Am reading "The book of Mirdad" by Mikhail Naimy. It is justifiably a classic of spiritual literature. Mirdad on Love:
Love is he Law of God. You live that you may learn to love. You love that you may learn to live. No other lesson is required of Man.
And what is it to love but for the lover to absorb forever the beloved so that the twain be one?
And whom, or what, is one to love? Is one to choose a certain leaf upon the Tree of life and pour upon it all one's heart? What of the branch that bears the leaf? What of the stem that holds the branch? What of the bark that shields the stem? What of the roots that feed the the bark, the stem, the branches and the leaves? What of the soil embosoming the roots? What of the sun, and sea, and air that fertilise the soil?
If one small leaf upon a tree be worthy of your love how much more so the tree in its entirety? The love that singles out a fraction of the whole foredooms itself to grief.
You say, "But there be leaves and leaves upon a single tree. Some are healthy, some are sick; some are beautiful, some ugly; some are giants, some dwarfs. How can we help but pick and choose."
I say to you, Out of the paleness of the sick proceeds the freshness of the healthy. I further say to you that ugliness is Beauty's palette, paint and brush; and the dwarf would not have been a dwarf had he not given his stature to the giant.
You are the tree of life. Beware of fractioning yourselves. Set not a fruit against a fruit, a leaf against a leaf, a bough against a bough; nor set the stem against the roots; nor set the tree against the mother soil. That is precisely what you do when you love one part more than the rest, or to the exclusion of the rest.
You are the Tree of Life. Your roots are everywhere. Your bough and leaves are everywhere. Your fruits are in every mouth. Whatever be the fruits upon that tree; whatever be its bough and leaves ; whatever be its roots, they are your fruits; they are your leaves and boughs; they are your roots. If you would have the tree bear sweet and fragrant fruit, if you would have it be strong and green, see to the sap wherewith you feed the roots.
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A yellow leaf upon your tree is but a Love-weaned leaf Blame not the yellow leaf...A putrid fruit is but a Hatred-suckled fruit. Blame not the putrid fruit. But rather blame your blind and stingy heart that would dole out the sap of life to few and would deny it to many, thereby denying it to itself.
No love is possible except the love of self. No self is real except the All embracing Self. Therefore is God all Love, because he loves Himself.
So long as you are pained by Love, you have not found your real self, nor have you found the golden key of Love. Because you love an ephemeral self your love is ephemeral.
The love of Man for woman is not love. It is thereof a very distant token. The love of parent for the child is but the threshold to Love's holy temple. Till every man be every woman's lover, and the reverse; till every child be every parent's child, and the reverse, let men and woman brag of flesh and bone clinging to flesh and bone, but never speak the sacred name of love. For that is Blasphemy.
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Love is not a Virtue. Love is a necessity; more so than bread and water; more so than light and air.
Let no one pride himself on loving. But rather breathe in love and breathe it out just as unconsciously and freely as you breathe the air and breathe it out.
For love needs no one to exalt it. Love will exalt the heart that it finds worthy of itself.
Seek no rewards for Love. Love is reward sufficient unto Love, as Hate is punishment sufficient unto Hate.
Nor keep any accounts with Love. For Love accounts to no one but itself.
Love neither lends nor borrows; Love neither buys nor sells; but when it gives it gives its all; and when it takes, it takes its all. Its very taking is a giving. Its very giving is a taking. Therefore it is the same to-day, to-morrow and forevermore.
Just as a mighty river emptying itself into the sea is e'er replenished by the sea, so you must empty yourselves in Love that you may be ever filled with Love. The pool that would withhold the sea-gift from the sea becomes a stagnant pool.
There is no 'more' or 'less' in Love. The moment you attempt to grade and measure Love it slips away leaving behind it bitter memories.
Nor is there 'now' and 'then', nor 'here' and 'there' in Love. All seasons are Love seasons. All spots are fit abodes for Love.
Love knows no boundaries or bars. A love whose course is checked by any obstacle whatever is not yet worthy of the name Love.
I often hear you say that Love is Blind, meaning it can see no fault in the beloved. That kind of blindness is the height of seeing. Would you were always so blind as to behold no fault in anything.
Nay, clear and penetrating is the eye of Love. Therefore it sees no fault. When Love has purged your sight, then would you see nothing at all unworthy of your love...