Arms of Love at Last

The weight of the world is love.

Not the Hallmark version, not the Instagram caption, but the kind that drags you to your knees in a kitchen at 3 a.m. with your children asleep and the stars like a thousand witnesses over your roof.

Under the burden of solitude, you learned how to keep watch.

Under the burden of dissatisfaction, you learned how to keep faith.

Every ache in your hips, every call you did not want to make, every sunflower still standing tall… all of it was love wearing its heavy coat, training you for winter.

But here’s the secret the coat can’t hide: the weight is also the wings.

The same mass that grounds you is the mass that lifts you, once you stop mistaking ballast for punishment.

And so we must rest, finally,

not in explanations,

not in self-defense,

but in the arms of love at last.

Not a metaphorical arm, but the living field that pulses through your children’s laughter, through your friend’s grief in England, through the stranger who asks if you charge for friendship…because something in your voice already feels like home.

Rest there, even while cooking dinner.

Rest there, even while carrying your own cross.

Rest there, because the weight you’ve been training under was never a test you could fail… it was resistance training for flight.

And now, as the sky readies itself to mirror you, you will discover the paradox: love’s weight I how it keeps you from floating away before you’re ready, and love’s arms are what lift you the moment you are.

💛🌻💛🌻. Jen

🌻🌻🌻I got divinely guided to Allen Ginsberg’s poem “Song”. Which inspired me to write my own version 🌻🌻🌻