Living is hard.
Loving is harder.
And when you’ve poured your whole heart
into people who could not hold it,
the reflex is to shrink, to shutter,
to swear you’ll never open again.
But the hardest decision I ever made
was the opposite:
to love anyway.
Not to crumble under disappointment,
not to blame or vilify,
but to keep my heart warm and moving—
to continue loving those who can receive it,
and to turn that same tenderness
toward a world starving for it.
Because despite the fractures of human life,
there is still a planet to tend to:
flowers that rise without complaint,
trees that stand in their truth,
grass that grows simply because it can,
sunsets that stop me mid-breath,
sunrises that lift the sky
and whisper my name.
They do not thank me.
They do not need to.
Loving them returns me to myself.
Out there—in garden, in field, in wind—
each step becomes a prayer,
each gesture, a quiet sacrament.
Here becomes there.
There becomes everywhere.
There is no separation
except the kind humans invent.
What I love, I belong to.
And so the hardest decision I ever made
was also the simplest:
to stay open,
to stay tender,
to let my soul stretch outward
into the great beyond
until kinship feels possible again—
and renewal becomes my vow.
Sunset, Upolu ~ bj 2025
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Wow! Your words are so clear, so beautiful, so true. Whatever we humans think or do, nature just is! The oceans, the mountains, those vast landscapes untouched by people, running on a timescale that is practically unthinkable to most of us.
Thank you, Bela, for what you have written. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. ❤️
Oh Paul, I am so touched that you got so much out of this piece. Thank you for expressing your appreciation. 🙏♥️
As you put it in your headline: “listening for the Earth’s quiet voice through time, place, and soul.”
Absolutely! I know no other way to be.
Love ”…there is no separation…🫶
Thanks, my friend. ♥️