A Valentine's Love Letter to Life

Photo by Elexa, courtesy of pixabay.com

I’m sitting in our living room in Madison County, Iowa, looking out over the wintry landscape that holds so much potential and beauty. Bare branches. Brown grass. A cloudy sky with a promise of blue beyond.

In just two short months, I’ll look out this same window at a triumph of green. Leaves emerging, grass waiting for its first mowing, hints of green in the field next door as the season’s crops break through the surface. And blue skies spliced with cloudy ones, alternating sun and rain.

Whenever I forget to love life, looking out this window helps me remember.

I forget a lot.

I forget that there are eight billion of us on this planet, all having our own unique experience. I forget that, like the alternating sky, I shift moment by moment between my cloudy ego mind that repeats endless cycles of storm and wind, and my higher mind, where there’s peace no matter what the forecast or climate.

I forget that I can change the world with my thoughts, and that I need to be mindful of them. I forget that the smallest act of kindness given to me twenty-five years ago still lives on, even though I’m sure the person who offered it thought absolutely nothing of it and has long since forgotten.

I forget that I, like all of us, have the power to create something truly beautiful in this world, and that it’s not complicated. I forget that every thought we think is felt, in ways we may not fully understand, by others around us. And that prayers of love and support heal hearts and bodies that are broken or grieving—and those thoughts cost nothing and can be offered in a second.

I forget that, even in moments when it looks like fear will overtake the world, love is always there. And while I don’t think love “wins,” because it isn’t a battle, I do believe love persists as the steady and real presence in our lives that never goes away, even when fear seems to dim it.

I forget in very ordinary ways. I forget when I’m in a hurry. I forget when I read the news for too long. I forget when I start worrying about things that haven’t even happened yet.

But oh, when I remember.

When I look out the window and into my own heart simultaneously and realize that I have a choice in how I see the world. Not as a glass half empty or half full, but from a foundation of knowing we are made of love, we are here for love, we are here to love. No exceptions.

And when I remember, I start to see it everywhere.

I see it when I talk with a friend I haven’t spoken to in years, and within minutes it’s as if we talked last week. Love, it turns out, doesn’t keep track of calendars.

I see it in quiet, steady kindness that keeps showing up, day after day, in ways that don’t make headlines or demand attention. And sometimes, when kindness holds its ground long enough, I see something else happen too: harshness softens, anger loses its grip, and what once looked like hatred or bullying begins to retreat.

Sometimes I see it in the most sacred way of all—in those moments when someone shifts right before my eyes from fear to love. It’s so simple you could almost miss it, and yet it feels like witnessing a miracle.

And when I can let that love flow through me—not clogging it with fear or dismissing it as undeserved—I notice small things again. The way light plays with the trees’ bare branches. The sound of the house settling. The quiet presence of another person in the room. The simple miracle of being here at all.

I know there are people reading this who carry deep regret. The kind that wakes you in the night. The kind that replays itself over and over, like a haunting nightmare that refuses to fade.

I’ve seen how brutal that self-blame can be.

I’ve seen it in Bob, blaming himself years ago for losing his son. I’ve seen it in a woman who lost a child to a drug overdose. I’ve seen it in a family member who feels responsible for a loved one’s fall.

I know how deep that pain goes, and how convincing the ego mind can be when it tells us we should have done something differently, should have seen it coming, should have prevented what happened.

And I want to say this—not from me, but from the Love that created us:

It was not your fault.

Everyone—all eight billion of us—is on their own soul journey, and there’s a bigger picture than any of us can see. We can’t always understand why things happen the way they do.

Please let yourself remember the love that you are. Focus on all the love you‘ve always been, all the moments of kindness you’ve brought to this world, not on one moment that wakes you from sleep over and over again.

Love yourself the way you love the person you think you harmed. Forgive yourself for not being able to control this complicated world and other people’s choices.

Let yourself live again.

Because when you remember, truly remember, you begin to see that love has never left you. It’s been there all along, steady as the seasons, quiet as the late-winter landscape outside the window, waiting for you to notice it again.

Every day is Valentine’s Day. Because this love is so much more than roses and chocolates (not that there’s anything wrong with those!).

This love is for real. It’s for all of us.

The love that I am celebrates the love that you are.

And I’m wishing a Happy Valentine’s Day to you today and every day.

With blessings,

Deb

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A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.