There are several people in my life who I tell almost every time we connect, that I love them dearly. Lucky them, and lucky me.
Then there are a few with whom, it feels so, so loaded. Loaded like a gun that could kill us both and splatter our guts up the wall if it misfires.
To be clear, this is not because I do not love them, it is because somehow the idea of love has become the Loch Ness monster in the room and the focal point of the paranoid paparazzi of past hurts that roam around inside me seeking to expose and debunk it. Love has taken on a mythical status and a hype machine has activated around it. To believe in it, to seek it, to try to capture it, to be sure of it…
Most people have a picture in their head of what ‘Nessy’ looks like. A few claim to have truly encountered it in the flesh, first hand, and write books about it and exhibit galleries of blurry photographs of it. They say it dwells in the depths we cannot fathom, and only a chosen few can take a glimpse of it. This creature is widely acknowledged to be immense and terrifying, but by all accounts benign – despite a fearsome exterior.
These are the connections in which I have felt the most the resistance to offering my humble expressions of love in the moment, fully aware of their imperfection and shades of grey, and the bits of fluff that might have got stuck on them in the bottom of my bag on my way to bring them to you. I’ll spend too long looking at them, dusting them off, and decide they are not sufficient. This can’t be it, this can’t be enough, this can’t be right.
I’ve deconstructed love like so many castles in the sand. I know only what it is not. I am left with that which the tide cannot take away.
I’m over it now, the hunting and the hiding both.
Here I am, unremarkable and utterly exquisite in the light of day. Here is my imperfect, fluffy love, presented unexpectedly in unusual gift wrap, tossed into your hands like a hot potato as I bolt for the bus, sung in your ear while you are trying to sleep, thrust in your face while you are watching a movie or trying to read, spilling out of the containers you try to catch it in.
There is no shame in it, I have judged it too harshly. Trying to hold my love to saintly, mystical standards, contain it in carefully constructed corrals, make it sit quietly in the corner and hide all its colours under an old coat – for days, months, years.
My love in its chosen expression comes to you like a butterfly or a bluebird. Free and exquisite in the moment. Embodiment of soul. Essence of beauty. Coming to land gently on you and bless your heart, drink a little nectar, bask in the sunshine.
Love is simply me, as I am, when I am open, to you. Just gorgeous.
I recorded this little burst of song on a whim, whilst pottering in the kitchen and feeling the feels. It’s not planned, it is not perfect. Real feels from me to you. I love you, don’t forget it 💕