Where I Love You

I love you. I know it in everything. I know it in nothing. I know it in moments of great chaos, and in moments of complete serenity.

I love you. You may not see it at all. You may not feel its power coursing through your Being. You may not know its peace, its acceptance, or its complete surrender.

In the dream we appear separate, but we are not, my love. We swim in the same vast ocean and dance in the same rain. We bask in the glow of the same Sun, and wish upon the same sea of stars. We tread upon the same sand and sleep in the same wilderness as we feel the same chilly air and wipe the same morning dew off our skin.

We are bound by the inexplicable and a sacred chastity for which we were made. We drink from the same wooden chalice, yet we taste different things from our one, true cup. We hear the same song, yet move to rhythms heard by different ears and translated by different minds. We are together even as much as we are apart. We are One even as much as we are completely different.

It is there, in the place exposed as we discard the layers of taste, of sound, of thought, that I love you. It is on that wonderful universal blank canvas that is adorned by all you are that I find the most beautiful artistry. In that field, gently tilled by a stilled mind and open heart, that I find my greatest power to embrace the parts of you that exist outside of who I think you are.

You are wonderfully recalled in the smiles of my stillness. You are beautifully thought of in the light that blinds my human eyes. You are vilified, denounced, and contested with the same energy that brings you into my arms.

I am easily discarded by you. Perhaps. I am easily forgotten by you in the throes of human pleasure. Maybe. I am simply a part of the tree; a twig, a leaf, a branch bouncing in the breeze.

In our minds we are the tree, yet in our truth we are so much more. There is no tree without the mystery, and it is in that mystery that you and I vanish toward the truth of who we are. We are not you, or me. We are not us, or them. We are. There is nothing more.

There is where I love you. Right there. To love you there is to love me there, for there is no difference. To feel you there is to feel me there, for we are all the same. To seek you there is to find myself, and to know you there is to know who I am without question.

You are not the leaf and I am not the branch. We are not even the tree. We are that which makes the tree One. We are that indescribable essence that takes the many and makes them whole. We are heavy, and we are weightless. We are free and we are shackled to our cause. We are stick and stone and every broken bone between them. We are the Universe, we are everything we’ve ever seen and nothing that we’ve ever known before.

I love you. Know that even as I throw my heavy stone in your direction.

I love you. Know that even as you watch me walk away.

I love you. Know that even as I drive my human experience over every cliff I find.

I love you. Know that even as you cast your words of anger at me, and respond with fires of my own.

I love you. Know that even as you convince yourself you hate me, and you discard me into the fires of your well-fueled melancholy.

And you love me, my dear. Even when you can’t stand the thought of me, you love me. Even when you can’t bear to think of me in the heat of your nightly game, you love me. Even when you are done, walking east to my west, I know that special place where you love me.

In loving myself I have found you. In that journey I have found myself. In that destination I have found the truth. In that journey I have found great purpose.

The trail of your tears are not the destination. They are the path. The beats of your heart are not the song, the silence between them is. The moments of happiness are not the mountains that must be climbed, the gaps between them is. The painted ideas of adoration and hate, fear and anger, honesty and consequence are not examples of love’s great truth, the canvas that allows for their experience is. You are the artist that paints your truth, it is love that accepts your brushstrokes.

Greatness is in simplicity, and confusion reigns in the masses distorted by conditioned, complicated realities. Beyond those, what greatness we will find.