Surrounded by tires and car things, I waited while my car was serviced. I was suddenly jolted by the chorus sung on the radio station, "You love me anyway." Each time the chorus repeated I felt the same jolt. My little heart stomped her feet and I went aside and looked to the sky, the trees, felt the vibration of cars driving by and the wind and sun upon my face. That is wrong! "Anyway" implies judgment. "Anyway" smacks of there is a right or wrong, a good enough and not good enough. No, I do not want to be loved anyway.
The Sweet Hands of Life do not love me anyway. I do not want to be loved anyway. If there must be an adjective, then let it be out. I want to be loved out. I want to be loved out of my complacency. I want to be loved out of my fear, disbelief, sense of unworthiness. I want to be loved out of my comfort zone. I want to be loved out of my warm cozy house and walk in nature even the bitter cold in which she stands. I want to be loved out of comfortable air conditioning and feel the sun melt and drip upon my body during the heat. I want to be loved out of rigidness and shields.
To be loved anyway is a condition and subject to change. To be loved out is a verb. To be loved out is to move to, move towards, it is flow, it is giving and receiving, it is unconditional. To be loved out, is the ultimate vulnerability. Do not love me anyway. Love me out.
I will love myself out.
Perhaps it is what the artist or sculptor feels to see their Heart unveiled upon the canvas or a block of marble redefined. Perhaps it is what the poet feels as their heart flows through their fingers and squiggles of ink become the voice of the soul. Perhaps it is..... but I am neither an artist, sculptor nor poet. Perhaps their message to all is to simply reach and release...Love will meet you there.
First migration! First migration..... first migration. If only computer typed words could sing the song of my heart to see the first dance of geese across the sky, silhouettes against the rising sun as I began an early morning walk. Sigh... if only you could know this simple childlike heart that stood breathless to watch. First migration, the return home. The call in their hearts that lift their wings and the journey begins.
I have walked the seasons, counting not years, but the rhythm and dance of seasons as they turn the pages of my life. Sometimes the rhythm leaves dog eared pages turned down to remember or threads dangling as bookmarks. As their dance carried them beyond my eyes, the sun drew my eyes to see the green leaf covered in morning dew. The green of spring's kiss glimmering in the sun. Next week is autumn's equinox yet spring continued to bathe a leaf.
Just beyond the glistening drops of spring's kiss the sun painted what was to come. Against the yellow of autumn, shawled with the red of fire and life, the grass created a shadow of fall's naked dancing tree. Spring and summer's luminous kiss against the rhythm of fall dancing onto the stage.
First migration. The call to journey home. Spring's kiss and autumn's naked fiery dance. Another page turned. Another threaded bookmark. And a whispered prayer to all who might see and maybe even to feel this morning reverie, 'Lift your wings. Dance lightly onto the stage. May your heart rejoice in the rhythm with the assurance, she knows the way Home.'
