The Mind's Child

That unbidden emotion, profound in its intensity, exciting yet fearful, remains without rhyme or reason, without beginning or conclusion, without control. Still, it is there, stirred to life as effortlessly as a light breeze disturbs autumn leaves in a sigh, a passing thought, in memory recalled of a time past in song, or by simply the sound of a resonant voice over lines of distance.

An explanation is impossible, at least for the fear of it and a greater dread of no reciprocation, the apprehension of embarrassment, and— yes, call it all rejection. But, then the insanity of this emotion, kindled of nothing, stoked by no one, demands a logical reason, a sensible explanation.

Was it not kindled? Simply by the mere presence of another’s strength and compassion? Was it not stoked by the reactive emotion itself and out of the need of its possessor? Perhaps. Or, is it that a greater power is in control, guiding two individual emotions toward one for a whole, shared, complete passion?

Time seems not to diminish its power, and it is surely tried each day somewhere and everywhere in the world. Explain it? Fear prevents further examination, analysis; but, even greater, so do the span of miles between north and south, between cold and warmth— between empty and fulfilled.

To describe such fiery feelings is to imagine a scene of myriad landscapes and elements, all dramatically different: dizzying mountain heights and endless desert plains, crystal snow-laded slopes and tropical hideaways, raging thundering storms and the quiet calm of cool waters. Of the heart’s desire, all things rolled into one and, yet, not without imperfection for reality, part fantasy. Or, is it just a pipe dream? Something not quite attainable, giving only part but not parcel? One sided?

Once, in a child’s heart, it was all so real; but, time and pain and society said, "You are an adult now. Those ideals, those emotions no longer apply." And the child becomes of age to wander aimlessly, disillusioned; its dreams, softness and purity left behind to grow lonely in a forgotten toy box. And that is to be an adult?

Would that all could return, at least in mind and spirit, to the crystal clarity and simplicity of a child’s heart and soul: to give so freely with abandonment, without terror and reservation. For it is a choice emotion— romantic in its very nature, loving by its display, exciting in its strength, forever adventuresome and playful; yet, it is singularly minded as flames leap to life between two kindred souls.

An explanation? Need there be one? Suffice it to survive in supreme simplicity, to forever grow despite society's woes? So profound in its intensity it can grow and survive if only ever so lightly fanned that the flames may leap to greater heights, even to mindless ecstasy. Where without that kindred soul, might it die? Each ember consumed of ash? Neither time nor distance seems to alleviate its passion to give, to share, even without a kindred spirit.

No, there is no rhyme or reason. It just is and, yet, is not; has no alpha or omega; remains nameless, faceless, without shape or form unless and until— it becomes reciprocal, accepted and shared freely, openly. Neither written between lines or spoken innuendo, but shared in the simplicity of the mind's child and heart to live forever until only death it does part. Even then, does it part? No. Oh, no.

What is this emotion? Could it be none other than love? Shy away you foolish adult! For you allowed the child in you to die. Is there no resurrection, no rebirth, as it were? Joy of joys, there is, but only you can breathe life back into the child. Only then will there be no barriers of time, distance, and buried emotions. Simplicity regained.

Why? The question has been asked so many times to no avail. Can the heart see and hear what the eye and creative mind cannot? But, if it can, then why does it not enlighten the mind's eye? Or, must one so afflicted quite simply, logically, hold back— a fear of pain; or, should one brave uncertainty, believe hidden dialogue where there should be none, reach across distance that is or is not?

A child would forge forward without fear, absolutely certain that what he or she gives will be returned abundantly; alas, until its hand is slapped away time and time again. Sadly, freedom to reach, to trust, yes, even to feel intensely passionate emotions becomes smothered by rejection. Stifle the child and die.

Full circle we've come yet is an answer not found for such irrational feelings, unwarranted desires? Still, its depth remains and has done since before time. What must be done either to lay it to rest or nourish it into full bloom? I cannot answer, for if I could then I would know why there are others to whom I, too, could not reciprocate in kind.

Oh, the agonies and ecstasies of that unbidden emotion, overwhelming in its intensity while providing its own answer within the bearer— if but only sought. For love is above and beneath, all around— and, yes, even in us. Love is God, in God and of God given, received of Him and shared by choice. Pity us if we do not so choose.

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original © 10/23/88, Bonita M Quesinberry
© 1990 condensed version entitled "Love's Mystery", pseudonym Lindsey Quesinberry
published 1990: Images (Iliad Press), Editor's Choice Award