This is just a small, innocent memory, but it stands out in mind, even to this day. The reason is that it was the exact moment I learned about unconditional love.

I must have been no older than 4, but the conversation I had with my mother synapsed together so many neurons, so firmly, that it rose above the mental ocean of my 4-year-old mind. At that age, thoughts ebb and flow; some stick, some don't. This one did, and no swells of churning whitecaps could wash it away. It was a castle made of--not sand--but blood, clotting harder than titanium. Those synapses raised a cortical island protruding to the limitless sky forever in my mind.

"Mother?" I asked. I was in the bathtub, probably old enough to be left alone in the water, but she didn't think so. As such, these tub-time conversations were common. All just part of the quotidian family life as we know it. Or at least, as I knew it.

"Yes?"

"Um, if someone said you had to cut off your arm or have someone cut off my arm, what would you say?" One of a thousand thousand what-if questions that tub-time evoked. I don't know what surprised me more--her answer or the immediacy of her answer.

"Mine, of course," she answered without even thinking. Like a spinal reflex.

I was stunned. Four years of age is a time when you're still navigating between the id and the ego, the self and the rest, the œdipal and the solipsistic, the one and the many. Therefore, her answer, "Of course," gave me pause. Little stupid, immature, pediatric pause.

"Really?" I asked, just to confirm. "Your arm...your whole arm?"

"Well, sure," she said, as if she were talking about water being wet or offering to dry my hair.

I mean...I know she was my Mom. I get that now. But an arm is a pretty big deal. It was a pretty good feeling to know that my arm was second in line for any arm chopping-off maniac that might be lurking. She didn't even have to think about it.

I would have thought about it. Maybe I'd say the right thing, but I'd definitely think about it first. An arm is worth thinking over.

Today I realize this was apples and oranges. It is a mother's inclination to--"of course"--sacrifice anything for her child. Give her life, even. (So, is an arm really that big a deal?) The reason this was oranges, too, is because I was not obligated to return the gesture, from an existential point of view. I was the child. I didn't have to give up an arm for her. It wasn't a two-way sentiment.

Or should I?

Which, of course, was the next question. From her: "What about you?"

"What about me, what?" I asked, but I knew. I knew.

"What if someone asked you whose arm to cut off?"

My answer was not so immediate. I started thinking about my arms, my hands, my fingers, my legs, feet, and toes, and on and on. I think my answer answered her question and she wasn't even upset. Even at that age I knew I was right-handed. That's what I was thinking about.

"Can I pick which arm?" I asked.

"No, she said, because it would be none of yours. Just mine. But that's silly." She held up a towel in both of her highly-valued hands. "You won't have to pick anything to lose while I'm around. Ever. Here, lemme dry your hair."

I had forgotten about this until after she had died at the age of 96. My brothers and I had to give a little talk at her funeral service, and I just went on about how much I loved her, how great a Mom she was, and the usual crap you'd expect.

And then I remembered the tub-time amputation conversation and realized that she was the one who taught me about unconditional love. That's what I should have spoken about. Besides its obvious truism, unconditional love, I remember now, is immediate and thoughtless. And so very real. And forever.

Fleeting thought, joy sublime

Sudden smile, dopamine high

From where did this come?

Pleasure out of the blue?

Oh right… I traced it back

It is always you

At midnight

when

I cannot sleep

and thoughts run

dark

and wild

and deep

and tears

inside

I cannot keep

and death

to me

seems

oh so sweet

as knife-like

pain

tears through

my heart

and rips

and tears

my soul

apart

and fills

the cracks

with angst

and woe

for actions

taken

long ago

I ask

and pray

and beg

and plead

God hear

these words

of them

take heed:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray thee lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray thee Lord my soul to take --

which leads

to existential doubt

and many-layered

apprehension

does God exist

or is He just

a figment

of imagination

does it even

really matter

if there is

a something after

if who we are

will never know

what really is

above

below

till we are dust

or ash

or mist

at one

with what

is infinite..

such are

the thoughts

my mind

does weave

at midnight

when

I cannot sleep.

The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it's not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of another person--without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. They allow the other absolute freedom, because they know that if the other leaves, they will be as happy as they are now. Their happiness cannot be taken by the other, because it is not given by the other.

Osho Rajneesh

Funny how one single read can shift a whole life long constructed and reinforced idea one has on the word love. Grateful to have found this today.

Opening my heart to people has always been easy, Ive always loved to help people and see them smile, but at what cost? Sometimes, I don’t know when to close my heart, not everyone is as good as they portray themselves to be and there are moments where I have a hard time deciphering that. I’m naive at times, but I stay compassionate and loving but it has brought me more anguish than “love”. Still, I can’t seem to close it and that’s ok. Its easier to love than to carry around the bourdon of hate.

But there have been times, where the same person I thought I loved, the same person I cared for so much, just disappeared from my train of thought. From my whole existence in a blink of an eye. I had closed my heart to the thought of them and they became nothing. I felt peace knowing they were gone from my reality. I didn’t have to hate them or love them or miss them. They were just gone.

I asked for strength, and was given difficulties to make me stronger.

I asked for wisdom, and received problems to solve.

I asked for courage, and dangers appeared to overcome.

I finally asked for the best gift of all, love, I encountered troubled souls of broken human vessels to help heal.

I got everything I asked for.

Not him

or her

or them

or even it;

not illness

of mind

or body;

not limitations

of opportunity

for any extraneous lack --

of money,

of time,

of support,

of connections,

of education,

of experience--;

alas,

ultimately,

the greatest impediment

to dreaming

a life

then living

that dream

comes

from within--

fears,

insecurities,

anxieties;

self-

doubt,

disparaging

deprecating,

belittling,

criticizing,

ridiculing;

insurmountable

invisible

walls.

There is

nothing

more

in my way

than

me.

Not being able to look at the mirror and see the same person standing there,

Trying to fix the cracks that are deeper than any crater,

Words you've spoken out in anger,

Tears of mascara becomes the lines that you've drawn around yourself and others,

Nothing but a stranger looking back at you with cold brown eye's,

Bloodshot tears, and separate shards of glass that split your reflection,

Glimpses of who you were cast looks upon you in judgement,

How could this happen?

A question that never really has a simple answer,

The bruises under your eye's are like patina,

A painful reminder of every sleepless night,

As you continue to look for yourself inside of the shards.