I say I love you in so many ways to so many people but never from a sense that I may never see them again. Fatalism doesn't work for me. I do it because I'm a sucker for joy. In this world that way can be a cross to bear. This morning I found out that a cousin of mine was killed last night in an auto accident. I hadn't seen him in years, and this isn't about wishing I'd told him I loved him; it's hope that he felt comfortable telling others he loved them. It's about the joy that can be a cross to bear while simultaneously the greatest connection these meat cases of ours can make. I've thought I love you, said it, written it on silly notes, improvised songs about it, even emoji-ed it. I used to suspect I was in love with love (and I am), but more fully I've realized that connecting to the All once or twice in my life has opened me to appreciating wonderful souls more completely than ever before. There's joy in repetition. Circumstances ebb and flow, but the truth of "I love you" keeps life honest. When not honest we're conflicted. What this means in this blog space is that not only is our mandate to approach our messages with honesty, as creators we need to make good love every single time we put pen to paper, crystal to wood, water to clay, rivet to metal, verse to minor key of G; we should remember that there's nothing new to whatever we do, but there is always, always joy in repetition. I LOVE YOU never means you have to love me. It is a statement of fact. More potent than "I love cheese," yes, but "There are a trillion things in life that aren't meant to be," says the poet. "One of those is likely you and me. But I've seen you smile. I've seen your smile. I've seen you smile."
Repeat after me: Joy.
I may be wrong 20 times out of 10, but never when it comes to that. I know the joy of a sweet sentence, a perfect sculptural piece, a gentle kiss. Even a good cry. There's joy in contradictions.
Hell, there's joy in everything.
I wish you love.
Death can't stop that. Writer's block won't touch it. Disappointments are irrelevant in its face. Whatever and whoever you're doing, I wish all of you love, and if we're granted a final thought I hope my cousin had that one. I desperately hope there was something in his brief, painful life he needed to impart that upon, seeing as, from this particular life, he gets to walk away. Journeys don't end, they veer, detour, and go wildly off-road. That's life, that's love, that's friendship, family, dreams, and art. We're here to continually right the wrongs.
So I may be a wrong thing released by someone else but what I do I do out of love. Cross to bear or not, so far it works.