Walking home today I came upon the beloved daisy and remembered occasions in the past where a friend has run the gauntlet: (s)he loves me, (s)he loves me not.

How do I love? Do I leave it up to question like this, wondering if that soul loves me or are they not in love with me?

I believe this is the case of an objective focused love scenario, where one loves only upon some condition set henceforth, to a person that remains more or less static in their being so that I can fully grasp their entirety. This is rocky love destined for turbulent times of constant questioning. Are they loving me enough? Is this their full love? Can I still love them? Are we loving correctly? Is this even love?

Further, it begs the question of where does love stop? Is there a point in time, a moment in space where love exists no more?

This brings to light a very interesting point: does my love to them depend upon their love to me?

The love that unites families, friendships, communities, the love that unites two animals from different species even, is the kind of love that doesn’t depend on a certain set of criteria. This love lives in the realm of unconditional and always. This realm of love doesn’t beg the question of whether or not a certain being loves me, it asks the question: “How better can I love this being today?”

I love to you.

This is the statement of: “I love to you,” not “I love you.” I love to you exists as a personal practice of life. I love you exists in singular moments that can go just as quickly as they came.

Therefore, I’d like to invite you to assume that everyone or everything out there is present in the best way they can and is giving you love back today in the best way they can, both consciously and unconsciously. Believing fully in this will transform life magnificently. There will be no more worrying about how somebody is treating us, we will simply assume that they are existing with the upmost amount of love for me they can at this time, and I am of course doing the same back. I am loving to them with my greatest capacity, with my uniqueness, with my wholeness.

There is no question now of whether or not they love me. I am loving them and there are no conditions to my love.

But what happens when one would like to take this love to you into a sexual realm? Generally, I find that most humans get most confused with love once it becomes or wants to become sexual. And even not sexual, but just intimate. Close quarters with humans creates intimate environments where our edges get rubbed and our limits tested, and it is in this realm where our old habits, or even our inherited habits begin to surface, in spite our greatest efforts.

Naturally with another human, especially for sexuality, this necessitates some consciousness around consent and open discussions. Our words are a very effective tool for communicating, though not the only one. “Dr. Albert Mehrabian, author of Silent Messages, conducted several studies on nonverbal communication. He found that 7% of any message is conveyed through words, 38% through certain vocal elements, and 55% through nonverbal elements (facial expressions, gestures, posture, etc).” (nonverbal group)

Hello, my love flows so strongly and vibrantly to you. You magnify my existence. Would you like to explore this with me?

Wouldn’t that just take your breath away?

And your breath getting taken away is communication. We are not just communicators with words. Before modern law, contracts were regularly established with a handshake. When we hug somebody, we’re communicating with them. When we look somebody deeply into the eyes, we’re communicating with them. When we hold energy within out bodies that exudes love in every breath and every step that we take we are absolutely communicating.

So, how do you love?

My heart was afloat after walking through the garden the entirety of the world seemed to be floating like the butterfly I had watched lazily make it’s way from poppy to daisy. I held my finger out to perhaps let the delicate butterfly rest a spell and share some words with me.

As I patiently enticed my new friend, I heard a bird chirp to my left and I slowly turned to the big maple tree and watched a small flock of little birds zip in and out, running unknown but important daily errands. My whistle began instinctively to mimic the song of the birds, which did nothing to attract the butterfly but also didn’t startle it.

My eyes found a big honey bee, bouncing goofily into flowers like a beach ball in a play pen. I looked for it’s pollen bags to see if they were full, followed it a few minutes and getting distracted by some of its friends who were searching for the same things, all having their own approach and particularities with where they were looking.

From this, my heart floated as I turned out of the garden and strolled into the street filled with iron carriages and advertisements. I heard honks that contributed to the revving engines, litter collecting by the storm drain. But still, my heart floated as I walked under the giant maple towards the main street.

As I passed into the market grocer, I paused and watched an old lady pull at the thick leaves on a pineapple to check whether it was ripe or not, her own fingers curved and bumped with years of repetitive toil yet still so methodically trained to find what is most perfectly perfect to her touch. Her eyes caught my eyes for a moment and we shared a smile as she held up to show me the perfect pineapple she had decided upon, and I approved heartily, my own wrinkles at the edge of my eyes showing it.

As I found my way to the garlic, I noticed a clerk restocking the peppers and asked him where they came from. He held one out for me to hold, promising they’d be the juiciest and freshest green peppers I’d ever have: “Better then my own garden’s!” I approved and took two for they were light and fresh and already promised to the dinner I would soon be making.

Smile still on my face from engaging the clerk, I turned onto the street and soon heard my name yelled excitedly. I turned to see a good friend approaching and lost myself in her ecstasy, a deep hug that felt like a sunset.

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