So what if I am? I thought. What is the harm in admitting it, what does it mean if it’s true and I say its true? Nothing right?

Laying on my couch catching a breath from a weekend spent away; I had the honor of facilitating a Women’s empowerment retreat with some other dynamic women from my university. The process of planning and seeing our work come into fruition was amazing. And what was the most amazing thing was the students. The young women who had such passion for social justice. Women who had begun to learn the strength of their voices and the impact they could (and will) have on the world. Women who only need support and care and, well, love enough to go forth and set this world on fire. I was in awe. I still am.

I listened to the stories and shared my own. There in the cold rainy perfectly miserable forest we were able to cry, laugh, learn and grow together. On top of a mountain not sure of how high up, we belonged to the heavens and trusted the guides around us to direct us to where we should go. I’ll go where I’m called, so call me. We beckoned. Call me, and show me how to best give myself to this work, how to best empathize with my sisters and my brothers both here and below, how to best love through pain and cherish the scars from our past, for they happened.

Let us be women who love.

It was repeated throughout the weekend and again in our closing. It is on the shirt I wore home. It was on my mind as I felt the smile spread across my face in response to his name on my phone. So what if I am a woman who loves? I am. I am a woman who loves art. To create. To take photos. To draw. To paint. To write. I am a woman who loves people. I am a woman who loves a man and has loved him since the first day, and will until the last.

And I carry all of that with me right now. The women, the man, my art, myself. I lay here and think if what an amazing weekend, one of connection and compassion. One where I was affirmed and affirmed others. One where I decided I would love and would do so fully.

What does full love look like? I suppose it looks like my writing. Everyday I create with it. It creates through me. It starts first with God and ends with my fingertips. A kiss between my body and the other. I dedicate time to it. I answer when it calls. I indulge it. I work at it. I allow it access to my most intimate parts and it keeps all my secrets. It does not judge. It listens. It is patient and it is true, and everyday it is happy to see me as if we were new again. And when it is time, be it at night or just when another something calls, I let it go. It does not die, my love for it. It is not suppressed or dormant. It shines like the green light that called Gatsby. It is. As I am. Omnipresent, stronger and more infinite than either of us individually. And that’s what it always is. Bigger.


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