“Love is a bird,
she needs to fly;
let all the hurt inside of you die.”
How do we contain oil with cupped hands? It’s impossible. It’s akin to describing love. If we nailed her gender a picture can emerge; a true theme might then be developed—be wary, however, counterfeits are numerous.
There’s hardly a more ironical thing. Get too big on love and we scare her off. Passion aplenty, yes, but be careful. Constraint too reveals sharp indifference; the elixir loses its potency when exposed to heat. It’s not true commitment. We love the way we lead: lightly. We cannot force a thing.
Yet, this isn’t the half of it. We’re so often defined more by what holds us back than by what liberates us. Our hurts and hang-ups take us on an unnecessary eccentric path with love. Shakespeare did say, “The course of true love never did run smooth.”
Perhaps it’s our human nature that engenders the rough journey, implicating the blundering conscience. The confidence of trust takes its leave and we’re stranded. Our holds on love are zealously frozen. We forget we cannot seize it.
Surrender is the very straightest path back to love. It is the humblest variety of perfection. It cares so much it doesn’t care. Boldly we surrender for the cause of love as an expression of simple faith.
Surrender too has another advantage—she keeps us fresh for the distance, clear of worry; relaxed for love. If we choose love and we want her we best recognise this power of surrender, the salubriousness of sacrifice. The hardest choice is surprisingly simple. We typically make things most difficult in our stubborn refusal to let go.
Now that we’ve successfully opened love up a world beyond simply the romantic genre—that which would strangle the fullest meaning of love—we can safely use that genus as the standing for a closing illustration:
“Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking together in the same direction.”
~Antoine De Saint-Exupéry.
© 2010 S. J. Wickham.