Where
I live, spring is being born with bursts of blossoms and fields of
yellow mustard. Valentine's Day is around the corner and since I have
no
particular mate at the moment, I celebrate the way I did when I was
a child:
thinking of everyone I care for in this world and every thing—
my students
at Spirit Rock who are dealing with breast cancer and lupus and lung
cancer
and brain tumors and come sit in silence to find peace; my pets who
climb
into bed with me to share the warmth of bodies breathing through the
night;
the friends I call when I fall into tears and who give me wise advice;
my
godchildren who insist on surviving with aplomb and verve and brilliance
despite the challenges of childhood, the old oak tree in my back yard
free
now of leaves. Love always. Be mine.
Sometimes
when there is no special one to love, the heart in its hunger
reaches out to hold as many in its embrace as it can manage; and even
those
who have escaped its hold, the ex-lovers and bad financial advisers
and
landlords who delivered eviction notices, they, too, begin to clamor
for
attention. Be mine. Even the politicians who insist God is on their
side and
no one else's, for a moment, the heart wide open, they, too, are forgiven
and this life of folly and confusion and beauty and awe, of bloodshed
and
cruelty, and of love, bursts as if itself is a blossom forced by spring
to
open.
© Nina Wise
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