Love is Work.

Stored away in the patterns of my old blanket, amid the aroma of homemade food and trinkets of younger interests, my childhood strains. It's joyful to see those old videos and photos, though there aren't many, as they aren't captured through screens. Perhaps we didn't get the time.

We were so busy. With what, I don't know. We have all been busy since we were born. As I reflect recently, a sense of dread and despair fills me with the state of the world. Was it always this bad, or were my eyes closed? There are so many options to choose from.

However, when I feel this weight in my body and wander somewhere, maybe just outside my room or looking out the windowsill, I see things. By things, I mean the way people look out for each other, a gentle push to get away from the road as a car is approaching. A sheep playing with a child, rearing up with a powerful push at the child but stopping and lessening the force. How does it know to be kind?

Sometimes scenes like this make me angry. Angry at the world, angry at myself. But when a child looks into my eyes and asks me about the world, how could I ever pass on this despair? It's impossible—hope keeps us alive. With action, of course.

But your joy is resistance too. The flowers don't ask permission to bloom, the birds sing uncaring. The black panther lit by the moonlight gazes on with bright yellow eyes. It looks all too innocent even as it bares its pearly canines. You can see the spots clearly now. Why it knows the leopards as it does. The fur adopts a sort of blue to it.

I think of this love we celebrate. As we discussed relationships in our reading club, I pondered over it after. Love as something beyond transactional and conditional. Does it make sense? Do you need it to make sense?

Can we accept senseless things as reality? This question is usually directed at evil things that shape society. Love isn't one of them. Yet the question remains. Isn't it then cruelty to question a person's love, to try and make sense of that feeling a person readily gives?

I believed everyone is deserving of love. I still do, but as time passes, its meaning deepens. As I make mistakes and confront my flaws, I wonder if I could love myself as I love another. It's not that a person should be chiseled to perfection before they can be loved. 

It's all-encompassing. The flaws and faults aren’t separate from you; they’re part of you. Whether you choose accountability or acceptance, it’s love from the start. It exists despite any weight you may carry, not because of it.

You'd only care if it gave you something—if it had meaning in your life. Even if you don’t realize it, most things do. You might say your mere existence is enough. But just as we remember the past and the people who mattered to us, love endures as long as it holds significance. So, is love conditional?

Maybe, but that doesn’t make it bad. Love can be about the meaning we find in it and the value we give to it. It’s not about being perfect. Maybe just maybe. I don't know the answer.

Regardless, I am a burden sometimes. Everyone is. It's a weight people are willing to carry. What once seemed harsh now feels profoundly loving.

Love is work. It's worth the work to love you.