Tonight I can't stop thinking about a baby - a tiny soft animal that I am missing. He's my nephew, a 6-month old. He is all softness and perfection. His eyes are the most unveiled world I have ever looked into. But he is not my baby. I am just an Aunt, living far away, and he only knows me when I am there. But he knows everything, everything that I've forgotten. Is it just longing that stretches out the walls of my heart? I can't make him love me or want to see me. He is... a wild animal. Infancy is such a wild animal.
When I startle deer in the woods, they don't trust me, they don't stay. They don't see my heart beating in a pulpy tender glow. Music, art... don't see it either. The things that move me don't stop moving; I can't make anything come from me, or come back to me. I can only make what I can make. And give it away. But it means I get to love wherever and however I need to love. I can toss handfuls of it in every direction; it goes out and keeps going. Or I can let it circle around me in humming layers, and go floating out to somebody else. I'm so glad I just get to love. Even if it deepens my longing to be loved. I just am glad I get to love.
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