Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.

William Shakespeare

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How did he ever marry her?  How can she love him?

Yes, these are questions common to man and woman, even the boy and the girl. Yes, uttered in families. Yes, about father and mother.  About aunts and uncles? Brothers and sisters – cousins by the bushel.  And friends, friends, friends …

The questions speak to a presumption that is made and falsely so.

The presumption?  That we know what love is, how it manifest itself?  This, of course, makes the implicit claim that we know God, for God is Love.

Hold your tickets, people.

In love we enter The Mystery, enter the workings of the Divine – the invisible realm of people, souls, longings, passion, social needs – and the usually completely unknown variable of what makes him/her tick and how far along the human journey they are (if far along at all).

We have all seen the humor and consequences of the engineer selecting a mate from a checklist.  Yikes.

The mind has its limits, limits not encompassing the soul – the incalculable soul.

We have seen as well the woman who marries the handsome man – and we have seen the prince turn out to be an ogre, a stray alley cat, a twisted oaf without virtue or brain cell.

In love there are no formulas or recipes.  Knowing self, however, seems to improve the odds.  Knowing God and the story of humankind as recorded in oh so many places helps too; these jam-packed with insights and, honestly, humor and the charm of mysterious fits supernaturally designed – stories of our calamities in and out of love and its “interesting” pairings.

In love it is best to give a wide path, and cock the eye just enough to see the humor in it all for love is a slick and slippery path with falls and tumbles aplenty and, properly considered, humility by the barrel-full in endless supply.

” … winged Cupid painted blind … love is said to be a child. Because in choice he is so often beguil’d.”

Shalom.

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