Passion is the most delicious of drugs, and it’s the only thing I’ve ever been addicted to. If I’m the right kind of angry I feel alive, exhilarated. I am inspired to make change, and I often do. But it is rarely sustainable because the passion is not a pure enough source. Something had to spark that craving, and like all cravings, it will eventually subside. I did a great many things thanks to that emotion, but I also ceased to move when I clearly knew better. That is how I know passion does not always serve me well. For the longest time I thought that fiery zeal made me who I am. I assumed I was at my strongest when that spark hit the curtains and sent me up in flames. Now I know that while it has its place in my life, it isn’t what drives me…
Oh, but love.
Such a funny little word. We all use it. I didn’t know what it meant the first time I heard it, nor the first time I said it. I didn’t even know the meaning when I looked my newborn daughter in her big bright eyes or when I married the man who, to me, is the epitome of the word. I now hear it and say it several times a day, and if you asked me what it means I still couldn’t tell you. All I know for sure is the minute we start to define love we diminish its value. We put it into words because it’s easier to make sense of that way. We give it rules and time limits, Hallmark cards, and kisses …but the more we try explaining it the less we seem to understand.
I don’t have a clue what love is. But I do know that it moves me to live deeply, to be sincere, to unburden myself with the expectations I have for the world and everyone in it. I also know that it has been there all along; I just couldn’t recognize it at first. And I know that it has been waiting, ever so patiently, for me to learn all the things I already knew, but had to find out again anyway.
