How To Make Love
(A Poem)
We are born into love.
Oceans of love come to us and we give of it effortlessly.
We know that it will always be this way.
Then Life happens.
To some earlier than others.
We are startled to discover that the love flowing through our fingers so freely before has become scarce.
And we are frightened.
We know not where love comes from, nor how to find it, nor how to make it.
It was there and now it's not.
And we despair that we shall never find it again.
But there are those who know.
Those who search in the blackness.
They know that love is formed under the pressure and heat of time.
Love is formed under the layers of rock and dirt and shit and death heaped upon us.
It is forged in the heat of suffering, stoked by pain and loss.
No, it is only those lost in the dark — mining in the depths of despair with nothing but their own dim light to guide them — who truly know the brilliance and rarity of love.
We miners know what a rare and precious resource love is.
We know how much work it takes.
Every day.
Not to give in to fear and cower in the corner.
Not to fall down the shaft.
Not to throw it out when we finally find it... and realize we have to leave the inky familiar.
Love is not easy at its source.
So, dig, miners, dig.
Look for the helpers in disasters.
Scour the tragedies for compassion.
Turn not away from the rocks, but examine them and crush them and demand them to yield every last bit of love.
Waste not a drop.
The world needs this precious resource.
If you are down in the darkest depths, in the very nadir of Life, that is good because that is where you will find love's source.
The world needs you to find it.
The love we find on the surface is cheap.
It is not genuine love.
Love takes digging and darkness.
So, dig, miners, dig.
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