It finds you

I've been thinking a lot lately . . . about passion and life and love and how they all come together . . . or don't.  About which one I would choose if I had to . . . which I won't . . . because I can't. 

A friend asked me what my passion is, what is the one thing I could not live without, what do I need to be alive when all else is gone?  We finally decided it was writing, because I can write my life when I am overwhelmed by living it; celebrate it when I am overwhelmed by loving it; create it when it seems to be deserting me.

I have asked myself what life is.  Is it the need to biologically recreate myself to prolong the species, or the time I spend between my first and last breath, or the quality of the moments that define my bliss?

And love?  What is love, really?  I have had many loves in my life, but I think bestest has taught me the most about what it is at its best.  Bestest is so huge . . . not physically.  Physically bestest would fit into the clothes of a large boy.  It is the rest of him that is so enormous.  That other part of him, the part that laughs and cries, reaches out, thirsts and grows, knows love like no other person I have ever met. He epitomizes love with its endless-ness. 

Now I know that in some strange way, love can only be given.  It finds you and gives itself to you according to its depth and understanding . . . and that is no small thing.