The love I speak of is not an emotion, not as you know emotions. It is not up and down. It doesn’t make you beside yourself. It’s just there. We could call love an awareness, something like when you are aware how good the air smells after a morning’s rain.
It is awareness yet not exactly awareness of awareness, for true awareness is not of an object. Awareness of an object is a thought. Nothing wrong with thoughts, and with thoughts of love, yet the thought of love doesn’t quite have the luster. The same way, you can say God is a thought, yet a thought of Me doesn’t do justice to All That I Am. Yet, yes, there is an aspect of God that is a thought.
When there is a beautiful love poem, it evokes something in you. What it invokes is more than what the poem says. There is something in the words that awakens something in you. Yet love does not require words. It exists without words. A poem, as with Heavenletters, can only touch what is already yours.
We could say that love is something that is awakened in you, reawakened.
Love rolls down the hill of itself. Ultimately, it must be that love becomes aware of itself in its shining splendor. And yet love is itself before it notices. Love dormant becomes love alive, love adoring itself, love sitting up, love crowning itself, love pluming itself, love cheering in the stands, love igniting, love rampant, love laughing, love noticing it is All That There Is, love enjoying itself, love knocking down doors, love flooding the universe, love overtaking itself, surprising itself, meeting itself, playing hide-go-seek with itself, playing tag, catching itself, running into itself, making a mad dash for itself, surmounting itself, crashing upon itself like an ocean wave, seeping onto shore, filling every cranny, leaving no emptiness, yet full of nothing but itself, love going off like fireworks, loving taking charge of the crowds, rounding up hearts, appearing everywhere in front of itself.
The world has become a mirror of love, a maze of love that there is no getting out of, a dance of love, a mountain of love knocking itself down and reaching itself across the world, disbanding armies, recruiting lovers, a mass of love, a melting pot of love, an endless tale of love, love always love, always the same and yet always new, love fledgling, love a murmur of Me.
Is love My voice? Certainly it is My song. Certainly it is the tune I hum.
How can hearts contain so much love? How can love be so filling and yet desire itself at every moment?
And so love has to be known. It has to know itself. It has to know where it is from, and where it is going, even though it goes everywhere. Of course, love came from Me, and yet love was existent before creation. We can say that love was the impulse of creation, and it is pulsing still.
Love may be a mystery, but it is not obscure. Young children know what love is. Not a twig in the universe exists without love.
An apple from a tree is love burgeoning, expanding, and you eat love, you bite into it, you digest it, and the apple thanks you. Naturally, the apple loves you back. The apple may be eaten, but its appleness remains. And so is love. In fact, the more love is spent, the more there is. Love spits out its own seeds, so to speak.
And so love renews itself and flies free. Love is common, and yet it exults in itself. And you, beloved? What about you?