By S. Brent Plate
Love is not a shepherd’s crook.
I am not the great shepherd
Reaching out to pull you in.
You cannot be my valentine.
I cannot possess love
We can only be possessed by it.
Valentine’s Day approaches and I am sitting in a room in a Buddhist monastery in the Hudson River Valley of New York. I’ve come to jump start my dying contemplative life, revive a withering body in order to reproduce a spirit, physically giving birth to a soul. I feel a long way from red and pink hearts and sticky sweet treats. Not above it, just removed, somewhere off to the side. Like I’m off the holiday commercial grid. Continue Reading →