A love letter to you, my darling
Keep it in your back pocket when you find it
Dear Lover,
This is written on the fragile parchment paper of your heart. It’s a letter from me to you, written in ink that dreams of permanence but knows its fate is to dissolve into the fibers of what is already whole. What can the etching of ink ever do beside attempt to stain(in ignorance) the whiteness of what’s ever so pure, pristine, untouched and eternal? Please remember this for as long as you remember me.
I have found a love that’s so deep and so wide, so infinite, it defies all borders and boundaries, a love that transcends space and time and flows through the unseen threads that connect every and all things. These words will never express this inexpressibility. They fall so painfully short in describing the indescribable. But here I am, trying — squeezing out of this metaphoric ink what cannot be said perfectly.
Darling, I am in no need for love, for my love emanates out of my own radiance. I am love itself. I seek no peace. All my life I looked forward to things finally settling in order to recognize peace. I waited for the world to settle, for the external storms to cease, believing peace was the calm that followed. But peace was right here all along, woven into the very storm— the eye within the hurricane. I know this may sound crazy but as you say, it is what it is.
I thought I could acquire property, partners, assets and good looks to find joy. So I built myself an edifice built with the bricks of these possesssions, relationships, accolades and physical beauty. Who would have known that joy is the vanilla simplicity that resists being bottled. It flows, untethered and unyielding, through every act, every breath and every mis-step. It is the source so inexhaustible it renders all seeking obsolete. It’s this insatiable, unsatisfiable well and my goodness springs from it. No, not a goodness of morality. But a goodness that’s stemmed from my own very being. Even my failures are but misguided attempts to channel its boundless energy.
I know what it’s like to cower in fear, to hide behind veils of lies, to lay in bed suffocating in the dampness of a bed soaked in tears of despair. I thought something was wrong with me. But now I see these shadows as the misunderstanding of my own light. Not flaws! Distorted reflections of a truth that was never absent— just an obscuration of my own being!
My love, I possess very little. I do. From time to time, my pockets may be empty, but my soul brims with an abundance that nothing external could ever provide. In fact, I see clearly that I have all I need. I want for nothing. When I turn inward, when I gaze into the boundless depths of my being, there is no absence, no void to fill. Oh, of course, from time to time, needs will arise. Whatever arises, collapses. But even then, I trust in Life’s silent promise—that what is truly needed will be given. This trust is not naïveté; it is the deepest knowing, an unshakable confidence in the currents that carry me. I am totally complete.
Talking of completeness, I will never look to you to complete me. How could I? Completeness is the essence of what I am, the absence of which there is nothing, the whispered secret at the heart of all philosophy, all art, all religion, all science. And yet, darling, I will reach for you. I will stretch out my hand, not from need but from fullness, from the overflowing joy of recognizing myself in you. My yearning for you is your yearning for me— a resonance, wholeness calling to itself through the illusion of separation.
Finally Love, my expressions of love seek no return or reciprocity. It is not transactional. It overflows because it cannot do otherwise. It is a river that knows no dam, a sun that cannot help but shine.
Do you understand? No, do you see? Do you see it yet? Do you feel it as you read these words? This letter is yours as much as it is mine. It is my heart writing to yours, your heart writing to mine, my essence calling to yours. I am the Beloved; you are the Divine. I am the Divine, you the Beloved. You, yes you— reading this now, are the eternal recipient of this love, which has no sender
… and no end.
Love,
me, Ṣẹ̀yẹ
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