Teacher of Love
She said to me, “I’ve met many students of love but never a teacher of love and that is what you are.”
Last night, I finished reading Tiny Little Things by Cheryl Strand and picked up again Stalking Elijah by Rodger Kamenetz. I’m almost finished with the book but it took a different turn in that the expert on Judaism was poo pooing the notion of a benevolent God who is looking out for us. Instead, he believes in the eastern version of the god within us. My head was swimming having just come from Little Gem where I went to hear Niyi Osundare, the Nigerian poet who came to the U.S. so that his deaf daughter could attend school and got to experience firsthand the 2005 Federal Flood. He and his wife escaped through the attic of their house. My head was full of this and that as I was contemplating sleep and suddenly my bedroom was crowded with Strand’s not so easy advice, Kamenetz’s frustrating search for Jewish sense, and now Osundare’s lyrical beat drumming in my head.
Am I that teacher of love? I’m starting with self-love again – oft forgotten or kicked to the curb – and now having to rekindle this love affair with my own self. The best part is knowing that you can always begin again.
Okay, I’ll take this title and I will wear it like a coat of arms. After all, I’ve been writing about love for a long time now.
