And that’s the point. It’s not a thing to remember, or even watch.
We do not need complicated reasons to love someone. Nor sex, or even romance. Just to love someone’s being in the world, their individual addition, the truth of it. Yet for all the substantial absence, there remains a sense of love untainted by possession or desire or fear of loss. Just love, of Being well made. Because this kind of love catches all that lies in between. All the unsaid things. All those quiet rarely noticed actions. All that is done with reverence.
To realize you love someone like this usually comes as a surprise, because we don’t have all those normal events or indicators. It’s just something that is, existing outside our conscious frame of reference. But then suddenly as in an epiphany we see that this being and all they do is sacred. That knowing them is sacred, perhaps all the more so because it is usually also mundane and everyday, layered in the tasks of work and labor. In that mire the action of an individual life stands out as essential to what it means to be human, and we love this person, because they are a human, and beautiful at that.
Then comes a loss of words, or an all night conversation. The ability to say anything, or need not speak at all. And accept that maybe in the coming fury of the future, you will never again see this person, never breathe the same oxygen, walk the same earth. Our paths diverge, but not without leaving such a strong impression on my heart so as to tattoo it permanently with the presence of truth.
The unity, all of the above, of compassion, and equanimity, and sympathy, and love. Here I love the ones you love, here I trust my naked soul into your hands. You are not family, but you could be, welcome at that.
And as universal as this all may seem, it also relates precisely to one person, that man walking down the street after getting off work, seeing another human sitting on the cold asphalt, asking them how they are, reminding them that it’s cold, telling them to get up. Unassuming, and likewise free from obligation.
Coming home he reads The Little Prince to his son in a foreign language, letting the story sink in over time, word for word. At this point the street empties. The breath of his son slows to sleep. He goes to the kitchen to eat something, then goes to bed with his wife mostly happy, or at least moderately at peace.
I have a feeling I am like the sun to him that shines through the clouds for a moment, a momentary shining, a moment above all out of time. I am not a part of his everyday life, and will never be. As mundane as this love is, it does not exist every moment of every day.
We all sit in the front of the bus, wanting to see what comes next. And me, I look up. Look up to the place where angels come from, where love comes from, that open place we cannot touch.
Maybe we fill it with a dream, or allow it to sink into reality. At this hour between night and morning everything outside the mind seems too loud and crass to touch.
I touched you once, maybe that is enough. Touched the open, the beat of an open heart.
With you I feel the connection to something very old, and without age.
Truth, and love.