In defense of longing

Our very ache the hallowed hollowing of endless becoming

Love Dogs 

One night a man was crying,
“Allah, Allah!”
His lips grew sweet with the praising,
until a cynic said,
“So! I have heard you
calling out, but have you ever
gotten any response?”
The man had no answer for that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
in a thick, green foliage,
“Why did you stop praising?”
“Because I’ve never heard anything back.”
“This longing you express
is the return message.”
The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness that wants help
is the secret cup.
Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs no one knows the names of.
Give your life to be one of them.

- Rumi

---

Before I could speak, I strummed empty air.

Fingers fanned, hands like petals opened to honeybee hum. Mom said it was angelic—a celestial harp in my reach. But I’m not so sure. Maybe it was simpler than that. More human.

Years later, I’d learn that when I was five and a half months old, I was left with a babysitter who drank herself into a stupor. My parents came home to find the front door open, the sitter half-dressed on the couch, and me—shivering in a diaper, a bruise blooming on my cheek. I wasn’t crying. I had already curled away from reaching, from wanting. The terror of unrequited ache was too much for my unformed nervous system.

But my body did not forget. I wonder now if those early, outstretched fingers were reaching for something lost—or trying to knit me back to source. Each gesticulation a re-gestation of longing. I want. I want. I want. I want the warmth of my own wanting—returned, revitalized, restored. Not for memory, but for re-membering. For the stitching together of what was once whole: want with body, need with response, ache with touch.

I pause now, mid-sentence, and do it again—let my fingers stretch into the invisible. Plucking space, grabbing air, ten digits calling life to come close. And I feel it: the gesture doesn’t begin in my hands. It runs deeper, threading through sinew and bone, then beyond, all the way back to star-dusted source. That first breath. That first scream. The moment one rends into many. The moment life begins not in wholeness, but in rupture.

Longing is the echo of that rupture.

When I was in my early twenties, I lived for a time on the fairy-laced landscape of Findhorn, Northern Scotland, trading garden work for bed and bread. I spent quiet mornings in meditation with founder Eileen Caddy, then slipped behind a studio door where I could dance the rigidity of fifteen years of ballet into unstudied abandon. I was alone most of that year-long journey through Europe, and longing became my closest companion. Longing for purpose, for meaning, for magic. Longing for my life—and my buried grief—to finally make sense. But the things I chased to fulfill that longing never left me full, or filled.

So I danced longing instead—a shape that has no counterpart, emptiness that needs no opposite. We’ve been taught to treat longing like a means to an end. A problem to solve. But what if longing isn’t the sign of something missing but a presence of something ancient? What if longing is how love breathes—its pressure valve—the body's way of staying in conversation with the cosmos? I danced myself concave, a vessel from some distant time, and let the void become my vow. My fingers, my arms, opened again: as blossom, as tributary, as low tide. I stopped trying to fill the ache and let the ache sing. I wasn’t reaching for something. I was reaching with something. A part of me that remembered the before. Before memory, before story.

A cosmic spark that splits into leaf and limb carries within it the seed of our return. Could longing, then, also be our re-membering?

Rumi writes: “This longing you express is the return message.”

But even now decades later, the sharp, hollowed ache arrives uninvited. Around my period, the emptiness turns me inside out—like the moon inverted by night sky every month. I walk this cyclical vacancy outside, my old impulse to fill returning. Maybe spring’s abundance will come rushing in. Maybe today I will discover the one thing that, at last, balloons me into lasting fullness. The lilacs haven’t yet bloomed, and the air smells like green hesitating toward perfume. A chorus of birds sings, their voices just shy of piercing the veil. Earth, her mouth wide open, licks the sun with infinite, insatiable tongue.

The longing is too large for one object. It is not aimed—it is ambient. Atmospheric. It asks not for this or that, but for everything. There is no ridding the world of this feeling, so I join it.

Lie down in the bowl of a dry lakebed with me, faces lifted, arms and legs wide, remembering the dream of rain as we become the crystalline salt aching and arcing with thirst. Feel how our shape calls with sharp knowing of other, something ineffable but true. Feel its promise and how we yearn toward it. And then we watch: the sky swells, pressing her darkness into our bodies like mercy, one drop at a time, then all at once. We soften. We receive. But just as our longing subsides, another grows beneath. Longing not fulfilled but transmuted. Once electrons seeking balance, now sprouts breaking through soil, the urgent push of cellulose and sinew reaching toward light. Longing waves cerulean tenderness up up up until she too is plucked with another’s appetite, a daisy-chain of mouths with dreams and young fingers clawing the air. We strum a dissonance that never, truly, resolves.

Author

Sophie Strand

writes in her transcendent memoir The Body Is a Doorway: “I have not been inside a love story. I have been a love story: my very body a clamorous, complicated interplay of beings disagreeing, singing, swooning, and melting together. As a year, then two years, passed during which I did not take human lovers, I realized that I was not really “single.” I was deeply plural: my whole life was erotic, flush with sensual, multispecies love.”

This is not a longing to fill, this is a longing to host. Longing that rushes through cells and stars, as it rides the looping continuum of separation and union. Not a symptom of loneliness, but the signature of entanglement—like quantum particles still responding to one another across time and space. Longing is the murmur of microbiomes remembering each other. The skin’s way of calling to pollen, to wind, to touch. The way Earth pulls on Moon in orbital foreplay.

I share the sitter story with my brilliant friend and writer

Veronika Bond

during a recent interview. We were exploring her Synchronosophical approach to trauma when she paused and said, “It’s not the story that matters—it’s how the longing lives in you now.”

And she was right.

It lives in my daily cat grabbiness. In my gutted sadness. In the way my womb aches for the moon, the way I curl around a pillow. In the feral impulse to love-bite Dave’s shoulder—not to harm, just to feel that ache in my jaw meet something real. They call it “cuteness aggression,” and I’ll admit, cute gets me going. But isn’t biting—ingestion—also one of our most primal, and perhaps most sagacious, ways of returning to One?)

If trauma is jilted longing, maybe healing is the return to wanting.

Not to fix, but to praise. To let it stretch like sky and rain unto itself. Longing as midwife to the possible, even the unimaginable. Humming, howling, singing without consonance and crashing into birdsong. It is both the love dog howling into the void and the void, echoing back. If Earth had fingers, she would strum the sky. If gravity had voice, it would moan like a dog for its master.

Even extinction remembers the ache.

In 1987, a lone Kaua‘i ʻŌʻō bird was recorded singing the final song of its species. A duet, missing its partner’s reply. Between each phrase, he left space for an answer that would never come. Still, he sang. His song became the message. A haunting echo of life’s insistence to reach—even when no reply comes.

Give your life to be one of them, Rumi says—
the Kaua‘i ʻŌʻō
a love dog
one of the ones who know: when we can be with our longing, we finally belong.

Because without longing, nothing would begin. Or begin again. My fanning fingers join the howl and strum life anew. The first spark—the one that blew the universe apart was a longing. And now, millennia later, we carry the torch. Our very ache the hallowed hollowing of endless becoming.

One of my needle-felted Elder Beasts—carved by longing, crowned by light.

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