"Love is the bridge between you and everything." ~Rumi
It is Sunday morning in the northwoods, and the world feels hushed and holy. Mug of coffee warming my hand, I stroll through my garden, where the quiet rhythms of life pulse beneath petals, paws, and song. I pause, drawn by the gentle glory of a white clematis. Its bloom—a star of soft brilliance—seems too pure for this world, almost sacred. There’s something in its shape and stillness that speaks to the soul, a whisper that says: You are seen. You are loved.
Not far from the clematis, the Asiatic lily has opened overnight—bold, tropical, unapologetically alive. The garden, in its juxtaposition of soft white and vivid fire, feels like a conversation between stillness and celebration, contemplation and passion. All around me, love has taken form in nature's quiet chorus: birdsong stitched into the morning mist, the delicate hush of rabbit feet on dewy grass, the watchful gaze of the neighbor’s tuxedo cat nestled beneath a hydrangea.
A strange haze, smoke from distant Canadian wildfires, has settled into the trees like an unwelcome but strangely beautiful guest. The air smells of distant burning pine—woodsmoke and memory mingling. And then the sun rises, burnishing everything it touches with an otherworldly bronze. It’s as though the Universe has painted this moment just for me, just for now.
And in this moment, I feel it.
Love.
My soul answers the call with its own gentle echo: Here I am.
I think of Haddaway’s pulsing question--“What is love?”—and I smile, recalling the dance beat, the remix by Moreno J that sometimes guides my feet through the garden in playful steps. (May the neighbors forgive my early morning pirouettes.) But beneath the pop beat lies a profound question—one that has echoed across time and cultures.
English gives us one word for love. The Greeks gave us many:
What is love? To understand it, one must experience it—not in theory but in breath and being.
Love is not popularity. It is not prestige. It is not performance. Love is a sharing. Love is a power. Love is a transformation. Sometimes it transforms the world around us—but always, it transforms us.
To love is to find joy in the joy of others. To love is to see—not just with eyes, but with the heart. To love is to understand someone’s silence, to lift their burdens, to speak their language even when no words are said. It is to walk gently through this world, leaving kindness in your wake like petals on a path.
This morning, my garden has become a chapel. The white clematis is my candle. The smoke-tinged sunrise is my stained glass. And love—playful, radiant, enduring—is the hymn.
And so I walk, sip, smile, and dance.
What is love?
It is this moment.
It is everything.
“Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.” ~Khalil Gibran
~Wylddane
It is Sunday morning in the northwoods, and the world feels hushed and holy. Mug of coffee warming my hand, I stroll through my garden, where the quiet rhythms of life pulse beneath petals, paws, and song. I pause, drawn by the gentle glory of a white clematis. Its bloom—a star of soft brilliance—seems too pure for this world, almost sacred. There’s something in its shape and stillness that speaks to the soul, a whisper that says: You are seen. You are loved.
Not far from the clematis, the Asiatic lily has opened overnight—bold, tropical, unapologetically alive. The garden, in its juxtaposition of soft white and vivid fire, feels like a conversation between stillness and celebration, contemplation and passion. All around me, love has taken form in nature's quiet chorus: birdsong stitched into the morning mist, the delicate hush of rabbit feet on dewy grass, the watchful gaze of the neighbor’s tuxedo cat nestled beneath a hydrangea.
A strange haze, smoke from distant Canadian wildfires, has settled into the trees like an unwelcome but strangely beautiful guest. The air smells of distant burning pine—woodsmoke and memory mingling. And then the sun rises, burnishing everything it touches with an otherworldly bronze. It’s as though the Universe has painted this moment just for me, just for now.
And in this moment, I feel it.
Love.
My soul answers the call with its own gentle echo: Here I am.
I think of Haddaway’s pulsing question--“What is love?”—and I smile, recalling the dance beat, the remix by Moreno J that sometimes guides my feet through the garden in playful steps. (May the neighbors forgive my early morning pirouettes.) But beneath the pop beat lies a profound question—one that has echoed across time and cultures.
English gives us one word for love. The Greeks gave us many:
- Eros: the passionate, romantic love that sets hearts and worlds on fire.
- Philia: the deep love between friends, forged through loyalty and laughter.
- Storge: the quiet, familiar love that binds family together.
- Agape: the selfless, unconditional love that sees the divine in others.
- Ludus: the lighthearted, playful love that dances through gardens and flirts through glances.
- Pragma: the enduring, steady love that stands the test of time.
What is love? To understand it, one must experience it—not in theory but in breath and being.
Love is not popularity. It is not prestige. It is not performance. Love is a sharing. Love is a power. Love is a transformation. Sometimes it transforms the world around us—but always, it transforms us.
To love is to find joy in the joy of others. To love is to see—not just with eyes, but with the heart. To love is to understand someone’s silence, to lift their burdens, to speak their language even when no words are said. It is to walk gently through this world, leaving kindness in your wake like petals on a path.
This morning, my garden has become a chapel. The white clematis is my candle. The smoke-tinged sunrise is my stained glass. And love—playful, radiant, enduring—is the hymn.
And so I walk, sip, smile, and dance.
What is love?
It is this moment.
It is everything.
“Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.” ~Khalil Gibran
~Wylddane
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