The No. 1 thing most songs, paintings, movies, books concern themselves with is love.
We define love, debate love, argue love, scorn love. We confused love for passion, love for sex, love for like.
Here is love …
Last night, while taking out the trash, I scraped off a huge chunk of my left big toe on the cement curb. It stung, but only upon returning to the house did I see the enormous gash oozing blood from beneath my nail. It was super nasty and super painful, and I wound up dripping blood all over a beige carpet.
Catherine, the wife, came to the bathroom, armed with towels. She cared for the cut sans thought, then went spot to spot and cleaned it. She didn’t see it as overly gross or nasty or something you don’t do.
She just saw it as a person she cared for in pain.
She saw it as love.
