Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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When you were a child, they taught you to love big, to stretch your arms for a wide embrace and believe in another. The mothers found the fathers, and so there were children born in days of promise, when glass seas reflected doting Godlight and clear days afforded views of comfortable tomorrows. It was simple, this lesson: love and be loved. Adversities were eggshells underfoot, and effort was a reflex, a hand rising when the periphery spies approach. And it was easy! As youth exposed naive hearts, you would look, find, kiss, move, and fall sweetly, freely as if the height were only a fence length and not the cliff it later appeared when circumstance evolved, standing upright and new hands grabbing at dangerous impracticalities. A willing heart now a sin, this instructed allegiance to hope is viewed as religious fervor, like what’s required to madly dance with asps. Still the eyes stay open, the arms of the student stretching as if wings to catch impossible flight despite the hard rain of obligation and routine obscuring the path to big love. Connection’s a spark in a vacuum, starved of the rich oxygen of faith that you could find clarity again, that the deluge of now would cease and the road ahead revealing itself as a highway bisecting a desert. Walk West and each step, whether careful or stumbling, inches you closer, your arms unyielding, eyes unflinching, heart unguarded and belief hungry for a sea’s gentle, cool caress. It’s immeasurably far away, math failing to provide measure and logic daunting due to empirical uncertainty, but what’s taught rolls over facts, crushing sense and reason. Nothing is stronger than a heart searching for home, and though tomorrow appears unlikely, the sun rises once again and you walk as instructed, step by step toward love.


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