It seems like love originates from us.

 

The surge of energy popping through our hearts shows up like internal fireworks, and then settles down to a wood stove warmth. There are no visible tubes, chutes or wires attached to an outside source, so, obviously, the love comes from within. 

 

But some things are not what they appear. I could also try to nab credit for the increased temperature of my skin when I lounge by the pool on a sizzling July day. There were no external indicators to suggest otherwise.  I might applaud myself for a sharp shift in emotions when I arrive at a friend's wedding in a cross condition, and soften to hear Gabriel's Oboe played beautifully.

 

I continue the illusion when I suggest that the lack of love means that the source has dried up.

 

Hogwash.

 

The Source of love is not so fickle as that.  What if I were to stay in an overly air conditioned room, cursing the frigid day, refusing to step through the glass door and into the ninety degree air?

If I am cold and grouchy, it is not because the supply of sunshine and congeniality are exhausted. It is because I am, sometimes with great effort, staying away from them.