It is a crisp, North Florida morning, a sunshine bright 33°, although the day may warm to the high 60s.
What warms the heart will eventually warm the body is my energy mantra.
I dress in layers for this is not a day that favors autoimmune disease, anemia, or arthritis. It is a day for reading–and surfing the Internet–which often brings to mind works once read.
If it is true that there are as many minds as there are heads,
then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts.
It is the phrase “kinds of love” that reminds me of a 1989 May Sarton novel of the same title. The novel details a year of life in Willard, a small New England town; it centers around four, aging characters who offer the love they have. Of course, it is not always the kind of love wanted.
It is difficult that one, accepting the love given. As Mignon McLaughlin reminds, “It is the hardest-learned lesson.” But when we do accept love as it is given, there is no higher. It is pure in its offering and in its acceptance.
It is a kind of love that remains rare. Perhaps the why and how of that is among those questions Mary Oliver asks of her roses.
What are the kinds of love? Or is there only one kind? If we could just reach into reality and touch it, hold it in our heart, like the rose being a rose.
Surely, there is no higher love.