“We are really love,” someone says and you think, yes, sure, really love, uh huh.
You understand in your head but sometimes it feels like your emotions missed the memo.
How can we BE love when anger strikes hot sulphur like a match? How can we BE love when we’re tripping over our words, burning ourselves with hot coals of expression? How can we BE love when she loves me, she loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not?
Yet some distant day, perhaps right now, it dawns that the emptiness we are beneath the whole shebang, the whole kitten caboodle of personality, is filled with love.
No, no, you say (I know the spiel well) that certainly isn’t true. The emptiness does NOT feel like love. It feels like, well, emptiness. It feels like, well, nothingness. It does not feel like your first kiss, your first heart-thumping love, your unexpected joy when the sun stains the horizon crimson, delight as you gondola in Venice.
It feels empty of emotion, so therefore, logically, emptiness =nothing, and there’s no more to say, let’s eat a cookie.
I suggest a deeper acquaintance with emptiness. A longer howdy-do with the nothing that you are. Long hours or days or minutes of witnessing what rises as not-love in your being.
Some fine moment which is always now you’ll be listening to bird song and know to your deepest oceanic depth that we’re love, yes, we’re true love, we’re all love, we’re One Love, inseparable.
Bird song is love.
Witnessing bird song is love.
Not two separate beings (bird and human witness) but one love seeing itself.
We’ll feel it so deeply that never again will we cease recognizing ourselves in the forest, delighted love chirps rising from the beaks of the arising.
“We are really love,” someone says and you think, yes, sure, really love, uh huh. (This time you smile.)