Love grows like grass. Within and beyond the nuclear family trees trunks, the tiny roots of love shoot out in all directions. Love is an unstoppable multiplicity. A spiky, unbreakable, bristling vitality. Breath by breath, year after year love overgrows an endless array of relational landscapes. Love is wild, ceaseless. Once the small cuttings take root all boundaries come alive. Separateness blurs into an endless, golden wavelike motion.

Love works by its own gentle power.  It is not an act of doing. Love is what happens when we give up the toil. When the mower of preference shuts down, we feel its tingling vibration moving through millions of feathery spikes. Love is the gentle, whispering background noise of life. It bows our head, it beats us to the ground, it buries us under ice, it powders us thick with snow and flowers. To be caressed by the gentle breeze, to receive the hails as they come is love.

Afraid of pain, we find ourselves seized by clinging and cultivation. On such days, we stand with clenched teeth and arms straight down by the sides; fists clutching dry straw. All we wanted was to embrace the infinite meadow, to become one with the soft and the vibrant. On such days, we feel separate. We don’t feel the vast breath of entangled roots beneath. We think we have to become worthy to grow into the world. We pull at the grass.

How to become one with love? We seek, grasp, work, rage. We imagine a union in the horizon and become numb to constant sprouting within the soles of our feet, numb to the growing of love as the tiny hairs in our skin. We try to unite but forget to feel the bristling vitality that constantly breaks through the tarnished contours of self. Love grows, not like grass. It grows as grass, as our fine- branched lungs, our pulsing capillaries, our bone marrow cobwebs, our hurricanes of hair. Tear ducts running wild.

Feel! Under the skin, nerve sitar strings bend and whisper in the wind. They never stop humming the quiet song of sensation: I am love. I cannot be uprooted; I am too vast, too distributed, too manifold. I am love. You cannot possess me, you cannot lose me, you cannot become one with me. You are me.

Nothing but love