The world would be dark indeed — bankrupt of purpose, it would seem.

But I have a bit of a ‘bone to pick’ with many of these expressions. Primarily when we think of love or what inspires us to consider its absence or presence in our lives we usually look upward. For instance, we behold the bright blue skies, the fullness of the moon and competition among stars as each seeks to outshine the other in order to gain our attention; we peruse sunrises and sunsets, our brow is lifted as we search the fragrance of flowers, blooming trees or seasons delivered to us upon the breeze of the wind. Ah, yes… love is ‘in the air,’ we sing.

But as I gain more experience with such things, I wonder if this is not more about a swiftly fading and elusive romance than the love I have, and continue coming to know.

This love, a love I tend to think of as ‘true’ love, is something I am discovering much more frequently by looking down. As I enter into the second half of life, I’m so drawn to the significance of the solid earth upon which I stand. I stand in awe of the groundedness of where I now discover love versus the breezy-flighty-change-every-day sort of idea about love with which I once sought and wrestled.

The other day I was having this discussion with my wife about the entirety of my life and of our life together over the past 30+ years. I reflected upon the fine line between a life well-lived, a life of raging success, versus one of raging failure. We laughed at the fine line – a very thin line – that distinguishes one from the other.

My conclusion was that by all outward appearances, my life is a success. And then we laughed recalling how all of that is because Love has done its work despite my/our attempts to thwart it at every turn. Talk about thanking God for unanswered prayers. This seeming ‘outward’ success of my life is a mirage, a false portrait masking the constant stupidity with which I have lived.

Yep, in spite of myself, today I know love… I know Love.

Love does its work in the soil of toil, sweat, pain and a million-and-one failed recipes. And all along the way it tries to get us to look down and take inventory of where we stand and the substance of that out of which we’re choosing to grow.

Without the ground, there would be no wind to race upon it. And even if there were, without the ground beneath, there would be no fragrance to carry for there would be no trees that grow, no flowers that bloom, and no seasons that change. Without the ground beneath, there would be no basis to enjoy a world full of awe and wonder, of challenge and mystery. Without the ground beneath, there would be nothing to carry the currents that produce the waves that so often call us to oceans’ side for a retreat and a time of deep reflection.

So, how’s your love-life? Make sure you look down before you answer that.

Babies are soft and vulnerable and naïve. In order to thrive they need our love, our touch, our constant provisions. Babies bring smiles to our faces and we ‘coo’ and ‘goo-goo’ and contort our faces for minutes on end just to get one smile in return – even if it might have more to do with passing gas than a mutual response of endearment!

When we think of babies, do we not think of works like ‘precious’? Yes! Precious. They are jewels, objects of affection that keep us attentive to their moods, their needs, their desires. Yes, babies are precious, indeed.

So I ask, at what point are they no longer worthy of our coddling, our love; our abiding tenderness of speech and gentleness of touch? At what point in human development do these same eternal souls, once nothing but a few pounds and precious to the touch, become disposable? Horrible to think about isn’t it – disposable.

How is it that in light of eternity – of time without end – just twenty or thirty years in this dimension can make such a radical distinction in the way we see others? How is it that we can so easily turn to words of hate and spite and prejudice toward the ‘other’ when just a moment ago in time, a mere blink of the eye in eternity, we would have responded to them, even though unknown, as worthy of being the apple of our eye?

Why does humankind not interact with adults as they would a mere child? Why does part of the world hoard wealth as other parts starve? How do some societies become ‘less than’ worthy of our attention merely because they look different or follow a different sacred story? Are they not still worthy of our affection, of our abiding love, of being cared for and nourished?

And what of the people driving so damn slow in the fast lane as we’re late for work? What of the people in our spiritual communities who seem to be ‘black holes’ of unending need? What of our family members – those closest to us – where is the tenderness when times are tough, lives are stressed and bank accounts run dry?

Babies are adorable, yes… but so are adults. If only we could see them through different eyes. If only we could look long enough and deeply enough to see the divine within (regardless of their actions).

As the poet writes:

For I can see in your eyes

That you are exquisitely woven

With the finest silk and wool

And that Pattern upon your soul

Has the signature of God!

Today, begin a spiritual practice of looking for the child, the infant behind eyes that are old and worn, set beneath a furrowed brow or just above a frown belying a life of struggle.

Today, see the pattern upon the human soul – and know it is nothing less than the ‘signature of God.’