A morning of love

It is Monday morning. My grandmother’s old coffee cup, with golden edges and hand-painted flowers, is warm between my hands. I sit by the table in front of the window, with my pen and notebook. Breathing in the morning. Breathing in the freshly brewed coffee. Some lazy, low clouds are resting on the snowy mountain sides.

 

In this moment, I suddenly realize, I don´t know what love is.

 

What I have understood as love my whole life, is merely the grasping for another, the clinging to another. This empty space, this vacuum inside of me, which make me believe that I need someone else to fulfill me.

 

The «need» for a boyfriend. The clinging to my children. The fear of losing someone. The need for some recognition from others; for acceptance, being liked, being «loved».

 

The fear of not being loved.

 

The very idea that love needs something outside of me to fulfill itself.

 

I don´t know what happened on this monday morning of freshly brewed coffee and lazy clouds.

 

I closed my eyes. I rested, inside myself. Felt the stillness under my own eyelids. The soft embrace of my own skin. The warm, cozy fire of my heart. The forest, whispering inside of me; «come, Savini, come».

 

I realized how many times I have «in the name of love» escaped from this space of self trust and self love. How many times I have grasped for someone on the outside, thinking it is love, while it in reality has been nothing but an avoidance of being alone, of being naked – with me.

 

How I have searched for someone else to fulfill me, or support me, because I haven´t really trusted, and rested in, my own presence and my own two feet.

 

I sat down by the mirror, tears running down. «Forgive me», I said.

 

She smiled at me, as she has smiled since before time began.
She laughed at me, so freely, so untouched by my tears and guilt.

 

«Welcome», she said, «I am happy you see me again».

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