A bucket of love

My Granny kept a bucket of agates inside her greenhouse door. She let me run my fingers through them, feeling their grooves on my knuckles. Imprinting on my palms. I held love in my hands long before I ever knew it. Granny’s greenhouse was the kind of space you could let go in, and that bucket always got a tap on the way by: it was holy water to my heart, her trowel the instrument of peace. Once she let me choose my own from the bucket. As many as I liked. To this day there’s a small wooden bowl of love on my bookshelf. I hold love in my hands as I tap them on my way to choosing which journal will hold my heart. My Granny kept a gallon of love in her greenhouse. This year I learned that those stones were not only her grounding -because she loved the beauty in our world- they were so much more. They were a decades-old love story. They were tokens from my Grandfather. Every walk home, any agate he found, he would bring home to his love. My Granny kept a gallon of love stones, and to this day I am reminded that love is not in the flash and the bang. Love is in a million small moments. Love is a collection of found agates, held in the doorway to peace, and caressed by the lives we welcome.

KDW Jan.5/19 (Raw)

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