I lost my weed pen. I’d come home from work, ready to relax, unwind, and I couldn’t find it.
That was really annoying. I’d been looking forward to that moment. So I tore my apartment apart looking for it.
I checked the pockets of all my clothes.
I stripped the sheets off my bed.
I checked under my bed.
I checked the washroom.
I looked through every drawer and cabinet.
Nothing.
I laid down, very much sober, and sad, and went to sleep.
The next day I still hadn’t found it. I did another thorough search.
Still nothing. I admitted defeat.
And that night, I had a dream. I dreamt I saw my weed pen sitting on its little corner of the shelf, where I usually have it, in my desk.
I saw it sitting there, and I knew that it would come back to me. I woke confident that I would find my weed pen, but I didn’t go searching for it.
I was so confident after my dream that I didn’t even look for it.
And sure enough, later that day when I put on my gym shorts, I felt it sitting in the bottom of my pocket.
I’d checked that pocket twice, frantically rummaging around in it.
It wasn’t until I actually wore the clothes, for a purpose, that I found my weed pen.
And then, it struck me that, this is what love is.
Love is the weed pen in the bottom of my gym shorts.
I wasn’t going to find it when I was desperate for it.
I found it after I stopped looking, because I knew it would come.
Only after putting on the shorts, for another purpose, than to find what might’ve been in the pockets, did I get what I was after.
What I’d forgotten about.
