Joy of Place

My bedroom window frames pine branches waving like gills in the last of February's vibrato. Am I still me if I can no longer smell the scent pine summoning my joy of place? Am I still me if cannot taste or freshly baked bread or the exact amount of love poured into homemade soup? Now, more than ever, the lesson that I am not my body takes hold. What use is it to mourn such things?

A man with a soiled purple blanket walks up and down the street, eventually coming to rest inside the library. He sleeps off and on at a computer desk while the world spins around him. Another man passes out in the bathroom so we grab the Narcan and call 911. A woman arrives after walking too far in the cold and she is screaming. I'm going to be sick. We take her to the bathroom, bring her some hot chocolate and sit with our backs against the wall until she feels better. These are the things that matter when it comes to the body. What I do with my body in the care of others is who I am – not thinness or good eye sight or the ability to smell and taste. Serve – extend compassion – love.

I feel the sickness ravage different parts of my body and it prevents me from being anywhere but my bed. But I am here, writing this sentence, telling you that I can still serve. I can still be love.

I've learned a lot about Love very recently and maybe someday I can write it all down.

Probably not though. Love is for living.