The mystery of love is the mystery of our lives.
The energy of love is what enriches our lives.
We move from dust to dust, with love being the thing that matters, in between.
It’s the last word of this; my blog.
And I realized this morning; that’s appropriate.
Because love does, after all and in the end, remain the last word.
Love makes us strong.
Love lets us go on.
Love makes us sing.
My parents shared just shy of 64 years of a remarkable marriage. Just shy because my mother passed unexpectedly in December and their anniversary is in March. Shortly after her death, a mockingbird started visiting my Dad every morning and evening, singing melodically to him from her perch in the trees and/or flagpole in his yard.
“Weird,” he says.
But the twinkle in his eye tells me he feels it’s my mother visiting, who was a talker.
I even saw an entry in my journal from last year that mentioned a conversation I’d had with my Dad and I wrote, “Mom was chirping in the background.
I looked up mockingbirds. They’re known for being intelligent and protective of their families. My mother’s keeping him company and chirping to him. I’m sure she is there protecting and encouraging him.
I’ve recently watched my youngest daughter become a new mother and have seen her expand into maternal love the last couple months. How well I remember the grueling care newborns, infants, babies and toddlers demand. I also know the result is the most durable emotional attachment ever created.
Jonah Lehrer wrote, “We don’t love our kids despite their demands, we love them because of them. Caregiving makes us care.”
A few years ago, for a Christmas gift, my husband gave me a Boise State University sweatshirt. This might seem like a little thing but no one, not even myself, had ever thought to give me something that was a shout out to something (my degree) that was so significant to me, and I got the degree before I’d ever met him.
One year he gave me an exquisite pen – encouraging the writer in me.
Without my thinking of it, he took my car to get my windows tinted so I would be cooler and more comfortable when the summer heat arrives here in Arizona.
Someone visiting us yesterday asked about baby pictures of my children. “Oh,” I said, “they’re somewhere still in the garage.” We went on talking. He left the room only to return several minutes later with those framed portraits. Wasn’t asked. Didn’t say that’s where he was going.
These may seem, one by one, like little things. But if love is a practice – he excels. In a million little things – he excels.
He is my best companion. He believes in me. He is patient with me. He loves me. This is inexpressible comfort. And yet here I sit writing – trying weakly to describe and convey in words this love.
The boundlessness of love is the mystery. I believe it’s what continues past this life.
I know it’s the greatest treasure in this life.
Again, to quote Lehrer, because I’m right there with him on this,
“The best days are the ones
when I look around
at all these people in my life,
these people in my heart,
and I think,
This is it.”
If anything is what matters and means something in life – it’s love.