a tale of two soaps

You know, if you think about it...love isn’t really a noun- it’s a verb, an action- and when it takes flight, completely free of any human control, it becomes of itself.  Now I can’t write it like it’s supposed to be said…I get all squirmy.  I guess the point I’m trying to make here- when one expects material diamonds that’s what one may get.  But when one ceases to expect, instead- surrendering, throwing one’s hands up into the air, saying “I just don’t know how this is all suppose to play out,  I give up!”  Somehow, somewhere- it is heard as a prayer, a sincere giving in,  the walls come tumbling down…and all the unexpected diamonds in the rough begin to shine.

Now the trick to keep love flowing and flying is to leave it alone.  To quit poking holes in it with too many questions…very hard for this here over thinker.  What if I don’t expect anniversaries, longevity, even flowers come Sunday- can I live with that?  I don’t know...verb that it is, love keeps me on my toes.

  I chased love across a parking lot the other night, as it became angry- and followed it to bed where it mellowed.  It became talking and laughing and finally- sleeping.  The morning found it curiously seeking a remedy, but none was needed as it became forgiving, simply by letting go and laughing.   Love becomes action if one allows it, I think.  When one tries to commandeer love- like putting a dam up and trying to contain all of it’s goodness in a pool, something of it ceases to flow- stagnating it. 

I started this whole post out completely different from what you’re reading here.  Matter of fact- I wrote the whole column last week, after stepping into the shower and becoming profoundly affected by- two bars of soap.  Isn’t that silly?  I even took a picture as soon as I slipped out of there- those two soaps with significantly different ingredients spoke to me of my relationship with the Big Fish.  And I truly cannot explain what it meant to me to see them there- side by side.

  I only know that I feel something unimagined and for lack of better words- not perfect, but it’s right.  And it flows, on and on, in and out…I don’t know what to make of it, I don’t even know what else to say here…ain’t love grand?  Ain’t it a pain? And soapy and soggy and all too wonderful much of the time, and slow like molasses when I wish it would keep up.  And quiet- like snow sometimes and all in a rage like a thunderstorm too.  Sometimes it’s pale- like an eggshell though sometimes it’s as vivid and bright as a twelve year old’s memory of a candy red new bicycle.  It’s cumulative of all the goodness I’ve ever known- this love does that, bringing back those snippets in heaps. 

With all that felt and said in only the way of a true romantic or an unhinged mind…may everyone who reads this find that simple something in their shower or in that dish they're washing, or in that lumpy, crumpled-up bed that needs made…because love made those messes, not to be tolerated or even obligated by ceremonial oaths- I think that’s just how love lives and beckons us to be- aware of it’s sublimities.  

Enough from me…what do you think? 

Is love something we make up as we go along? 

Is it a verb or a noun? 

Is it something you hold onto or is it best let go…should there be expectations?

(Take care-)