Dear Love: WTF Are You?

Eventually, I guess it finally happened. The dark grey, cloudy, chilly, cold, and damp outside weather navigated its way inside my head. Damn. It took a lot of meditation—and a healthy dose of sunshine—to finally snap me out of my doll drums. (Yes, doll drums. You read that right. Melancholy with a few pink sparkles and a pouty lip.)

I’ve been experimenting with a new morning meditation. One word. Love. That’s it. Just a daily exploration of what love means for me. What does it feel like? How does it show up? What happens when I stop demanding that it look a certain way?

Like the word God, the word Love has been firmly parked on my internal “Use With Extreme Caution” list for a while now. Whether it was my original interaction with those words, or the way they’ve been hijacked, inflated, and twisted into cringe-inducing memes and overly idealistic frameworks—I had long since tossed them into the metaphorical baggage car of my personal history train. Still unpacked. Still heavy. Ready for an adventure I wasn’t quite willing to take. And yet, apparently, both words are central—core even—if I want to fully live from and communicate with my DMGS. So, fine. I’ll unpack Love first. Then maybe I’ll peek at the other one. (Maybe.)

This new practice started about a week ago. I’ve been wandering Insight Timer like a curious mystic, searching for guided meditations that might offer a doorway—or even a doggie door—into a felt sense of love. Not the concept. The experience. To begin, I needed to narrow the field. I’d rather start with adjectives than synonyms. I mean, should I be looking at Love the noun? Love the verb? Geeze.

Here are a few obvious definitions that I’ve eliminated so far: A strong feeling of emotional attachment. An intense attraction or profound likeability. A person you love, respect, or lust after. A favorable inclination or enthusiasm for something. Reverence for someone or something. The act of engaging in coitus (sex). An intimate relationship between two people. Obsessional enthusiasm or extreme liking. Polite greetings or good wishes.

It was easy to eliminate all definitions that related to another person or that had attachment, obsession, or coitus included. However, staring at definitions and dissecting usage just sent me into a tailspin. So instead, I dropped the dictionary and dropped in. I used the meditations to feel what was already there, beyond the noise and associations. And here’s what I found so far: I am not deficient in love. Not lacking, not empty. (I originally thought I had to "heal" something for love to flow.) This thing I’m calling Love—it’s not scarce. It’s not transactional. It’s not earned or withheld or measured out like medicine. It is literally everywhere, all the time, without exception or doubt.

When I try to visualize love, the only impression I receive is: BIG. POWERFUL. Unconditionally flowing. Always moving, always available. Love isn’t a feeling—it’s a living field. It moves through everything, responds to nothing, and welcomes it all.

One meditation was especially fun—it guided me through hallways and doors inside the mind, leading to my personal library which comes fully stocked with every drop of wisdom the universe has ever offered—no late fees, no gatekeepers, just me and the infinite. I imagined mine nestled inside a great ancient tree, glowing and translucent like a greenhouse. I actually noticed a book titled LOVE and cracked it open, half-expecting something preachy or profound. Instead, it read like a permission slip: It radiated acceptance. No rules. No punishments. No criticisms. Just welcome mats in every direction. I had no idea what to do with that, so I sat there blinking—delighted and confused. To even imagine a space without the slightest hint of judgment was disorienting… and delicious. And it’s unconditionally indifferent to my choices.

That last bit startled me. Love isn’t a mom coming to kiss a scraped knee. It’s not reward or punishment, not approval or disapproval. It’s not optimism or pessimism, not good or bad. It is not rooted in judgment, in any form. And yet, it’s not apathetic either. It’s not a shrug or a void. It’s more like a presence that says: “I’m here. I’ve always been here. You can tap in whenever you want—but I’m not chasing you down.” It nourishes when asked. Period. No preconditions. No history check. No future requirements. It doesn't care what I’ve done, am doing, or plan to do.

In the library of my mind, Love is the space itself. It’s the hall and the shelves, the ceiling and the floor. It’s the trapdoors and secret passageways behind the walls. Like the sky holds all clouds and all winds—rage storms and soft breezes alike—Love holds all I am, all I’ve been, and all I’m becoming. It’s the container. The backdrop. The deep pulse of safety and trust that says: You’re allowed. All of it. Always.

That’s all for now, folks. If God is Love and I’m supposed to love my neighbor as myself, then learning to love me isn’t extra credit—it’s the whole enchilada. The adventure’s off to a promising start as I finally get around to unpacking that dusty old trunk marked LOVE, tucked away in the back of my train—and apparently filed somewhere in my Multiverse Personal Library all along.  Stay tuned - this one’s finally getting unpacked. How's your luggage compartment?

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