xeryfyn's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Februarium: Part 5: Why You Love The last of Februarium. Write an answer to this question. "Why do you love?" It's not as easy as it seems. Do it, though, and see where the entry takes you ***************** There is no why to this question. To hear this question in my head, I hear echos of others: paraphrasing Yoda: "There is no why, there is just love"; and Lear: "Oh reason not the need". Simply put, there is no answer to this question. Oh I've read the toerh responses to this query. Groaned over the pithy, predicatability of the responses. And though I *do* feel it is important to recognize that, yes, I love simply because I can not live without love, that life would be rendered meaningless and slight without knowing the touch of love on my lips, in my heart, in the sheer anticipation of daily life, I am perplexed that people think that they have ever existed without love. Love is complex in its multitudes, like grief, like joy. And pehaps, love encapsulates all of those things too. For without love, there would be no reason to grieve. Life would simply roll onwards--unwittingly, by being sad, we acknowledge the presence (and absence) of love within us. Joyous tifings expand our being, filled with the glories of being in love with Life. Love, then, truncates everything. There can not exist anything without love, and thus, it is not wihtin our control to explain *why* we love. We are beholden to love. It is important that I say here that I am not a religious person. It is important because it will seem like I am a zealot, trying to show you the wonders of God. But I can not disuade myself from believeing that we are loved in the minute that we are concieved. like a flower seed that begins to germinate, uncontrollable and wild, so too are we int he womb, growing at will. In this moment, no matter the circumstances behind our germination--be it joyous and planned or shattering and wretched--we are being loved into being. Perhaps by a God that knows each star by name and nurtures the plentitude of this human condition. In our growth and multitude, we are then brought forth into this world--once again, recieved with celebration or mourning--and we are touched by the hand of love. The doctor who holds us, the nurse who weighs us, the mother who handles us, bewildered and confused as she may be. The kernel of love breathes life into us. And if we pass out of this world, someone mourns our pasing. Knowingly or not, we are again touched by the miracle of love. It is the milk of human kindness. I feel as though I need to defend myself, my understanding of love, though no one stands over me, criticizing my words. I guess that I am a creature like all human beings, craving acceptance of ideas, of ideals, of imagination. As we hurl towards war, I say that I see love behind every motive. Behind all the fear on both sidfes, behind all the defenses that arise from Bush, from Hussein, from all who watch with baited breath as to what shall happen next. And I know, suddenly, why I love. I love because there is no other way. There is Love in war. There is Love in peace. There is even Love in indifference. Everywhere, love. And perhaps, that is not a terrible thing to behold, after all. 1:07 a.m. - 2/15/2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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