Everything relates to the self. Everything. We can only love because of the self. We can only feel, touch, sense, taste, imagine, and be, because of the self. Loving itself begins with ‘I’. It is a verb. It is action. And however subliminal the feeling, however clandestine, however secret, however differentiated, love arises from within the ‘me’. After all, I am loving. Everything relates to me.
“I love you,” is a powerful pronouncement; and it is as casual as the language we use to say, “I love the view. I love it, that thing, that whatchamacallit, I LOVE it! I love to travel. Thanks for the gift; I love it.”
After all, everything relates to the self.
And the self relates to others. Thing is, the Self tends to see itself more easily in conjunctions, in juxtapositions, in comparisons, in contrapuntal tensions, and in direct opposites rather more readily than in accord and ‘love’. I am me. You are you.
And the difference is...
So we turn the pages of our lives in a series of competitions and comparisons that tend to devalue (or overvalue) that which was for what is Now. And love is tainted or apportioned or pretentious as we struggle to give it relevance within the immediacy of ‘me’. Even a tune to which one cannot relate will disaffect us. So too will words. Big words. Wrong words. So too will another’s physicality. So too will our needs and preferences and moods and intentions and actions create a series of circumstances by which we gauge the quality of our ‘love’.
Everything relates to me!
Some persons list and enumerate their achievements. Some have pins all over a map to show others where they’ve been. Some have very many stamps in passports. Some have a closet-full of memory shelves (even though kept private for the privilege of the self.)
At issue is how much ‘love’ of all one has done, one does, all one is yet to do, sets one free.
After all, isn’t that is what love really is, twixt you and me; a lesson in letting go while still loving you, endlessly.