At certain times of our lives, we may find that the thought of certain concepts; pain, fear, loss, success, or love, bring to mind very specific images.   Over time, we begin to associate two mutually exclusive things always with each other.
Often times, when I think of love, a specific face comes to mind. It is a bright one, and it often warms my from within. But there comes a time when Love and that face that we associate so often with love are no longer related. They grow beneath different suns, and evolve far apart as our lives progress.

But here we learn, or remember for the first time in a long time, that love has no face. Ask most people what love is, and you will probably watch them squirm as they attempt to assemble a reasonable definition. Love has no face. It lives within all things, can be produced from nothing, and belongs to no one. It flows through the ether of the universe freely, and it is always in abundance for those who can facilitate it. Love has no face. It has no identity. Love is all things, and all things can love, and can be loved. The loss of one love is not a loss, merely a change, from one recipient of attention to another. Not a loss, but a change. To ‘loose’ a love is only an opportunity to find love elsewhere; all around, flowing constantly from inumerable directions, and radiating from a location deep within that has no origin.

In the past, this reality has presented itself to me under sparkling sunlight, adjascent and immersed in glittering oceans, and amongst the company of snow-covered monoliths. Some of the most tumultous periods of my life have seen themselves settled in these settings. The sharpest pains have been quelled in the company of myself, and the green grasses of mountain meadows.
Walking through the countrysides of Basque and Riojan Spain has reiterated said truths. In these past weeks, when the heart and soul has been under great stress, forced to face painful truths, and devoured by unfamiliar pain, I take to my feet. Whether beneath frigid rain, biting wind, or glowing sun; walking has helped. Many mornings I have left a small, sleeping city, feeling as though only a few steps would bring me to crumble under the weight of my own thoughts. I walk slow at first, absorbed, swimming, drowning. By the edge of the city my legs are ready, and I drive myself into the countryside. Unimportant is the number of fellow pilgrims on the trail at any given time, because I am in good company. In what first seems to be solitide, I remember my companions along any trail. The beautiful trees that hum in a cold wind, and the symphonic songbirds that call them home are familiar friends, even this far from home. The rolling hills, lush in a thriving emerald green, sometimes brings a smile to my face, especially when the morning dew sparkles like distant stars. Some days I am lucky enough to be reminded that Mother Sun always watches over me, and to her I can confess all my fears and throbbing pain. As I walk, I remember that I need not be distressed as to whether a river of love flows between myself and a single other transient being, because love is not in shortage. I love the ground that holds my weight. I love all that is green and brown, trees and grass and earth, and especially the vibrant gifts that are flowers. I so deeply love the birds that serenade us as we wake or walk or drift off to sleep in the grass. I remember that These things, these places, remind me of how much love I have to give, and then I remember that I too love myself. I remember how silly it is to allow myself to hurt for something that cannot be touched, and that those wounds heal as soon as I tell them to.
The ever-present tempest of love that we occupy is sometimes so easy to forget. Never feel as though you are deprived of love, because you need not recieve or give it. Love always. Love infinitely.