I am feeling love. I’m receiving this love from art. Art=love, I think. And art & love are connection. And eating is connection. With the earth, with people, with the other living things on the earth.
And yoga is connecting with your self, connecting your whole self. Loving your whole self. And that is an art. It feels like art. Because the connection is creation. and creation is art/love.
So many words to express a different, tiny permutation of the same huge THING. Some call it God. I’m going to call it Love.
When you Love something (love, the verb) you feel connected to it. It’s when you feel you’ve lost connection that you feel unloved.
Whoever grew your food gave of themselves to the plant, which produced that food. So that person, that farmer, is loving you, connected to you.
And whoever wrote that song and sang it (or only sang it) – painted, sculpted, drew, glued, knitted, sewed, ad glorious infinitum – is reaching out for connection, looking for love. And you hearing that song and loving it, feeling connected to it, are accepting that love.
Money is a poor medium for the transmission of love. Hard to see the love (though it is often there) in the greenback, or the numbers on the screen. Not much love felt while shopping at WalMart, but New Seasons is full of people with love to share.
This is why the crayon-drawn card from the 4-year-old, with horrific spelling and a dog that looks like a circle, is more prized than the pretty Hallmark w/the singing frog. The love is the only thing clear in the hand-made card, unobscured by glossy paper and microchips.
Twitter seems a strange place to be collecting such love, but it has increased the love I’m receiving by leaps and bounds.
It becomes art when a stranger can recognize the love in a song or painting or poem or quilt.
I want to turn my money into love. That’s what I’ve been doing lately without being conscious of it. Lots of donations at Christmas. And after. And buying Art & supporting artists that have been spraying love all around them.