I won’t talk about love on this blog of mine.
Not the love you want to hear about, anyway.
The passionate love. The unexpected love. The love that falls apart.
A lifestyle like mine does make things interesting…
Or devastating, rather.
And stories of romance on the road are hardly scant.
You’ll find them if you try.
But…
I have a limit.
I draw the line at love.
The stories are mine. The secrets are mine.
The heartbreak is mine, all mine.
But I’ll tell you about a different kind of love
That stems from the same, vulnerable place.
You think,
What a loveless life she must lead,
This girl with no place to call home.
Traipsing all over the world…
It must be love she’s looking for.
Nope, no love here! Moving along…
It’s not to say you would be wrong, exactly…
But, well, you’d be wrong.
I already know where love is.
To search would be silly, unnecessary.
Because, you see,
I carry it with me.
Love wells up inside of me each time I set foot on unfamiliar soil.
It bubbles over the surface,
Landing where it may.
On a cobblestone street,
A rustic park bench,
In a glass of chardonnay.
It rubs off with every hug, every handshake,
Every kiss, every footstep.
But that love I leave behind?
It’s only a fraction of what I have to give, a drop in the sea.
Plenty more where that came from.
And anyway, I like to leave something nice when I go.
There’s no such thing as wasted love.
Then, when I’m on to the next place,
I carry love with me. There’s always more to give.
I’m not without love. I haven’t lost love.
I’m certainly not looking for love.
I am love.
Love in constant motion.
To let that love sit stagnant would be callous,
Like a snow globe no one cares to shake.
The beauty is not in the love that settles,
But in the love that floats freely, spills generously.
And that love spills most generously with each new corner of the world uncovered,
With each new stone unturned.
If not for the bountiful love that I have,
If not for the love that I am,
I might not be moving at all.
