Monday, July 8, 2013

Serve God Love

Serve God, love me and mend
This is not the end

- Mumford and Sons, Sigh No More

* * *

There is this: love, once released, once given, once felt, once received, once embraced sustains that which cannot be sustained - our very selves.
What else are we here for except to learn the ways this is so? In pain, we reach out to a memory of love and wonder why it has left us. In doubt we trash the idea that love exists at all. In joy we wonder how we ever lived without it. But it is only our perception of love that changes. The love itself exists as it always has: ready for us to recognize it in every corner of our lives.

The fucked do not believe this. The fucked prefer anxiety over the loss of something they cannot lose. The fucked hoard their affections as if there is a finite amount to be drawn upon. The fucked only see all that they lack and refuse to consider life is anything other than a zero-sum game.

This is why they are fucked.

Snap out of it.

* * *

But the chords of doubt ring loudly, no?

It is easy to succumb to it. It is easy to walk away rather than mend what is broken. Zero-sum thinking always leaves you with zero. The hurt we feel when a relationship is bruised, pushed to the point of breaking, is broken, is very real and is not to be ignored. The problem becomes that we include everything in that one moment of hurt  - all that is good is diminished, dismissed because we decide, if A , then B and B is always giving up and in to the lie that love is fickle or unsteady or not meant for you. Brothers, sisters, it is not love that is weak, but rather our pride and ego that wound us and those we mean to love.

The way forward is direct, simple and so hard for us: trust that love cannot betray or mislead you. Only we can do that. Love, the pulse itself, has no agenda, no doubt, no history of loss. It knows only itself as bounty and balm.

* * *

I cannot tell you I have lived by these words. I have stumbled and fallen over my fears and doubts and have hurt those I love because of it: my beloved, my children,  my friends. It has damaged much and yet I have seen love in every corner of my life: the scent on a pillow, a freshly dug grave, dinner made and words typed across thousands of pages. Love pervades my life, any life, and when you set aside your fears, when you forgive your frailty, when you look, just fucking look, you see the one thing that has allowed you to rise each day is love: the love of your children, your wife, your husband, your beloved, your work, your desire, your chance to mend what is broken, to rebuild what has fallen.

The song quoted above continues in part:

Love; it will not betray you
Dismay or enslave you, it will set you free
Be more like the man you were made to be

Do not doubt love.
Do not doubt your ability to give and receive it.
Do not doubt its ability to heal what has wounded you.
Do not doubt love. It is what we were made for.

* * *

Bones are made stronger at the point at which they break and heal.
The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold is called kintsukuroi. It embraces this universal truth: things become more beautiful for having been broken and then restored.

* * *

Serve God, love me and mend
This is not the end.


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