Once there was a Lover who turned attentions toward a Beloved. These two spent many hours together, playing, laughing, learning one another, and adoring more and more with the passing of the days.
The Lover’s passion for the Beloved grew to such an amount that not only the time that they spent together was considered a blessing, but the absence of the Beloved produced the strangest effect, that the Lover became consumed with thoughts of the Beloved – so much so that everywhere the eye turned, the mind would be spurred by thoughts of the Beloved being near, appreciating the experience with the Lover, and how the Beloved would respond to what was there.
The Lover was so enamored with the Beloved, the Lover asked of the Beloved some kind of manifestation of mind, words, in the form of letters. The Beloved, who appreciated the adoration, was happy to oblige.
The Lover poured over every letter that the Beloved presented. Each word, syllable, letter, became of such importance to the Lover, that the time spent with the Beloved became time that could not be spent with the letters of the Beloved, and the Lover spent more and more time alone, at home, reading over the letters. The Beloved, still appreciating the implication of love in the attitude of the Lover, continued to write the letters, and filled them with messages of affection, of care, and of longing for the next time they would again be together.
Over the many years, the Beloved continued to write, and the Lover continued to read and care for the letters, collecting them, organizing them, saving them. And while the actual time spent together had dwindled down from the days of initial infatuation, the connection and appreciation for one another was still as consuming.
The Lover’s eyes, strained from the reading of letters by candlelight and starved by being unable to feast upon the sight of the Beloved, began to fail. And the Lover came to decide that the frail eyes should not spend any more time pouring over the old letters, and instead save their sight for only the new ones, that arrived each morning.
And the food of affection, the sight of the Beloved, and the words of the Beloved, became more and more scarce for the Lover. Soon, the tired eyes could not read the entirety of each letter, and could only read key passages. Then phrases. Then words. Then syllables. Then letters. Then marks. And the letters carried less and less meaning, less and less messages, less and less love, less and less food for the Lover’s decrepit, emaciated passion. But these incoherent scribblings were all he would allow his eyes to see.
The Beloved learned of the situation of the Lover, and began to tailor the letters to the needs of the Lover, continuing to write them with the same passion, emotion, and connection of the first letters, and even of the days when they had been together.
Soon, the Lover was blind. And the Lover was surrounded by the letters sent by the Beloved. And it was no longer the words on the page that fed his passion, but the feel of the stacks of pages of incoherent markings, that let him know that the Beloved had never forgotten, never discontinued communication, and indeed, still simply desired to be in company, in communion with the Lover. And was still sitting on the other side of the room, caring for the Lover, writing letters to the Lover, placing them near the Lover, each time hoping for the Lover to open the tired eyes, and adore once more.
I had written this in my notebook in July of 2009. Can't remember exactly why this had occurred to me, but I remember it was during a church service, and was considering how a person has the ability to narrow the ways that we can hear from God - that we are capable of limiting his ability to speak to us, into our lives.
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