by Wendell Berry
Like the water
of a deep stream,
love is always too much.
We did not make it.
Though we drink till we burst,
we cannot have it all,
or want it all.
In its abundance
it survives our thirst.
In the evening we come down to the shore
to drink our fill,
while it flows
through the regions of the dark.
It does not hold us,
except we keep returning to its rich waters
willing to die,
into the commonwealth of its joy.
I like this poem a lot, if only because it talks about love without being the cliche, overly romantic, only between lovers type of love poem. Plus the author was recommended to me by someone I consider a pretty good friend. And it’s so true.
I feel like I am capable of love. I didn’t used to, or at least I haven’t for a while. But this year has been amazing, in so many ways. I am honestly in a great place, emotionally. A year ago (or in about a month it will be a year ago) I was not ok emotionally. I was totally done with the whole “feelings” thing. I didn’t feel. Anything. But last summer and slowly over the last two semesters, I have come to a place where if you asked me to tell you the names of friends that I love, I might need both hands to count them. And any time that I spend with them is like the water, very satisfying, but never enough, never more than I need. I will always be thirsty again.
Just thought I’d get that off my chest. Good night, sweet dreams, etc.