She is angry, this woman of exquisite beauty and gentle heart. This child who was born of a mother's body on a day that lives forever as a miracle of life. This child who came fighting and screaming into the world, connected through a tube of life-giving sustenance that was severed at birth. Limbs freed. Body cut with a single slice from the cord that fed her for those nine months where she lay captive in the womb of her creation. Thrust into this world where she fought against the air breathing against her skin, the sun beating against her flesh.
There is no source to the anger. No "You did this and thus, I react so," reason. Hormones out of whack. A subterranean disquiet that surfaces when stars and moon misaligned like two tectonic plates grinding off the coast of Japan.
Sometimes, there is no reason for anger other than its need to be expressed. To be released. To be heard.
And in its expression there is and always will be, Love.
Even when its after-shock creates ripples of heat emanating from our bodies, that scorch and burn and thrust into the heart of those who love us. Even in our unquenchable thirst to suck dry the well of love, to prove to ourselves, for no other reason than we can, that we are undeserving, unworthy of that which has been bestowed upon us through the very act of birth. There is and always will be Love.
There is no disproving Love.
There is no killing of its essence. No tearing apart of its core. No ripping into shreds the fabric of its being all there is to Life. For no matter what weapon we pick up, what daggers we hurl or bullets we shoot, Love is always there. Love is always present, even in our darkest hour. Even at the moment of our death. Love is and always will be, present.
Love that endures, all our efforts to break it apart. To shatter it into a thousand pieces of proof, testifying to the lie we hold onto for fear the truth stored in a kernel of hope at the core of our existence will never be proved; we are worthy.
Accept it. It is true. We are worthy. We are Love.
There is no burning love. There is no destroying it. Converting it. Subverting it. There is no death to love.
Anger can be destroyed.
Fear can be subverted.
Lack of faith can be converted.
And love cannot die.
There is no end to love.
No matter how hard we fight to end it.
There is no end to love.
Love lives, always, and forever.
Such is Love.
No matter how hard we try to walk away, to sever the ties that bind us, there is no going back to a place we never left.
We are born in Love. Created through an act of unifying love that created all the world around us. There is no returning to the womb. No going back to that place where we were immersed in the mystery and the mysticism of our creation.
We cannot return to the womb. We cannot return to Love. We never left. And love never left us.