"When love beckons to you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you, yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you, believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

"For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses you tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

"Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; and then he assigns you to his sacred fire that you may become sacred bread for the sacred feast.

"All these things love shall do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of life's heart.

"But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, into the seasonless world where you will laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

"Love gives naught but itself and takes not but from itself. Love possesses not, nor would it be possessed; for love is sufficient unto love.

"And think not to direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

"Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if in your love you must have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at noon and meditate on love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise on your lips."

-Kahlil Gibran, "On Love"

When I first found this, more than ten years ago, I spent months reading it constantly, compulsively, and I couldn't tell whether it was shaping my thoughts or articulating things I had been thinking all along. I realized tonight that I couldn't remember any more how it went, and pulled it off the shelf for the first time in at least four years. It's not as poetic as I remember, but every bit as powerful. I am convicted and humbled and encouraged. I still don't love like I want to, and I probably never will, and I love so much better now than ten years ago.

I had forgotten that this pain, right now, is nothing to fear or to be ashamed of. This is the pain of knowing my own heart, of too much tenderness, of loving as best I can. There's no reason to keep wishing it away.