Knowing That You Are Love

As impossible as it is to believe, it is already March, and that means that Mother Nature continues her torturous assault on our collective psyches, jumping between the tease of Spring and the certainty of another ongoing battle with Winter, like neighborhood kids in the Bronx, playing Double Dutch next to an open hydrant on a blistering summer day.

The difference? Consistency in the degree of temperate misery being doled out on a daily basis:

“Give it to me straight doctor, I can take it.”

Do better, MN.

This served as a reminder that May is right around the corner, and the pretentious weather folk in our midsts would have us believing that this meant the new season would be well into bloom, all of this bi-polar (literally) nonsense would be in our rear view, and we could focus on the love of our mothers.

For the probable majority, it is a time to celebrate the people who breathed life into us, protected us, making us feel privileged and special, no matter our socioeconomic status.

For many others it a time of great loss, or mystery-of never having had the peace and fulfillment of that impenetrable bond and mentorship, guiding us on this treacherous journey, from birth to the grave.

And for yet another segment, it is a time of great horror, trauma and rage. A time of those being born into a situation they did not deserve; of a loveless household, or unfit maternal model-instead, suffering unimaginable degrees of abuse, both physically and indifferent, which is nearly as tragic.

When I reflect on this time, I’m left with an overwhelming sense of great fortune, in my upbringing.

It was near impossible for me to envision any child not being afforded this type of love and affection in their lives; at least until I matured, became an adult, and was confronted by a world much different than the idyllic adolescence which had been my fate.

A world in which we get lost just trying to exist, or survive, on a daily basis, let alone “love.”

Compound that tenet with the pressure to find and love another the way you were loved in your home, if you were so fortunate.

It begs the question: where does that leave a vacancy for love of ourselves?

These days my kids are older, I’m one step closer to the final curtain and such are the subjects that invade my thoughts-haunting me, waking me from restless dreams in a violent, cold sweat.

‘What about me?’

I read, I write-both short stories and songs, and I reflect.

Reflection is my therapy.

Sitting on the porch, under a dim light, staring at the starlit sky, heart shaped constellations barely visible to the naked eye.

Some nights blending into the clouds, fewer and farther between, causing me to delve much deeper into my senses to find those emotions, and force them to the surface.

These are the nights that speak to me, the quiet moments when I realize ‘I am love,’ even if no one is present to say it.

Sitting there, warm lights illuminating the horizon and those reflective thoughts complimenting my focus, create a peaceful and self-fulfilling moment of clarity.

An emotion I welcome in its truth and vulnerability: comprehending the existence of love within me, for me, instead of something being broadcast outward for the masses.

The light, a symbol of love shining on me, fueling my passion for life, both toward others and, more importantly, toward myself.

I stand in the water on another cool evening, one belying the actual date on the calendar, and depth of the season we currently reside in.

I’ve taken off my shoes, rolled my Wranglers to calf height and waded out, as far as the newly formed hem.

The water is crisp, calm and serene. I breathe in deeply closing my eyes, before letting a mist of breath escape my lips via a slow deliberate exhale.

I raise my head slowly, toward the crescent moon, opening my eyes in an intentional fashion, allowing “my” hearts to take shape once more.

I can make out all of the constellations on this night, as the moisture laps around my ankles, causing a faint ripple, its wake ricocheting off of my legs forming another undetectable heart shaped calmness in my surroundings-and a slow, exaggerated discoloration of the denim as it bleeds into itself, a welcome disruption in this moment of introspection.

An inner awareness that love exists within us whether it is recognized outwardly or not.

The sunrises and sunsets, an awakening to the conviction that this love is less about romance, and more about the much deeper idea that it is a state of being within us all, not something granted to us by others with their permission.

When I look up now, those hearts are barely visible, having replaced the indelible need to “show” love with the ownership and responsibility of recognizing real love.

Everyone deserves this chance, their time to shine and see the stars for what they are; to feel, and allow love for oneself.

Today when I stand in the water, I don’t have to glance up or down, because I am able to be present in that moment, and these surroundings have become a part of me fundamentally, nearly undetectable in their physical sense.

It’s ok that your past isn’t perfect.

We accept that you may not embrace certain emotions or traditions.

What matters is the “you” today.

Accepting yourself, and your gifts to the world, because they are gifts that are unique in their possession.

And, above all…

Knowing That You Are Love,

D