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Posted By Opening the Heart

(Donna's meditation on what lies under love appears here in two parts)


Lately I've been pondering the question,  "What is under love? "      

I read a poem tackling this question and wasn't satisfied with the answer.
 Under love, like underbrush, or the under story of a forest.  A thousand small kindnesses, which, if you are doing your job, should go unnoticed. Earthworms, or ash.  The probable company of our final resting places.  "Each other" is under love.  You under me, and me under you.  The weight we bear and can't surrender.

 Forgiveness is under love.  Sweet, absolute forgiveness for what we did, or what we couldn't do.  The one who recognizes intent, conscious and unconscious and shines a kind light on motive.  "Ahh, you were mastering the complex art of balance.  You were hell bent on surviving."  Stretched wide.  Leg moving slowly up the muscle and tension of a neighboring thigh trying to find "tree pose."  It's all about striving for balance against the pull of solar plexus and the demands of gravity.  Trying not to fall, hard.
We try not to fall.

Ahh, but back to love at the root.  Breast and milk and the word "yes."  A mother reflexively sweeping her long hair from front to back.  This gesture she has done since childhood, but now she offers her engorged nipple to the yearning rosebud of her daughter's mouth.  This baby will suck goodness from the body of her mother and swallow satisfaction.  Time and time again, swallowing whatever goodness life pours out.  Innocent and needful.  Trusting love to stay.

Under love there are no limits.  No prisons or cages, tricks or tracks.  No preconceived notions.  We make virgin footprints of pain and of pleasure.  In time, the wind blows, the sands shift, the snow drifts high.  We let go of the binding concepts of "good and bad", and "yours and mine."  And the lonely language of right and wrong. We let go of that, too. The distance between you and me.  Maybe we unbuckle our seat belts for good.  Turn off the bossy, GPS lady.  Roll the top down on the convertible, or crank the manual windows all the way down, fully open.  We notice every single detail of the ride.  Avoid the soft brown and white body of the rabbit flirting with death.  We see her wide-eyed terror and disorientation in the glow of low beams.  We feel her, the pavement beneath her panic, her feet scrambling this way and that in search of lush green cover.  The chaos and pounding of her small heart on high alert.  All this we feel in the instant which governs life, or death, or life.  And we steer accordingly.

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