Love Grows

Love is the planting of a seed, and careful nurturing, brought upon by devotion of time and energy. And then in worshipping one day to realise that a plant has been born. Love, then, is to marvel in its tendrils, and look at amazement at the fact that its previous non existence is now unimaginable.

Love is not looking at the sky and finding new colours. Love is to notice all the familiar hues, and yet find life and wonder in them. Not to love flowers anew, but to develop an appreciation for them.

Love is not some momentous occurence, wrought in a moment of glory of magnanimous happenings, heroic deeds, tales of folk and lore, of stories worth human praise and admiration and thirst and longing for generations to come. Love is to be found in everyday companionship. In ordinary kindnesses, so ordinary that almost unnoticeable. Love is the noticing of that ordinariness. Love is realizing that something special has been done by a person of the valleys, in all that he was capable of. Love is not expecting the lofty heights of the mountains. Because you wouldn't be able to deliver that yourself.

Love is not the mystery and charm of a little black dress, engulfed in champagne and darkness, encored by the music of seduction and danced in waltzes. It is not heady nights of rapture, where one seeks to impress and then take on from there. No falsehoods, assumptions, presumptions, imitations or impressions. Love is what one finds when encountered by genuineness. That despite all the flaws of that person and your own, that person loves you and you love him back. Love is not a rich mistress, who beckons you with her adventures. Love is found in the graces of your wife who still cleans your house and looks after your children.

Love is not a great fight between lovers, followed by a passionate display of emotions and movie-like love making beside an open fire on the carpet on snowy wintry nights. It is not the flying across continents with a special motif in hand, armed with a guitar to perform a rendition for your lady and win her over to a happily ever after. Love is the continual struggle in ordinary grimy existence to reach out to each other, to keep the communication channel still flowing, even though temptations to be rude and mean and hurtful are rather strong. Love is the uneasiness gnawing at you until you make up to him or her. It is the long last wordless embrace at night that finds comfort in the other, and sends its thanks to God for such a person in your life.

Love is not the sparks of the first sight. That is simply the seed. The actual love is what follows, if at all. Love is to love the character and nature and eccentricities of a person after long exposure, and still want to be exposed to them everyday. It is not the tumultuous, whirlwind courtship that leaves you out of breath, even though you might dream of that. It is not the wine rich, sandy and sunny, happy, gift strewn honeymoon period. Love is the testing of the solidity of the marriage afterwards, which is fraught with bills to pay and meals to cook. Love is not a heavy diamond rock you wear on your ring finger for occasional showing off. It is the simple band that has left permanent impressions on your skin, and in which you take comfort.

Love is not the choosing of a partner after careful analysis, spying by friends, inquiries made by relatives, detectives hired to foray into pasts, checking of Facebook histories and Tumblr accounts. It is the deep seated, inexplicable conviction of your own heart when, even though you have known very little of his or her life, you just know that this a gem of a person, and the best for you.

Love is not passionate love making of Kama Sutra standards on a daily basis. It is not only deep throated smooches and uncontrolled impulses. Love is also the simple peck on the cheek, which simply says, "Here I am, and here I will be." It is a cuddle which does not necessarily lead to passionate throes, but often to long, sweet, fulfilling sleeps, having received a fragrance and warmth of the other. Love is an embrace, where you simply hold her, engulf her, let her rest herself against you for as long as she pleases and close her eyes, all the while as you gently rock her back and forth. Love is to let him know, in that embrace, that he is your hero, your blanket, your home. Love is to tell him that you fear nothing, with him by your side. Love is to be able to know when his arms begin to ache, and gently withdraw, and become the support instead.

Love is not Jack's beanstalks that erupt overnight. Love grows.