If you have trouble letting go,
let yourself love a cat!

A cat will let you know
when you have loved too long,
or loved too much.

They will simply walk away
when the moment moves them,
and they will remind you,
forcefully,
when you won’t let go.

They are here
because they want to be,
enjoying the ease we offer them,
and, if we accept their gift
of teaching us how to let go,
then they will offer us that,
for free!

The you
I imagined that you were
is the drink
I should not drink.

The you
that you really are
is a waft of fresh air,
a little gift,
part of the atmosphere
that I breathe gratefully,
happy to be alive
in a sea of kindred souls.

To love someone
or something
is to accept them totally,
exactly as they are.

It is celebrating
your connection with them,
and the subtle differences
that make them unique.

Love is accepting
that everything changes;
that the objects of our love
will eventually leave us,
in the natural flow
of living and dying.

Love is cherishing
our momentary angels,
our gifts in each moment,
without demanding more.

Love is not desire
for someone
or something.

It is being open
for giving
and receiving,
without hopes
or expectations.

Love is not wanting;
wanting is only
imagined need,
for whatever
we seem to lack.

To love truly
is to feel complete,
to celebrate
what we already have,
what we already are,
which connects us
to everyone
and everything.

I used to know
how to be a friend,
back when the story of “me”
seemed solid and definite,
a menu of how to feel,
what to expect,
how to act.

But, as I step outside this story,
observing it like snippets
of a remembered dream,
it seems slowly to crumble,
like a building made of air.

So here I stand,
without an edifice,
looking out from nothing
into nothing,
not knowing
what I should be.

Looking out into the world,
I can trust what created us
to let me be just as I am,
without a plan.

When I meet someone afresh,
I can likewise trust
this energy that binds us,
without a history,
in a moment of spontaneous creation.

So, if I met you again,
as if I had never met you,
as if there were no story,
I might discover
how to be your friend.

Standing in that common space,
we could be ourselves,
not striving for connection,
but enjoying what already is.

Love can be
like cool, clear water,
when it isn’t muddied
by need.

Relax your hold
on what you want to keep,
and revel in the flow,
as objects of love
come and go,
and what remains
is love itself.

All the love
we find outside ourselves
is only a mirror
of the love we are made of.

When we look back,
and see our own reflection,
then there is an end
to our search for completeness.

At this window,
I stand in a tableau
of past relationships,
mementos of learning,
bit by bit,
how to love,
and be loved.

This cat beside me
is a token of my marriage,
my adopted second son;
at first unwanted,
he has grown in my heart
to be part of my family,
a trusted companion.

Beside him sits an instrument,
a gift of music
that recalls the warmer moments
of a tumultuous romance,
many years past,
its bell tones recalling
the harmony and understanding
we were able to share,
within brief islands
of calm.

Beneath them is a table,
left, as she moved on
toward a new life
(and away from our entanglement),
by a loving friend.

Above us,
a set of delicate chimes
tinkle gently,
singing the spirit
of another beloved one,
now gone from this world;
its soft melodies,
like drifting smoke,
are my inheritance,
my remembrance.

Each of these
is another token of love
tried, failed, or fading
with time.

Standing here,
amidst these reminders,
I see how much reaching for love
has shaped my life,
and how, with its grace,
I will continue to learn
how to give it,
and how to receive.

Something woke up
when we touched each other.

A flame was lit,
and it burns today.

Long are you gone,
though the fire lingers.

Your essence hovers,
like an angel,
lighting my way.

Sometimes,
I can feel your love
in the silence,
and that is enough.

I have wanted things
that weren’t real,
and feared things
that weren’t real,
as well.

I have felt unease
that triggered thoughts
of longing,
of distrust,
or hope,
or dread.

Why
have I lived so long
in a world
of my own making,
so often blind
to the truths outside,
floundering
in my own imaginings?

How do we all
live so alone,
barricaded
inside our little universes,
hoping there is
a bigger world outside,
but afraid to find out?