I can’t really remember the day I fell in love with her. Not because I’m uncaring or just ignorant. I can’t remember falling in love with her because I can’t remember ever not being in love with her. It’s like I can’t remember my first breath. I know it happened because, well, here’s another, but I don’t remember it. It’s just always been.
Perhaps love is just something that exists like the soul. In my relationship with the Divine, my current soul is not a separate thing but a separated thing. I am one with a vast sea of divinity who has, in this experience, been separated like a droplet of rain from the ocean. Maybe love is like that. I’ve always loved her, in one form or another, and am blessed to know her again in this life. Just as I’ve known her in the eternity of that sea, not as me, not as her, but as we.
It could be, but I see no point in continually questioning it. Sometimes what is, like our breath, just is and questioning it becomes just a waste of time. Instead, I choose just to enjoy it, to bask in its light, for however long it blesses my existence. I see no point in trying to remember, or seek out, my first breath. Instead, I will just inhale and enjoy the life that breath brings. Then I will exhale and enjoy that too.
Truth is that I don’t really remember the origins of a lot of things. I know they’re there though, and I can enjoy them as freely as someone who saw the first sunrise, or the first wave caress the beach, or the first steps I ever took. It’s just a matter of presence, of enjoying what is despite not knowing much about it, and of trusting that I don’t need to know everything. Some things just are, and they are perfect that way.