Romance in Dementiaville

I have found the paradox,
that if you love until it hurts,
there can be no more hurt,
only more love.
-- Mother Teresa

Romeo says that he thinks about me often during the day. Of course, I think of him throughout my day as well. But it feels sooooo good to hear him say that he thinks about how soft my skin is, how he loves to gaze into my eyes, how he loves the sound of my voice as I read aloud to him, how he loves my feminine energy and openness and vulnerability.

That Romeo can and does think of me when I'm not with him is a juicy raspberry to dementia. He remembers something, someone, me! He is clear about our love. He is secure in it. He is present in it.

On the flip side, we have both been hurt by our love. It hurts that Romeo is in a nursing home, without me. It hurts that I am out in the world, without him. He is afraid of what the dementia of his future will do to him. I am, too.

Because we love, Romeo and I, we hurt. Because we hurt, and because that hurt becomes so painful that it's hard to bear, it transforms into love. Romeo and I give each other love, we receive one another's love, and we both magnify the love we feel. We breathe it in and then magnify it out into the world. We stand on firm, fertile ground, rooted deeply into our beings, and we love each other, we love hurt, we love love. Not to love is unthinkable, painful. Being love is all we can do, and it is enough. More than enough. We cannot bear too much hurt, but there is no such thing as too much love.