Love isnโ€™t something you choose. It chooses you. And then you respond, because it loves you so dearly it erodes like the gentle erosion of the rocks by the water, your ability to choose at all. It comes to you unbidden, like the sun spilling on the leaves, which raise their faces to it, generating energy and life. It is like the wind, turning the great earth like a turbine. It is like the sea, covering the earth, like the waters upon the bedrock of the earth. It is like the sky, reaching infinitely, endlessly wide and broad and generous, and none of us can ever plummet sound to measure its black depths.

You can like something but not love it; you can love something and not like it. But it is always foolish to turn away from love. Love is what will rescue us. Love is what will redeem us. Love will define us. What will remain of us is Love.

I wanted to write about Truth. I wanted to write about Beauty. I wanted to write about Freedom. But what I ended up writing about is always the same thing, the only thing, the one thing rescued from the depths of a broken world, and I have always known that it was this thing that compels me, that drives me, that ravishes me, that binds me. And that is the thing that would give up everything for me โ€“ the thing that stretches out its hands, bleeding, for the lost amongst the devastation, after the deluge, after the apocalypse, after the quake. Pure as fire, pure as water, my soul has been cleansed of all illusion and delusion now, and I just want to write clearly, cleanly, about this thing.

(rescued from a novel-writing notebook from 2011-2)

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