There, on the sidewalk in chalky pink, they stopped me in my rhythmic tracks. Side by side were two pink hand-drawn hearts in all their rustic dusty goodness. It was so clear they were set there by loving hands. Only happy hearts could be capable of replicating such love from within so warmly onto a slab of cold cement. South Main Street had become a site sanctified by the love that spilled forth from that home, grabbing the attention of passersby. Or at least, me.
Love starts in the home, friends. Before there can be love out in the big world, there must be love in the small sacred spaces we share with each other. Before love can even spill out of our doors and into the streets and avenues and highways and byways, it must get its beginnings in our own hearts. Our hearts then pump that love through our veins and right out of ourselves, so that it can join with other's love between the wall-ways and into the hallways of our homes.
If we were to think of this world as one giant heart, a sustaining beating force that we can’t live without, maybe we’d be more conscious about what we feed it, and how we take care of it. If we did the very same with our own hearts, and each other’s, then maybe we’d see evidence of love on every path, in spaces big and small, and in ourselves and each other. This love would be so big it couldn’t help but fill the entire world.
How we need this now.
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