“Love has never been a popular movement. And no one's ever wanted, really, to be free. The world is held together, really it is held together, by the love and the passion of a very few people. Otherwise, of course, you can despair. Walk down the street of any city, any afternoon, and look around you. What you've got to remember is what you're looking at is also you. Everyone you're looking at is also you. You could be that person. You could be that monster, you could be that cop. And you have to decide, in yourself, not to be.”
James Baldwin
Dec 24, 2024
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I’m not a poet, so here are some people that put it into much better words:
“To fall in love is to create a religion with a fallible god” Jorge luis borges
“Falling in love is like being haunted”— Han Kang
“Love is as love dies. Love is an act of will— namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to.” —Erich fromm
Mar 3, 2025
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love is beautiful. love is pure. love is enduring.
i’m not sure if my standards for love are too high, but i worry i don’t mean it. i’d change my character, overcome weaknesses for those i say it to, yet it never feels like enough. i want to embrace someone not only through touch, but through the warmth of my actions and presence.
love knows no bounds. i want to break every single wall a person can put up. still, i know there are limits to love. love is undefined—it is not a singular, universal concept for every person. i fear i can never truly portray my love for another without everything crashing down, whether due to the walls we’ve built to shield ourselves from the world or to passing circumstances.
maybe i’m not concerned about my feelings for others. maybe the words “i love you” don’t quite serve me justice. still, from this new perspective, it’s an affectionate, enkindling acknowledgement to give another—akin to kissing your loved one on the cheek each morning before leaving for work.
love: a word that can be used for anyone, whether platonically or romantically. we really should say these words shamelessly to those around us every day. it’s a marvel to think over what true love means to you and how it can vary from person to person. i think this is what makes it beautiful.
your idea of love will fit into another’s idea of love. i hope everyone who reads this is lucky enough to find that person they mesh together with.^^
4d ago
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On one hand: it just flows. You can't get enough of them. Your eyes, their eyes—could be the only thing that matters in the whole world. Their voice hits you like electricity. When alone, you wonder why you aren't with them. Mundane things, at their side, become adventures. You occupy your own universe that is a secret from all others.
And on the other hand: it is a labor. Your beloved, who stirs and ignites your affection so much, is also the one who most exposes your pride and weaknesses. As you dive into them and truly know them, you discover they are broken and selfish and human. And they discover that about you. The easy slide down the snowy hill of excitement becomes a long drag back up the other side.
But then the two of you put those parts together: combine the thrill and the sparkle with the messiness and the suffering. Your together love becomes something deeper and more enduring. You say: I see you fully but I choose you still, with all my heart and soul.
It becomes something that will withstand any storms that may come, something more mature and tested:
"Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction." —Antoine de Saint-Exupery:
Mar 1, 2025
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Back in April I went to the PNW for 11 days solo! This trip pushed me and taught me so much about myself. I did a bunch of hiking even though before this I wouldn’t have called myself a hiker. Driving through remote areas with poor reception forced me to trust myself. I loved the solitude and nature and who I became on this trip. I also got 2 tattoos (my first!!) and worked through my fear of needles! I’m tougher than I think.
Dec 27, 2024
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My grandparents owned an ice cream shop for 35 years. In the early days they sold sandwiches too, before moving to just ice cream. At one point when my dad was an adolescent, they actually lived above their shop. My grandma would dream up flavors and my grandpa would make them — he's lactose intolerant, he never really even reaped the one benefit of owning an ice cream shop. My grandparents, dad, aunt, great aunts and uncles, second cousins, and even my mom all worked fairs and festivals scooping ice cream. It was a family business, my grandma and grandpa were the core. They had to change locations twice. They "retired" at least once before actually retiring. This ice cream shop was an institution.
For me though it was the place where we would have Thanksgiving. Closed for the season, the shop was the only space big enough for all of us. I had birthday parties there as a baby. It was our first stop after a five hour drive across state lines to see family. That's the place where, at my grandpa's insistence, I wrote my initials into the wet cement he had laid down for a bike rack. They are still there.
When I was 16, I worked at the shop over the summer. You don't realize how tough it is. Decades of dipping had made my grandpa particular. I didn't have the wrist strength or the speed necessary when there were customers out the door, all of them hungry and agitated by the stifling heat. I was terrified of giving someone back the wrong amount of change. Becoming almost paralyzed by the responsibility of being behind the cash register — it was their livelihood after all. That was my grandma's responsibility. I was in charge of the milkshakes and malts. I decorated sundaes with hot fudge, wet walnuts, sprinkles, and cherries. I packed the shaved ice into paper cones and doused the evenly shaped mounds with syrup. I doled out the frozen lemonade into styrofoam cups. My hands became raw from all the cleaning. I'm now particular about hygiene in the kitchen and always tip.
My grandparents still own the building, renting it out to a dentist and coincidentally, an ice cream shop. It's so strange now to go there. Everything is entirely different while being exactly the same. They painted the chairs a different color, but they are still those heart-shaped wrought iron, poorly cushioned chairs I know from childhood. Some of the flavors have remained. But it's not the same. Maybe they're buying their heavy cream from a different supplier. Or the high schoolers who work behind the counter aren't as precise with the measurements. I can try, skipping the artisanal flavors for the ones I grew up eating, but it will never be the same as it was.
And that's alright. They're softer now, my grandparents; the anxieties and stress of those decades having melted away. These days, ice cream is just ice cream.
Dec 30, 2024
Jan 21, 2025