Will or Love

If will was love I would have committed over and over again.

If to want something hard enough was to love it, I would have the monumental feeling debunked.

I wish it were that simple but it’s not. I have willed myself to love many things in this life, a circumstance, a man, a job, a version of myself, but it doesn’t happen like that.

Love sometimes operates on a hair-trigger. With a twitch of my finger, I have the power to blow holes in my life. Love opens wounds and exposes my raw insides to the surface.

Love has the power to kill me.

Love sometimes is like my pair of oversized muck boots I wear when bringing my horses up in the evening. I will be wading through mud to get to a gate and the entire boot is sucked off of my foot. Before I know what’s happened the only thing separating my toes from the cold sludge is my thin cotton sock. The more I move the deeper my foot is plunged.

Love fills the tiny crevices between my toes and the cool unfamiliarity feels surprisingly good.

There is a thin line to be walked between will and love. When I am in control, I walk a steady path between the two, eyes forward, shoulders relaxed. But with no warning, a strong wind can come along and throw me off balance.

I do not want to be at the mercy of the wind. It is safe and steady in the middle and going too far into love is dangerous.

But the thing about wind is I can’t control its direction or power. I ask myself, is it the love that is dangerous or the thing that I am loving?

I will myself to love the easy things, the sure things, and the safe things, but the wind is never strong enough to push me over the thin line. Even though I try, I cannot control the wind. She blows with might when she chooses but not when I beckon her.

Maybe this is because the wind knows more than I do or maybe it is because she enjoys having the power to create love and love lost.

I hope she is a kind wind and I hope the next time she blows hard it is in the direction of something beautiful.