He Loves Me
"Ever has it been that love knows not of its own depth until the hour of separation." ~Kahlil Gibran
As a little girl I would gather daisies from the grassy field behind my schoolyard playground. As I gazed up at the blue sky and passing clouds, I would succumb to juvenile daydreams of what love was going to be like. I picked every flower I could find and methodically tugged at each petal, one by one, repeating, "He loves me, He loves me not" until I came to the very last petal. When I realized that the ending of my little game would be anything different, I would repeat "he loves me" until the last petal was plucked. Pleased with the cleverness of my routine, I nestled further into the grass and drifted in and out of my daydreams.
Back then, I was just a little girl who knew nothing of true love. The only love I knew was crudely tarnished by sexual abuse. During those years lost in the field of flowers, I intuitively seemed to convince my heart that shutting down permanently was not an option. The bell would ring and children scattered toward their classrooms, but I could not move until my ritual of love hoped for was complete. I would close my eyes, inhale deeply, and with one powerful thrust of upward motion, I would throw every petal to the sky. I would then sprint back to class without looking back as if I my claim to true love would vanish if I witnessed the petals falling to the ground.
Picking Flowers in Recovery
As part of my recovery, I have returned often to that field of flowers during meditation in hopes of healing the wounds that kept my heart in a fortress, far away from the chance of ever having to admit that maybe one day "He loves me not" would be the reality of my flower game. The truth was, as long as I chose not to fully love myself, the answer would continually be, "he loves me not." Not because I was unlovable or unworthy, but because I was not ready yet. I had to believe, without a doubt, that when I became whole and soulfully in love with myself HE would find me. He would forever be the one who secures the very last petal of my heart.
"He Loves Me"
I now sit in the garden of self love as flowers bloom all around me, butterflies feverishly flutter from my heart and my stomach, and I have no choice but to succumb to the love that pours from a space that knows only the presence of true love. I have done the work necessary to be open to the creative space that allows this unconditional love to bloom. The soil of my soul is being fortified with compassion, empathy, kindness, and the ability to recognize how powerful it is when a lover comes for the heart. Not with a torrid physical romance, but with patient and tender words that create a bond of strength that scales the walls of my cadged heart beckoning it to trust the kind of love that is limitless and forever expansive. This kind of love creates wide open spaces that plants deep roots into each others soul. I am bewildered by the magnificent vibrancy found in the hue of true love.
You, my love, have come to me in search of fulfillment, yet we have fulfilled each other. You sprinkled the essence of love over my heart and I am at mercy in the depth of your courage to do so. You have taken my sadness away and replaced it with a tenderness that eradicates my stale belief that true love, for a woman of trauma, does not exist. My truth is exactly what I felt it would be so many years ago, "He loves me!"
Every fiber of my being is in love with you. You are my light and my shadow. Lover and loving are inseparable and timeless. My words only capture feelings, but the glory of this love renders me speechless.