Love is hard, and it's a choice   It's Valentine's Day, the holiday to celebrate love, and I am single. There are roses and chocolates and signs and teddy bears everywhere.   I begin to notice that it is not the messy, aching, tender, gaping love that is being celebrated, it is romance.   We can sexualize love and lust without a problem and make a holiday of it, but the love that hurts, pushes, tests, and overwhelms us doesn't feel acknowledged today. I think many of us are missing it.  So for those of us without a romantic partner, it's important to remember what love really is in the midst of a holiday that only represents a commercialized fraction of it.   Love is hard, and it's a choice.   It is your mother holding your head against her beating heart, where the invisible strings that have bound you together in this lifetime sprout.  It is the smell of your father’s skin. His fingers plucking a guitar. His sea green eyes. His voice and your mother’s harmonized in song.   It is a humble presence, the pattern inside of a sunflower, the ache in saying goodbye, and the saltwater that comes out of your eyes.  It is eating French toast on a Sunday morning with the windows open, freshly ground coffee from home, a too-long gaze with a lover, a blanket fort, and easy silence.   It holds the weight of heaviness when you hurt, grounding.  It is the place where your soul meets the sky in times of bliss, floating.  It speaks to you when your spirit has been moved through the spread of your palm and fingertips across your chest.   It is felt as the layer on top of the matrix of your soul, residing in your heart, holding the warm pieces together so you don't scatter.   It is not the easy choice, but it is the choice that will ooze from your fingertips, brighten the life in your eyes, and radiate from the corners of your mouth.   Love is not these experiences, it is the person experiencing them. Should you choose it, you find it in everything, and in everyone, because you are it.   Everything becomes a reflection of you.   This celebration of love, of you, should not be determined by lust in a romantic partner's eyes, or a day of the year.   It can be now. It can be tomorrow. It can be every day of the rest of your existence. It will always wait for you, should you choose.   The unkempt, honest, and unconditional kind of love. The kind you choose, even though it might hurt on a day like today.

Love is hard, and it's a choice

It's Valentine's Day, the holiday to celebrate love, and I am single. There are roses and chocolates and signs and teddy bears everywhere. 

I begin to notice that it is not the messy, aching, tender, gaping love that is being celebrated, it is romance. 

We can sexualize love and lust without a problem and make a holiday of it, but the love that hurts, pushes, tests, and overwhelms us doesn't feel acknowledged today. I think many of us are missing it.

So for those of us without a romantic partner, it's important to remember what love really is in the midst of a holiday that only represents a commercialized fraction of it.


Love is hard, and it's a choice. 

It is your mother holding your head against her beating heart, where the invisible strings that have bound you together in this lifetime sprout.

It is the smell of your father’s skin. His fingers plucking a guitar. His sea green eyes. His voice and your mother’s harmonized in song. 

It is a humble presence, the pattern inside of a sunflower, the ache in saying goodbye, and the saltwater that comes out of your eyes.

It is eating French toast on a Sunday morning with the windows open, freshly ground coffee from home, a too-long gaze with a lover, a blanket fort, and easy silence. 

It holds the weight of heaviness when you hurt, grounding.

It is the place where your soul meets the sky in times of bliss, floating.

It speaks to you when your spirit has been moved through the spread of your palm and fingertips across your chest. 

It is felt as the layer on top of the matrix of your soul, residing in your heart, holding the warm pieces together so you don't scatter. 

It is not the easy choice, but it is the choice that will ooze from your fingertips, brighten the life in your eyes, and radiate from the corners of your mouth. 

Love is not these experiences, it is the person experiencing them. Should you choose it, you find it in everything, and in everyone, because you are it. 

Everything becomes a reflection of you. 

This celebration of love, of you, should not be determined by lust in a romantic partner's eyes, or a day of the year. 

It can be now. It can be tomorrow. It can be every day of the rest of your existence. It will always wait for you, should you choose. 

The unkempt, honest, and unconditional kind of love. The kind you choose, even though it might hurt on a day like today.

  To the feeler, from the Cosmos   You have permission.  To be a writer, to be beautiful without makeup, to be in love with music, to be excited about food, people, waking up to coffee.    You’re allowed to play with the moment, with the surprises, the unwelcome guests. You’re allowed to scream from your frustrated tears.  You have permission To not always have deep gratitude. But promise me You won’t ignore the moment because it’s too much to bear.    That you’ll be in awe, in light.  That you’ll hold the moment and then let it go.   You don’t have to be saddened or feel heaviness for fear of losing who you hug.  Be there with them- they're meant for you. All of it. It’s there for you.    Promise me you won’t feel guilty or make your heart shrink because you’re scared of what it might be like to feel in the marrow of your bones.   Notice everything, move on. Like a happy child. Like you so deeply are inside.    Untrap yourself. Our minds are the traps. Untrapping will always be a choice.   You can be you anywhere. Not just in your own space. Home is wherever your heart sits. It might be in an Airbnb or a rental car.    Don’t numb down. Feel it all. Let the world fall apart at your fingertips, crumble onto the wooden floor or itchy carpet.    Glitter in all of your beautiful, organized chaos. The dusty remains will turn into intricate patterns that make your temple marvelous.    No matter what gets demolished around you. No matter what you lose or have lost. It’s the dust of the gods. Always remember this. I love you. We love you.

To the feeler, from the Cosmos

You have permission.

To be a writer, to be beautiful without makeup, to be in love with music, to be excited about food, people, waking up to coffee. 


You’re allowed to play with the moment, with the surprises, the unwelcome guests.
You’re allowed to scream from your frustrated tears.

You have permission
To not always have deep gratitude.
But promise me
You won’t ignore the moment because it’s too much to bear. 


That you’ll be in awe, in light. 
That you’ll hold the moment and then let it go.


You don’t have to be saddened or feel heaviness for fear of losing who you hug. 
Be there with them- they're meant for you. All of it. It’s there for you. 


Promise me you won’t feel guilty or make your heart shrink because you’re scared of what it might be like to feel in the marrow of your bones.


Notice everything, move on. Like a happy child. Like you so deeply are inside. 


Untrap yourself. Our minds are the traps. Untrapping will always be a choice.


You can be you anywhere. Not just in your own space. Home is wherever your heart sits. It might be in an Airbnb or a rental car. 


Don’t numb down. Feel it all. Let the world fall apart at your fingertips, crumble onto the wooden floor or itchy carpet. 


Glitter in all of your beautiful, organized chaos. The dusty remains will turn into intricate patterns that make your temple marvelous. 


No matter what gets demolished around you. No matter what you lose or have lost. It’s the dust of the gods. Always remember this. I love you. We love you.

  You are a miracle   Do you avoid looking at yourself naked?  Sometimes I avoid looking at myself naked.  I take off my clothes only before I get into the shower, and as soon as it's over, I wrap a towel around me.  Right after that, I put on lotion like it's a chore, and immediately put clothes back on. I've realized that nudity is intimately linked to shame.  One day, as I was cutting up vegetables, I cut my finger. I saw all of the blood rush out of the cut, and my awareness soon became engrossed in watching myself bleed. I was watching a miracle happen before my eyes.  I saw that my body's first response to outside harm was to heal.   It made me think about all of the self-inflicted harm and stress I've put on my body that my shame had given birth to.  Overeating, Under-eating, Over-exercising, Not exercising at all.  Our bodies heal from the inside out unconditionally, But healing from the outside in has become conditional.   I only want to take the time to put lotion on the curves that feel good. I only want to take the time to stretch when my body can look like that of a well-practiced yogi.  I only want to massage the areas of my body that I’m not ashamed of.  My platelets can take care of open wounds, but blood doesn't clot negative thinking to get it to stop, it just becomes a never-ending spiral of pain and shame.  So now, I think of my body as a massive pile of cells. Cells that each, individually, work together to fight to keep me healthy and alive.    I think of my skin cells vibrantly shouting and screaming “Woohoo! You go! Thank you! Yes!” as I put on my lotion.   I think of my muscle tissues breaking up acid, rigidity, and constriction as I stretch my legs.   I think of my heart washing away the dirt of shame as negative thoughts rise with each and every beat.  When you look at your body parts, do you feel the billions of micro-processes fighting to keep you alive? Or do you only see one of your 78 organs?  We're part hydrophilic, yet we won't allow ourselves to flow.  And I'll tell you this, when denying that you are the most extraordinarily beautiful thing there is, you are battling your own body.    Wiggle your toes for the sake of feeling, and always remember that you are a  miracle.

You are a miracle

Do you avoid looking at yourself naked?

Sometimes I avoid looking at myself naked. 
I take off my clothes only before I get into the shower, and as soon as it's over, I wrap a towel around me. 
Right after that, I put on lotion like it's a chore, and immediately put clothes back on.
I've realized that nudity is intimately linked to shame.

One day, as I was cutting up vegetables, I cut my finger.
I saw all of the blood rush out of the cut, and my awareness soon became engrossed in watching myself bleed.
I was watching a miracle happen before my eyes. 
I saw that my body's first response to outside harm was to heal. 

It made me think about all of the self-inflicted harm and stress I've put on my body that my shame had given birth to.

Overeating,
Under-eating,
Over-exercising,
Not exercising at all.

Our bodies heal from the inside out unconditionally,
But healing from the outside in has become conditional. 

I only want to take the time to put lotion on the curves that feel good.
I only want to take the time to stretch when my body can look like that of a well-practiced yogi. 
I only want to massage the areas of my body that I’m not ashamed of.

My platelets can take care of open wounds, but blood doesn't clot negative thinking to get it to stop, it just becomes a never-ending spiral of pain and shame.

So now, I think of my body as a massive pile of cells. Cells that each, individually, work together to fight to keep me healthy and alive. 


I think of my skin cells vibrantly shouting and screaming “Woohoo! You go! Thank you! Yes!” as I put on my lotion.


I think of my muscle tissues breaking up acid, rigidity, and constriction as I stretch my legs.


I think of my heart washing away the dirt of shame as negative thoughts rise with each and every beat.

When you look at your body parts, do you feel the billions of micro-processes fighting to keep you alive? Or do you only see one of your 78 organs?

We're part hydrophilic, yet we won't allow ourselves to flow.

And I'll tell you this, when denying that you are the most extraordinarily beautiful thing there is, you are battling your own body. 


Wiggle your toes for the sake of feeling, and always remember that you are a  miracle.