Reflective thoughts for what cannot be grasped
Chris Youngblood November 25, 2024
Love is knowing and returning.
Worn, yet still breathing.
Love is a baby’s breath.
A father’s exhale.
Cradle to grave, a life in between.
Tears from a poem, laughter from a friend pointing out what is uniquely you.
And loving it, not seeing it as a weakness.
Love is the point of reference where your blood and tears coalesce into redemption.
The rising from sleep to walk again amongst the green fields,
While working the Cinnabar Fields,
The Three Treasures.
Opening new routes to new frontiers.
Love is always there, yet not standing still, evolving, changing, growing or decreasing.
Love contracts and expands.
Love is the shadows that speak in the dark, the cry for attention.
Love is the one who picks oneself up when no one else would.
Love is knowing the chinks in the armor, the battle scars are the most precious.
Love is sobriety.
Love is walking the same neighborhood streets alone with new eyes while still every once in awhile remembering the companion which once walked by their side.
A life in between.
Love is running at least a mile outside every day for one year straight and when it was 30 below, ran 4.5, cause greatness.
Love is conviction that non monagamy is what he wants.
The other failed, gave it his best.
Love is knowing that his heart expands for many women,
Appreciating each one for who they are, what they express, and the unique feminine beauty that is a tidal wave in the ocean with the other waves.
Riding their crest just right, and expressing within this moment that we are all that is.
An Ocean Drive.
A Wild Fire.
Gods Making.
Having enough love for oneself to know that not one can hold it, it’s too much to give away.
And what would be left for others?
What would be left for him?
Love is knowing that one day it’s possible the knees and stomach might have a word or two about the aforementioned statement.
Let go and let the Tao.
Love is seeing your oldest son as a toddler imitate many things from you, almost a miniature version.
Pulling him aside, looking him in the eye and saying, “Follow my actions that are correct, but if you truly want to honor me, don’t be me. There can only be one. Be you always.”
And now seeing the fruits of those words put forth as he is becoming his own man, while his mother says his mannerisms sometimes match mine.
Love is knowing that your child will endure heartache and trials; you will hold space for them.
Love is the process.
Love is looking out on an ocean, knowing that the unique wave that rolls in will roll back, and when it returns, will be different.
Love is seeing the unique snowflake, knowing it will evaporate and return again, different.
Love is Nature and all the gifts it bestows. The Womb and the Thunder, both teachers.
Love is the feeling you get from a piece of art, it is your unique feeling, no one can tell you how you feel, it is yours. And you cannot grasp what it is.
Love is a running waterfall, a guitar plucked in similar grace.
Love is allowing the waterfall, breaking the dam so one will be whole again.
Love like water cannot be grasped, for once you try and grasp, it is gone.
It can flow or freeze.
Love is knowing that it’s complete absence is hate. That is all, what simplicity.
Love, like it’s source, is ineffable, yet it is felt but escapes, sustains, takes away.
Love has no agenda, no self proclamations, it simply is.
Love is the unique hug every person you have ever hugged imprints upon you.
The memories.
The waiting for those unique bear hugs when they arrive in the driveway.
Love is remembering your elders, trying to imagine how they were at your age; when you were a wild eyed child.
Love is the spark in your kids eyes when they see photographs of you as a kid.
Giving you that look that your essence is still there.
Knowing that you never forsake yourself.
Love is a smile to a stranger or they smile first seeing that you match their aura.
Love is the patience to build an aura, one that pours out sustaining that youthful vigor.
Love is finding the key to unlock all the doors in the dark night of the soul.
The doors to freedom down a staircase, black, where the maps were buried.
The maps to the treasure buried in the soil, fertilized from one’s excrement.
Risen to gold.
Love is right on time.
A life in between.
Love is finding new friends, the few, who know that all transactions begin voluntarily and fairly grow from there.
Love for oneself is having the wisdom to know that all relationships begin transactionally and go from there.
Emotions and expectations must subside, the last lesson.
As love can contract and expand it can be selfish and full of abundance.
Love is defending the centerline, while moving the energy throughout.
Security and upkeep of the temple where God resides.
Love is walking amongst the autumn breeze, seeing the changing colors, the trees that sway, bending yet strong, looking at nature, hugging oneself and saying to both nature and self, “Hello oldest friend.”
Love is knowing that no one told me I am naked. ATUM. I AM.
Love is returning to the source for fuel, especially when vampires try and drain.
Love is having compassion for those searching for truth trying to drain me.
Even though they do so, I understand. However, I do not suffer them.
Love is knowing that my words may one day return and all that will be said of me is “A wise man once said.”
That is enough. The love to be ok with that; knowing that my words are returning like a breeze, or a wave or a snowflake.
Love is the gift of life. If there were no death, there would be no life. Both are doors.
A life in between.
Love is being grateful for the privilege to animate within the teaching.