It was early this morning when I was taking my wife to the airport. I said, “It feels like we haven’t squeezed all the juice out of the orange yet.”

What poetry. Be still her heart.

Meaning: our love has matured. It’s wonderful. And there’s, seemingly, always more juice to squeeze.

Or it’s like dipping a pail into a well. The pail keeps swelling, the well keeps getting deeper, and the amount of water that can be brought to the surface astonishes each time. You gotta work on those forearms.

Real love is like this: there’s always more, still more to drink up, yet never thirstily so. That’s because there is no lack or sense of incompleteness. Love, the real kind, is the expression of the complete and yet ever more plentifully spilling forth of Reality. It’s always good. I like all of it.