Only Love
after Joseph Fasano’s “English”
The poet wished for stronger words
for love.
Verbs that distinguish
between love of you
and love of turnips.
He’s right.
But maybe
that quirk of English
also points to something
fundamental.
Maybe it’s all love,
like everything
is atoms.
Maybe
the longing I feel
for the taste of you
and the taste of chocolate
spring from the same taproot.
Maybe
it’s the same love driving
the slow dance,
the errands we run for each other,
and the march of protest.
Beneath every ache
every sorrow
every argument
every reconciliation
every estrangement
every kind act
every harmful act
Love is pushing through
the cracks in our world.
It’s hidden, distorted,
sometimes misguided.
Look closer.
Love is not only the shoot pushing through,
not only the blossom blooming.
Love is dirt and fertilizer,
is compost heat
breaking things down,
feeding the roots,
bringing growth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day
—Naomi Shihab Nye, “Kindness”
I care deeply about the damage we are doing to each other and to the planet. But increasingly, I find myself uninterested in arguments that sort the world neatly into good and bad.
When I can see beneath the distortions — trauma, protection, upbringing, ideology — and glimpse the love underneath, possibilities for healing begin to appear. Without that, I have trouble seeing any paths forward.
If only I could see it more often and more clearly.