# That Love Which Holds Only Truth The love that seeks to hold only truth—what is it, after all? Not the love that comes wrapped in comfort, draped in the soft certainties we have learned to call devotion. No. This is a love that stands naked before what is, that refuses the refuge of illusion even when illusion would be kinder, gentler, easier to bear. To love what is true requires a courage that most of us never quite muster. It demands that we see the beloved—whether person or idea or moment—without the gauze of our own longing, our own need to remake them into something more bearable. It asks us to surrender the luxury of misunderstanding. Such a love does not console. It clarifies. It cuts through the fog we have cultivated between ourselves and reality, and in that cutting, it may wound. But the wound it makes is one that leads toward healing, not away from it. This is perhaps why so few choose it. We are creatures who have learned to love our delusions tenderly, the way a mother loves a wayward child. We have built entire lives—entire civilizations—on the architecture of beautiful untruths. To love only what is true is to dismantle, piece by piece, the shelter we have so carefully constructed. And yet: is there not a kind of freedom in this? Is there not a terrible, exhilarating clarity in turning to face what is, without the intermediary of fear or hope? This too is love. Perhaps the only love that lasts.

I am your unknowing child, playing in the dust of your courtyard of love. Now and then I stand at the threshold of your house. I see your elder sons there, joined with you. They are beholding your beauty, savoring your sweetness. Your waves of love reach their hearts, their waves of love touch your feet. Their gaze is fixed upon you, their hands caress your feet, their heads rest upon your breast, their arms are wound around you. Their song of love flows without cease, endless and unbroken.

In a moment, this vision fades from my eyes, and I am back in your courtyard, lost in play with the dust. My love is fleeting, restless, fluid; the love of your elder sons is enduring, steadfast, grave. Yet I hold this hope: that one day you will lead me into your house of love and seat me beside those sons of yours. It is this hope that calls to you, this hope that brings me again and again to your doorstep. What your elder sons possess, you have kept for me as well. I am already yours in this way.

Your loving gaze rests upon me, I am enfolded in your loving arms, my head upon your breast, my hand at your feet. What more remains? I have already entered your house. What difference is there between me and your elder sons? This alone: they are joined with you in eternal union, their bond does not break, and if it breaks, I believe it mends again in a moment. But mine is only a bond of hours. Soon I shall forget you, leave you, feel your love no more. My hand will slip from your feet, my head will slide from your breast, I shall become wholly caught up in the world again.

I wish this need not be. Keep me here in this house forever. Hundreds and thousands of years ago, you took from this gross world those whom you chose—how their love has grown with time! Here their love enchanted the world; through your grace and ages of their striving, how wondrous a form their love has taken. The gathering of devotees we see here—is it not beautiful? That gathering in your realm must be beyond imagining, how strange, how soul-stirring! To bring about such union is your very purpose.

Show me your house of love in all its fullness. You and your house are one. You are not alone—you are ever surrounded by devotees. Not a drop of love is lost; it grows and grows, adorning the beauty of your house of love. Teach me this truth, make me believe it, establish me in it. Though I have come late, I have come, leaving all else behind! Receive me. Let the yearning of my heart find its place in your house.