Well, la’M is massaging my leg right now. That’s love. AND it’s many splendored.
But I mean to muse on a wider love: its action as it burrows into my heart. Does it stretch deep with its roots, branching through my thoughts and my words and my doings? Do I let it live? Do I nourish it, encourage it to bloom? Is my love lovely?
Not very. It is like the mint that grows on our windowsill, tipped with brown and wilting. Too often I think poorly of those I want to love. Too eager am I to find their flaws (and wish so dearly to fix them.) Too easily do I feel the sting of a love that is not as I wish it to be.
The funny thing about love is it’s its own water and sunlight and sustenance. With love, love grows.
So, how to love, as love is truly meant? With a will to love must come unending application of that action of love. No scorn should pass the lips, no insult the intent, when the beloved is the subject. If thoughts are in the red, turn them to appreciation for the act of love, its infinite potential for paradigm shifts.
Love even the unloveable. Deficiencies will not whither beneath the choking grip of criticism; only love itself is hurt. Do not complain simply to comfort your discomfort; words become truth. Will yourself to view in the most flattering light, and beautiful the subject will be.
Love lifts us up where we belong.