I remember growing up, I loved to tell my stories. Words are beautiful ways to show appreciation. I found this fascination for love letters. My mother would have this box kept in my father’s home back in the province, and she said it contained all the letters she had written to him while they were still dating. I haven’t read any of those, but I did witness it throughout my upbringing—in the beautiful gift wraps without missing a letter in it, in the cards and D.I.Y handwritten gifts we give because of the tight budget, knowing it’s still worthy from the effort poured into it, and in all the spoken words of “I love you” despite finding it cringe sometimes.
I guess that’s why my acts of love are given mostly through words, specifically on paper. I think it was in third grade when I first wrote my love letter. Well, not literally, but words beginning in a “dear diary” are just me scribbling manifestations and words of affirmation. I was 13 when I experienced my first love and my first heartbreak. He and I had this system of exchanging letters in our lockers. I poured my heart into the multiple letters I gave while hoping my love would be reciprocated. He was kind and generous but sadly not in the way I needed or wanted him to be with me. And with this realization, I also lost the spark in the writing I forgot I loved.
I walked, celebrated, continued, and passed through my life after that. But I always knew something was missing. I tried to connect with people, but nothing seemed to bring that spark back. Maybe I was holding back, afraid I might say things I regret.
Alas, love returned unexpectedly, but in a form I didn't recognize. Initially, I felt disoriented, unsure how to proceed. Yet, words began to flow freely, a surprising resurgence. I used to believe that love required constant excitement, a whirlwind of emotions. However, I discovered that true love can also exist in the quietude of familiarity, a gentle spark ignited by the slow, comforting rhythm of knowing.
I know now that despite the fear, I am stronger now and can find light and love again. I know that whatever words I choose to say, I believe I won't regret them.
Naturally, I started to write. I saw the vision of what I wanted slowly and started to dream and hope again. It wasn’t that I felt complete, it was that I felt found because what once was lost, I now hold again.
The irony is to lose those things in the distrust of love but to find those sparks again because of love. It reminds me of a poem titled Can I Love You a Little Less? by Kalpesh Desai
I know I didn't say this to you before,
But is it ok if I love you a little less,
And love me a little bit more?
"Love" is a word that frequently appears in my journal entries. I often conclude my paragraphs by reminding myself of the abundance of love I carry. However, it took me considerable time to truly understand love as it can be expressed through words.
It is through the experience of losing things that I learned that I am someone who loves to love.
Why must we love a little less to match someone else’s frequency? Or is it even possible to measure one’s love?
I do believe that love is a verb and it should be in the ways we are capable of showing it can we find contentment and peace in it.
We love less because we are no longer fueled by it, not because we want people to love us more.
Love a little more with the same wavelength of gratitude and grace so we may show it with light and ease and not because of the expectations that we may be reciprocated.
Love should not depend on the people we choose to love but on how we want to show love.
By June Danielle Folio