I wrote my novel with conceptions about how love should feel. Love kicked, love judged, love hated, love criticized. By the end of writing my novel, I realized all of those things were not love at all. Love was compassionate. Love was freedom. Love was beauty. Love was happiness. Love, well it just loved.

I am still looking for that love. For that divine mate who will be mine and I will be his. Someone who does not demand me to be someone I am not and someone who I do not want to change. Someone who loves me for who I am and someone I love for who they are. Someone who is kind, compassionate, soulful, intelligent, funny and sexy. Someone who responds to every part of me without judgment. Someone who will play with me and let me play with him but not in a mean-spirited way, but in a child-like way that allows our spirits freedom from the adult world-- from what is expected of our expectations, from what is hoped for our hopes, from what is deemed worthy of our worth.

I wonder if I will find it. I think it would be just that I do. After all, I have been so very patient. I know the Universe responds to patience and to faith. I have both even though I get sidetracked from time to time, mistaking loneliness for permanent exile and un-ending despair. I am sure you all know what I mean (all 0 of you) reading my blog. It doesn't stop me from writing. In my world, trees that fall in the forest are heard, even if no one is there to hear it.