There was an old, collective dream that opening the heart was always going to feel safe, that somehow love promised that.
That allowing another to matter was going to be easy, that providing a temple for the grief, the tender, and the broken was somehow not going to feel raw and at times unbearable.
That in the end, somehow love wouldn’t shatter the known.
That to transform meant we’d be in some protected, resolved, untouchable state where we had transcended the sensitivity of being an open, naked, alive human being. That somehow healing meant we’d only have to live in one narrow band of the spectrum.
But healing and transformation are not only solar and transcendent, but of the descending current and the moon, of the earth and the mud and the soil, and at times will take us to dust.
It would seem love has very little interest in our fantasies of invulnerability, trances of mastery and control, or wiggling into some sustained transcendent state. It is just too wild for all that, too creative, too pregnant, too quantum.
Love seeks a vessel in which to come alive here and we are that vessel. It finds us by way of our quivering, our tender not-knowing, and by that willingness to fall to the ground and start all over again.
Sometimes broken, sometimes whole, sometimes a mess, but always alive. In all of our chaotic glory.
When we’re totally unclothed, love will show us what we are. When the known crumbles away, all that remains is this burning heart.
There is nothing more alive than that. There is nothing more sacred than that.