I have a post all about many things that annoy me. I wrote it last night and it talks about FISA and Gaza and the death toll caused by smoking in India and the stupid and casual viciousness that is sometimes directed at women in many different ways and I will get around to posting it, I think.

Even though I am definitely feeling a certain bah humbug mindset towards V-day this year, I haven't posted it. Instead, for now I am linking to another great piece about the stories we tell about love and how one metaphor (that of Eros as a crippled and abused child who, nonetheless, continues to embody love) can shape our understanding. The author describes love as fierce and flawed and sums up the point in this way:

I would wish remembering. Remembering that Love is not fancy, remembering to take care to adorn Love carefully, so as to not occlude its humble street origins… that Love does not stay alive by asking “how much?” but by “how well and how deeply?”

Like the street urchin Eros, ...we have all been thrown down hard somewhere in life, and often more than once in this lifetime.

But, also we are, I think, somehow ever being knitted back up in mysterious ways, often by others, sometimes by strangers, certainly by our cultura cura, those tiny groups that carry the healing herbs and ideas and give them out freely, albeit imperfectly, often enough.

We ourselves and our cultures are all left with a scar or a limp that shows we have mangled or managed our way through a great something. And, we are still here. Crookedy here and there. But in some greater self, whole, with Love.