LOVE (Contemplation again...)

Is there time for love?

Not the kind of romantic love where there is dating, fast-paced excitement, and sharing smiles. I do not speak of something figurative or otherworldly.

The love I name is broad and foundational and interwoven into the fabric of souls, time, and space--the essence that inspires confidence and learning and sparks desire for beauty, and lifts one to wonder when we experience birth, or human kindness, or nature. I refer also to the hard under-layment of love that supports our mountains and seas and the living that takes place on the planet. That is the love I'm looking for, watching for around me. It is not random or ethereal. It is not superfluous or vague. It is so all important that there is no resting place without it. We would be literally suspended in space, no hope for an ark of safe landing, no peace to shelter us. I ask because it is something I carry inside, but when I try to speak to it, no amount of explaining brings a connection to many on the outside. Then there are those who nod and smile and can look directly into my eyes and say," Yes." They get it, they wanted it, knew they needed it and searched until they found it. We are kindred in this way. But I find these gems of people fewer and fewer. Why? Some young folks know what I mean because they say, "Yeh. My parents have that." or "My grandpa has that." But they seem to think along with malls and cell phones that that is something that is just there, or not. If someone doesn't give it to you, then there's lots to do meanwhile 'til they get around to it. Surely this is a thing learned. How is it taught? It was a given 100 years ago. How is it unlearned?

When I breathe, I am aware of breathing this in. Whether I drink water or survey the sea, it is there. When I walk, when I look up, accomplish daily routines, when I survey a crowd, examine the minuteness of a snow flake or garden mosses; when I stand in the stillness of night or watch the stars; when I reach to touch others-- it is with this essence that is not mine, but that speaks through me. When I pray it is the earth beneath me, the alter of my prayer, the stairway that lets me know I have been heard.

I am baffled by the randomness that is found amusing. The purposelessness that is considered witty. The music that has no message. The connections that can't be made, and the lost children crying because they can't make them. In such a world suicide is optional, drugs are recreational, abortion is meaningless, worship is deluded. It is a state of being, but the becoming something, becoming more than we are is met with,"huh?' Stares that mean, "Oh, you're a religious fanatic." and the need to wander away. No one walks purposefully away, TO somewhere. Nowhere is everywhere. Somewhere does not happen. These are masses waiting to be fed, to be directed, to be given to, sway in similar patterns if something focuses them, (anger, fear, revenge, sadness, compassion) but own of themselves, none of these passions-- have little thought individually other than a restlessness, insatiable unhappiness, that has stopped being hungry. It has the same feeling and face of someone on the brink of starvation, who has gone past the point of living, but still lives, the concentration camp victim who has lost hope. What mist of darkness is this? I shudder in horror. I ask Why-- How? But I do not see the answers clearly. When I try to name it these same masses fight back and do not want it to be named. They speak of me as being reactionary, extreme, over emotional, conspiracy oriented, or apocalyptic. It is not any of these things to name the loss of love.

But is is a grief that is far too big for me.