Snowdrops by the creek still carry their delicate white burdens, but not for long. The flower report is life. How grateful one can be for the softest hint of blue.

In these days whereby a nation lets its people die and selfishness drives an economy of injustice, the nights get longer and longer. The days threaten to amass fear and frustration. Profanity and love has become so neatly divided. In our effort to cling to that which is love and lovely, we have grown weary and God has grown profitable. But that is not really Love. The Love I sense is here when time is not. It has no promise or despair. It does not belong to god or to any of the ways my thoughts try to capture and explain it. As Krishnamurti says, “ It (love) lives and dies each minute. It is destruction without tomorrow. Love is destruction.”

When I am alone and not alone, I am destroyed. Because Love is. Beloved, this.