I used to be a hope­l­ess roman­tic. I am still a hope­l­ess roman­tic. I used to belie­ve that love was the hig­hest value. I still belie­ve that love is the hig­hest value. I don’t expect to be hap­py. I don’t ima­gi­ne that I will find love, wha­te­ver that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me hap­py. I don’t think of love as the ans­wer or the solu­ti­on. I think of love as a force of natu­re – as strong as the sun, as neces­sa­ry, as imper­so­nal, as gigan­tic, as impos­si­ble, as scor­ching as it is warm­ing, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the pla­net dies.
My litt­le orbit of life cir­cles love. I daren’t get any clo­ser. I’m not a mys­tic see­king final com­mu­ni­on. I don’t go out wit­hout SPF 15. I pro­tect mys­elf.
But today, when the sun is ever­y­whe­re, and ever­y­thing solid is not­hing but its own shadow, I know that the real things in life, the things I remem­ber, the things I turn over in my hands, are not hou­ses, bank accounts, pri­zes or pro­mo­ti­ons. What I remem­ber is love – all love – love of this dirt road, this sun­ri­se, a day by the river, the stran­ger I met in a café. Mys­elf, even, which is the har­dest thing of all to love, becau­se love and sel­fi­sh­ness are not the same thing. It is easy to be sel­fi­sh. It is hard to love who I am. No won­der I am sur­pri­sed if you do.
But love it is that wins the day.
(Jea­nette Win­ter­son – Lighthousekeeping)