Funny thing, 
	when we attempt to seek that perfect mate
	that manifest object or product of 
		our Longing,
		our Yearning,
		our Perfection,
	our hands and hearts still empty.

Because no such perfection can possibly exist,
	metered and measured,
	gleaned and groomed,
	carved and crafted,
		from the stoneworks 
		of a yearning heart.

No, Love is closer to us than that,
	closer by worlds and eons,
		breaths and whispered kisses,
		sweet brushes with Almost Perfection,
			comfortable spontaneity,	
			reminding us that 
	we can't possibly know what's best for us always!

But as we open to Love, 
	open to learn more of ourselves and others,
	open to understanding 
		the order in the chaos of our lives,
		the constriction of schedules and plans,
	we see Love's Shadows and what keeps it away,
		the light and the dark of Love:
 
	Love is not a goal, 
		but a lesson, an education;

	Love is not a product or producer, 
		but a Process;

	Love is neither the destination nor the traveler, 
		but the Journey itself;

	Love is not an attainable State of Being,
		but an experience of becomingness.



	Love is God, practicing being God Herself,
		improving upon perfection in the process.

	Love is the dream of a Journey,
		remembering journeys Past,
		dreaming new journeys Future,
		dreaming in the midst of a dream itself,
			perfect in its Presence.

	Love is a growing into yearning,
		a yearning into growth,
		as we struggle to discover
			our greatest truths.

Love is that Tenderness within the Stone;
	a Something in the Nothingness;
      	a Hopeful Twinkling Pin-prick 
		in the colorless Void of Chaos;
      	a Single Perfect Voice within
		in the Cacaphony of our confusion.

Love is a reminder to each of us that 
	we are yet Works In Progress 
		in a studio show called Life,
		the special creations we become,
			colors and textures 
			in the work, our Journey.

In Love we recognize the Artist Within, 
	dreaming that Next Work we'll be,
	hopeful in anticipation that
		next eclipses last,
		next supercedes last in clarity,
		next understanding stands more strongly under yet,
			reaching further and further to core,
                        ever closer to the Heart of the Mother,
                        that we might again know Birth as a Perfection
                                we once knew, felt, embodied.

This is Love.  
	Elusive, Fleeting, Impossible, Perfect.

Always the Dream itself, 
	and as we love, 
	we become a part of that Dream,
		part enough to dream, to wake, to live,
		to share that love again, and draw the dream back
		upon itself.
  
	The Dream becomes Present, Radiant, Possible, Perfection,
		something we experience deeply within, 
		yet cannot quite share.

Such is the great irony of Love:
	Although it can only be experienced
		as conjunction with another,
		in relation with another,
			still somehow 
				it cannot be captured
				brought forth
				expressed,
				truly retold as Dream Tale.

For Love is a solitary Bliss, save for that beloved co-traveler
	journeying with us in our heart.
	Others may know our whispered shadows, 
		sense the hue of our joy,
		its form within us, 
			or in our step,
		yet they miss its essence still.


	Love is the Journey of a thousand tales, 
		the Breath of a thousand sighs.
	In Love, the Journey of ten thousand miles
		just one step, when we realize:


        That Love, our Journey, calls from deep within,
        Our heart's desire, a simple call:   Begin!


                               -Jerral   9/16/1998

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        In memory of my Grandmother, Jewel, since this would have
        been her 99th birthday today.  It is her day, so her poem.