Month of Love

In February, I felt inspired to write a series of entries tagged “month of love.” It was a hectic month for me, a feast of love and obligations. I’ve got enough sense to know how lucky I am to have these “obligations”, that I had traveled halfway across the world for these “obligations”, but they took a lot out of me nevertheless.

And though I enjoyed being needed by family and friends, I needed me too. I needed me to sit by the window and watch the snow drift silently outside. I needed me to call Expedia, pick up my dry cleaning, and respond to emails! I needed me to light some candles and sink into a tub of bubbles.

I was drowning and writing saved me. I wrote late into the night after each exhausting day. The lack of sleep did not mitigate the chaos of February but it allowed me to breathe. I wrote about love as uncensored as I could. I took full advantage of the month and the at times unclear distinction between fiction and non fiction.

For the first time since I started using WordPress, after leaving behind more than seven years of faithful Xanga blogging, I finally took an axe to the previously formidable bounds of rwmscrambled. I hope it’s only the beginning.

In the month of love and since, I have received a lot of unsolicited advice. Advice such as “don’t take the risk or invest too much, you might get hurt,” “it’s better to not have feelings,” “don’t even try because it probably won’t work out.”

Come on!

Is that what life is supposed to be? Carefully planned steps that ensure we risk little and gain even less? Running away at the first sign of uncertainty? Locking our hearts in a steel case next to our dreams and tossing the whole thing as far as we can? Placing limits and conditions on our abilities and feelings?

I can’t live that way. Love has made me a believer.

Love it seems can survive even a war and a zero winter. Like the snow-raspberries, our host explained, love is like that, and he told us how these flimsy delicacies appear always in February, whatever the weather, whatever the prospects. No one knows why, when pines are withered at the roots and rough sheep have to be kept indoors, these impossible hot-house things still grow.

The Passion

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