Loving what loves is knowing love without desire for the beloved or the lover but is just love observed.
In such as this is the origin of all meaning and source of becoming when all else is gone . . . when love comes again. Neither had nor having but being pure is what love looks like when seen as what you give.
What I seek in the still darkness of pre-dawn each day is not affirmation or inspiration but feeling the sheep’s wool before my tent to see if wet or dry -- sometimes merely moist -- my mind wandering into the abyss of itself and seeing this painting reminded me of those times I’d gotten lost in the rendering of things I saw visually. Prizing not the seen or rendering but the being lost from time and society for just a moment of bliss. It is this that keeps me awakening and not longing to never awake happy with either estate.
No.
Happy. Like tide comes and goes while joy is eternal before the light and after the dark.
A rouge thought? Could it be that we all life are imprinted by God!
. . . ineffable -- ineluctable exposition in one word the unending narrative of four letters: love.
. . . 130218 06:57 . . . i’m going to let this go. Not in abandonment but simply because by chance I’ve come across other random remarks annotating thoughts, praise, gratitude for the creativity of others: astonishing to me and uncertain who was the author?
Face-to-face with creators I’ve always made certain to praise something specific sans hyperbole and superlatives . . . no gushing fawning fool to seem . . . and am bold to say that when in similar circumstance with THE CREATOR I will know disappointment with formerly held ideals of perfection for either of us. But then I recognize my failure to be for others what seemed required. Happily in peace knowing only that my love endless even if in adequate their need real or imagined . . . humiliated it has taken me so long to grow a soul that was there all along . . . .
of course we grow by failure falling flat upon our face not in supplication petition or prayer but utter despair. Grief is a gift since it measures one facet of the gem we all are.
The heart of creation continues, stunning, staggering and beyond all expectations: perfect in itself.
. . . praise that which from all blessings flow; the who not the what or why
130217 04:44 what loves
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
