The other day, I noticed a bunch of blood red hibiscus flowers in my garden and I borrowed something like hope and love from them. These little grey birds that flock about in groups rejuvenated me with their comical stubborn to find grub from the lawn.
Little things have begun to matter a great deal. Love matters a lot more than before. Whether one digs into the portion of love allotted on the plate or not is another story. I want to dig in.
Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to fall in love. I wrote many poems about the exercise only to realize now that I somehow mixed up the labels. It was not the love of my liking, not a manifestation of my earliest desires. Strange, how desires can take on the garb of nostalgia.
Nostalgia. Memories mixed with pain. And yet, so futile how many times we throw ourselves up to willingly get engulfed in memories that cause pain. It takes time to convince oneself that memories can be sorted and sieved, decorated or discarded, kept or thrown away. Memories are not objects, I know, but they clutter in the same manner. Over a period, I have undertaken an exhausting task of decluttering. I feel lighter, happier.
It is all in the little things. Meeting eyes. Saying yes. A squeeze of the hand. A hug. Being kind. Little things lead to love. I may be there. I have decided I am not going to be afraid. I have decluttered and I will dig in.
