Every form of love is worth it. Every form of love is the result of an offering, a detachment, giving up, a lack of care. A need to not think straight or properly, a yearning for a certain freedom that one does not have and continue to search for it without necessarily having to find anything that can be like it. Love is the churning of the frozen waters of life to make them move again. For love is the miracle of waters moving again, a baptism pronouncing the name of a greater love, almost known, always unknown, often nuanced by new waters of rivers that still run in and around us. Love is the longing for running waters, sometimes strong, sometimes gentle, sometimes muddy, sometimes polluted, sometimes cold, sometimes destructive, sometimes healing, sometimes shining, but always waters, always waters.
The search for love is the search for freedom, a way to get rid of a destiny imagined as fatalistic, immovable. Love is an undoing of the fatalities and constructed imagination and also the struggle to get rid of the unusual and unexpected fatalities that day-day life brings and creates and places in front of us. Love is a prayer asking for forgiveness, a shameless excuse for mistakes, a way of making life begin again from today, this time, forever. Love is the promise that life will never be as it was but it will be the best it can be from now on. Love is this confidence that the ills and the sensations of brokenness now can be amended with a special glue that holds everything and saves. Love is dramatic and flat, immense and ridiculous, a force, a beast, intense and careless. As the song says, love is what is between the cry of a cruel fate and sigh for the freedom of that destiny.
Lascia ch’io pianga
mia cruda sorte
E che la Sospiri libertà!
E che Sospiri,
Sospiri e che la libertà!
And by crying and sighing so much for this freedom, love is somewhat able to make a change. Love is the open wings of a new life, as if the gates of the avenue of samba opened to a new beginning, on a new story, and a new life begins now with 4000 dancers and colorful and invented wings, with the blessings of Bahia’s most beautiful mothers of saint and the rhythm of 350 drummers. Then, the crying ceases to be weeping and turns into singing, a singing of an unforeseen love. Now the freedom so longed for before turns into a smile and a lot of sweat from the body that now sings and dances and sings and dances and sings and dances and sings and dances until the aurora of a new day arrives.
Love is this insistence on the body to get up and walk, this unmitigated desire for an encounter, to prepare for life again, and live other loves just as beautiful and even more beautiful that ones we already experienced. Love is a prayer of faith with one eye closed and one open, waiting to see what you have just asked for. Love is the marks of the knee on the ground prostrate, giving, asking, seeking and giving oneself ridiculously, dangerously in our always broken entirety.
Love is this confusion in the heart that doesn’t know what to do when you think you love and that doesn’t know how to walk when you think you know what you want.
Love is the ending of the most beautiful song in order to hear a new song that has just begun on the turning tables of our hearts that someone put there without us knowing. Listen! Are you listening? Look how beautiful it is!
Love is tragedy turned into joy, tiredness that turns into strength for one more time, re-finding out what was hidden and lost in time. Love is the good news that the lost coin was found, grandmother’s earring that was hidden in a drawer and now rolls from back to front of the drawer when we wanted to just get a sock. Love is a love letter that insists on arriving in the mail, fragrant and kissed by red lips. Love is a crooked stick which is now turned into a support column of the life of others; the worthless that gains value in the hearts of a lover and consequently a place in the world. Love is an unexpected smile of one who looks back just to see us smiling and then never returns. Love is the cure for that which we don’t know hurts us anymore, it is to pass an eraser in the notebook at the end of the year to start writing it all again next year.
Every form of love is worth it. I need to learn to love! Since always and desperately loving, I need to learn how to love. I have all that love has given me, and I still need to learn to love.