“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of [her] life, every quality of [her] mind, is written large in [her] words.” ~ Virginia Woolf.
The experiences in our lifetime hopefully teach us; oftentimes favorably and other times, not. It is between these two states we untangle inconsistencies wedged in peace and chaos. If we are fortunate we take what we have learned and fold it inside out. We look at what isn’t to see what is. We look for truths. When I experience an edge of one of these truths, I soar, crumble and dissolve into it all. Each time I write, I share another layer of me and another segment of me gets stronger.
To feel loved, to be loved and to give love, is a transparent offering. To be seen and heard, is without a doubt, remarkable. To listen and hear, priceless. When we love, we show it. We find words and ways. We set aside time. It’s not a chore. We don’t try to destroy or change the person into someone else. We let them be themselves. We don’t stop their growth; instead we rejoice in their growth.
To be loved, we are accepted for who we are. Vulnerability is poignant. Raw is real.
To be loved and to love, takes courage; to be fully seen is incredibly rare and breathtaking. We lower our masks and see a celestial inner being; it is all of our self — the super nova as well as the black holes. Our fears and doubts. Our anger and joy. We witness the expansion and the unknowing parts of our self in safety.
This is love.