the incredible transcendence of love.

Hello.

I’m in Sweden still. It’s a tiny bit crazy.

I promise I leave the house (in fact see lightyearinsweden.wordpress.com for all the things I do in fact do), but today I’m inside for a bit and I got to sorting the old photos on my computer and I started a new folder called loved people. In it, easily enough, are pictures of the people I love. Not all of them. But it made me think about the times and places I’ve been, and where my love stretches to, especially now that I’m out of the radius where most of my love has been for the last twenty years.

I am loved, and that has always been true. And much of it is demonstrated by the pictures in my loved people folder. But another true thing is that I love, very deeply and as much as my feeble understanding allows (for, as I have questioned before, can you love if you don’t know what it means to love?).

I wonder a lot what love is.

I think it’s a lot of things.

For instance, I wrote in the spring at the very beginning of my relationship with Sam, I don’t know what love it is but I think somewhere wound up in it is the way he reaches for my hand when he can’t see.

I think it’s my sister Anna goofing off in pictures because she knows we’ll laugh and hug her.

I think it’s my sister Kristen doing my hair on my senior prom night, because she’s better at it than I am.

I think it’s my grandparents coming to years and years of piano recitals.

I think it’s cousin hugs.

I think it’s Hannah wearing the hat I made for her in junior year of high school.

I think it’s my other grandparents coming to pick me up from Sjölunden.

I think it’s when Derek took my newly-dumped self to senior prom.

I think it’s my mom teaching me to skip in the backyard when I was four.

I think it’s my dad kissing the top of my head when I come home of a weekend and play the piano.

There’s more. There always is. It’s endless.

It sometimes strikes me as crazy that I can feel so much love for people so far away. (Something like 7000 miles, if you’re interested, depending on to which of my loved people we’re referring.)

But I guess that’s what love is.

Okay, cheeseballs. I’m out.

 

 

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