We love this possibility (see yesterday's post) - that someone, who doesn't have to, actually loves us. We love this possibility, in part, because it off-sets another possibility. One that we most dread. The possibility that no one really loves us for who we actually are. We live with a presiding fear that the only ones who do, kind of have to. In other words, they should. They're supposed to. But, below it all is still the unrelenting question; would they, if they didn't have to?
Where does this notion come from? Why is it so deeply entrenched within us?
Isn't it because somewhere along the line, we have ended up with a conclusion that love is something that needs to be deserved? At one level, we know this can't be the basis of things, but yet we still largely operate out of this most of the time - that I need to be lovable, in order to be loved. And, we know that there is much about us that is not...lovable.
But love has a completely different premise, does it not? Love, in its purest form, is independent of the deserving nature of its object. It is complete...from the source of the love, not based on the recipient of it. ...at all.
This is strange. Unfamiliar. And yet, in the deepest places of us, it resonates as true. I am not loved because I am lovable. I am not loved because of I am deserving of love. I am loved because another chooses to love me.
This is the impossible realization of love, one that often takes a lifetime to discover. One that, once realized, perpetuates the truth of love itself - from us, to others. A mystery. A marvel. A sure and true thing.
