An old acting teacher
used to say,
"The root of the thing
is never the thing itself."

Easy enough to understand
on its surface
with its hints
about what lies beneath,
undulating
or roiling
or pulsing
or cringing,
depending on gender
and other matters
of context.

Harder to remember
in the moment
when the roiling
is on the surface
covering up
the weeping
or vice
versa.

Sometimes I think
pain is just
a sticky note for feelings,
"Remember this
along with the milk
and the life plans
and all that other pokey
you fell into believing
is the Thing Itself.
And don't forget it next time,
asshole."

We could remember love
just as readily
just not
as easily.

I promise you this:
from the moment
I woke up
on that hospital bed
I have moved toward the love
and only the love
because in the end,
there is nothing else
worth moving for.

A heart may break
in places you cannot see
behind screens devised
for a thousand types
of modesty

But what pours out
is always love
no matter how hard
the heart may seem.

xxx
c

Image by kelsey_lovefusionphoto via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.