Twitterpated

It’s Sunday night. The end of January is near. I am alone in the living room, Pete Yorn’s voice echoing in the space usually filled with voices. But tonight only my thoughts and my blanket accompany me. And I have had a splendid day.

Love strikes us all differently. For some it is warm: growing, aging, into realization. For other it is sharp, bright like summer lightening storms.

July storms in Saskatchewan light up the entire northern sky, jutting against climbing evergreens peaks.

I am a summer lightening storm sort of girl.

Today I walked at dusk through wheat fields. Fog and mist hug the green tips sprouting from the ground, cling to the barren trees that line dirt roads, hang suspended from the gray-blue darkening sky. This winter fog creates space, defines that which is otherwise hidden. You can, literally, see the un-seeable. Instead of blanketing, this mystic wet gray reveals.

Turns out I’m in love. I’m love with Punjab and the life I have created here. Before I was in like. But this is not like. Because like fades with dysentery and giadria’s four month bowel hell. Like dims with aching and breaking heartstrings. It crumbles before the constant discomfort, the constant frustration, the constant struggle. When distance forces goodbyes like tears, retreats, and surrenders.

But love….. love grows. Love sees past the hurt. It looks beyond. Love rises above the chilling cold instead of recoiling before the frost. It floats, warms itself with the heat of compassion, takes rest with friendships in January bloom. Love wraps itself around the constant discomfort, sooths the constant frustration, has patience with the constant struggle. Love is not blind--- no, no. It is forgiving. Love forgives us what we sacrifice in order to embrace what we gain.

And tonight… tonight, after five and a half months of romancing, tonight it is love.