A belly full of Rumi

I fall in love too easily. In a snap I'm head over heels with some new paintings that must be painted, some new project that must be completed or, when I'm lucky, some new relationship. And that love is so satisfying when I first engage it. It makes me want to just jump over the edge and let myself get completely saturated. I crave getting lost in it and stuffing my belly over full with sweetness.

But every practical voice pushes me back from that precipice. Don't forget that you have a day job and can't just sit around thinking about art. Don't forget that you have other responsibilities and can't just focus on what you love to do. Don't go too far, too fast. It's important to remain steadfast in your own identity and play cool in your approach. Plan, and don't get lost in that love; it could make you crazy. I always pull the caution card. Muffle enthusiasm. Play the game. Can't have someone thinking you're one of those crazy people who loves shit and shit.

How can any love, no matter its distance from the divine example, be bad? Is the fruit of love such the danger or the ornaments of need we also hang from her branches? How could it be such a problem to fall helplessly in love with - whatever is there that can be loved - an it, that, or him?

What if I just left myself fall into that ocean? I could go overboard, get carried away, exert no control over the outcome. I might dissolve and disappear and lose my life as I have, up to now, enjoyed life. This is exactly what I've avoided.

But perhaps I would emerge from the deep again - bathed of some misguided apprehensions and expectations. I don't know.