An ordinary object leads Thomas Fiffer to an extraordinary epiphany.
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In my pocket, on my keychain, is a hairband.
One of those little elastic thingies women use to put their hair in ponytails.
It belongs to a friend.
My keychain is something I use every day, multiple times, which is why I put the hairband there.
I want to think of my friend every time I use my keys.
Every time I open my door.
And every time I safely lock it once I’m inside.
The thing is, because I use my keys a lot, the hairband is worn.
A small stretch of it is thin and in danger of breaking.
I’ve thought about taking it off my keychain, putting my talisman in a safe place to protect it.
Love does not belong in a museum, with ancient artifacts of dead civilizations, still life paintings, or taxidermied animals.
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But that would feel to me like abandoning it, placing it under museum glass.
Love does not belong in a museum, with ancient artifacts of dead civilizations, still life paintings, or taxidermied animals.
Love is a living, breathing, spirit that inhabits our breath, emboldens our being, informs our actions, and graces our hearts.
And to love is to risk.
To risk filling your heart so full that it bursts.
To risk breaking your heart … or breaking another’s.
To risk being swept to the highest mountain peak where you can barely breathe, then falling into the deepest, coldest crevasse from which it feels there’s no escape.
To love is to live.
To love … is to be.
It’s said the opposite of love is not hatred but indifference—the remove of keeping your love encased in a display, in a temperature-controlled environment, behind a velvet rope, in a building locked after 7:00 p.m. “Isn’t that interesting,” you say, already walking away.
And the absence of love?
The absence of love is death.
Death of the soul.
Death of the spirit.
Death of life.
To love is to live. The absence of love is death.
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Death of the life that lives within us and sparks our hearts, flows through our veins, and bleeds out to fill another’s heart with joy—for a moment, a month, a season, or a lifetime.
The risk of a life without love is more deadly than any carcinogen we can ingest, any venom or toxin that poisons our bloodstream, any crushing blow to the skull.
So I will risk.
I will risk for love.
I will keep the hairband on my chain.
I will keep it there and risk its breaking.
And if it breaks, I will mend it, as best I can.
For love is the best mender, a miraculous healer and binder, a substance with powers beyond our mortal imagination.
This is why we risk for love.
Because …
Because … we can’t make love safe.
This post originally appeared on the Tom Aplomb blog.
If you like this post, you might also like “Five Words That Will Change Your Life.”
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Photo courtesy of author.