Not only is Asher a gifted writer, but he’s a profoundly thoughtful and philosophical young man. At 17, he’s been grappling with the deep questions of life, death, the passage of time, grief, and suffering for as long as I can remember. Sound familiar? Yes, he’s a bird of our feather, this sensitive crowd who has found their way here! Of course, this comes as no surprise given that my husband and I are both highly sensitive people who do our best to channel the sensitivity into creativity, but it’s been joyful to watch Asher find his way with words, and how those words help him find his way with this challenging and beautiful life. 

Asher was intrigued by the idea of writing for my blog, and we talked about some possible topics. Then he went into his room and out poured the following essay. 

One of the things that strikes me about the essay (among many) is that, despite growing up in a world beset by negative news at best and catastrophic headlines at worst, a world where young people look to the older generations hoping to find hope and instead find despair, Asher has emerged into young adulthood with his optimism in tact. Never one to put his head in the sand, he sees the whole picture. He reads the news and has his finger on the pulse of what’s happening on our planet. But somehow he maintains a balanced and sanguine mindset about it all. He’s able to place our current challenges in a historical context and take a long view about our future. 

In the following essay he addresses the philosophical question: Given the suffering that humans inflict on the earth, animals, and ourselves, would the planet be better off without us? Weaving multiple strands of thoughts, he addresses the question with an extraordinary ability to hold paradox and nuance, arriving at not so much an answer as a possibility.

And now I share with you our beautiful son, Asher Finn: storyteller, filmmaker, and thoughtful human. 

P.S.: I started writing this blog when Asher was 6 months old. Talk about marveling at the passage of time that I’m now sharing his writing! 

***

It has been recorded by scientists that certain grizzly bears will sometimes hike mountains for no reason. There is no food at the top, no great stream. “Why,” you must ask, “Would a bear hike a mountain for no reason?” Well, it’s also been noted that once the bear reaches his or her destination, (s)he pauses at the top and sits for a while. If you didn’t know better, you might think bears climbed mountains for the views. 

But let me change gears. Let’s talk about bad things. Awful things. Let’s talk about people. In front of me, on my desk, is a collection of short stories by one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman. I love Neil Gaiman. As a writer, at least. His prose is beautiful, his stories are full of layered characters and fantasy and magic and old gods and new gods and you’re hooked from the very first sentence all the way until the last. I always wanted to be like Neil Gaiman, a great modern writer… until two years ago, when a four-part podcast exposé dropped following the allegations of several women against him. I won’t get into the details, but it was bad. Now, I’m left with a choice: do I still read novels by Neil Gaiman, knowing every time I do that I must remember I am reading words written by a monster?

But more than that, if Neil Gaiman was never born, his victims would have quite possibly lived normal, unscarred lives. But if there was no Neil Gaiman, there would be no Neil Gaiman novels. So, would the world have been better without Neil Gaiman? Does the wonder and magic he fed into the world cancel out the pain and suffering? While millions of people read his books and many (myself included) were inspired to become writers themselves, his victims suffered immensely. So, does the suffering of a few outweigh the added slight joys by many? I don’t have an answer to this question. If your answer is, “Yes, the world would have been better off without Neil Gaiman,” then let me ask you this: would you also want to live in a world without Pablo Picasso, Gandhi, Thomas Jefferson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Florence Nightingale? Picasso was a misogynist, Fitzgerald mistreated his wife, Jefferson owned slaves, and Nightingale and Gandhi were racists. 

Let me expand upon this even more. It is autumn now, and all through the summer, our town in Colorado has been in a period of drought. The lawn is wilting, the rabbits lay down flat on the grass to escape the heat, and even the bugs seem to be dying. Now if this current heat is due to weather cycles or global warming is up for debate, but if it is due to global warming then we, the humans, the only species that can fathom this disaster and grieve the world before it, are also the species responsible. We are the victims and the perpetrators. Our individual lives consume resources, displace animals, and splatter insects across windshields. It might be easy to think that we are a curse on the world, a locust plague, but the locusts are the ones dying. And I haven’t even mentioned human suffering. Millions of people are currently enslaved, or being tortured, or dying of some horrible disease. The only way to truly prevent all human suffering is for there to be no humans. 

So, it makes you wonder: would the world be better off without us? 

Well, let’s pretend we are all Neil Gaiman (unpleasant, I know). We are the great novelists of the animal world. We make art; no other animals do that. We make music; birdsong isn’t music, despite the name. We spoil our pets rotten; your cat or dog would have to fend for itself out in the great wild if it wasn’t for humans. And, of course, we make each other happy. We save each other from disasters, dance together, create incredible movies (think: Back to the Future), entertain children (and if there is anything that makes you believe that humans deserve to exist, it is children), and so on. So, those are our novels. And the earth, us included, is our victim. Do the joys we provide outweigh the cons? Sometimes I think they do, and sometimes I think they don’t. 

We are parts of the universe that has become aware of itself, atoms that assembled into the right shape that have somehow become conscious. That must make us special, right? If we were gone, the universe would cease to perceive its own beauty. There would be no one to write poetry and no one to appreciate nature. 

Or would there be? 

It’s time to return to the bear. If it’s true that bears climb mountains just for the views, then that whole prior statement would be wrong. It brings me some comfort to think that if there were no humans, there would still be conscious beings to appreciate the beauty of the world. So, there you go, I guess we really are insignificant and the world would be better off without us. In fact, a bear could do our jobs. Not so fast. 

I think we are the bear. Or we were the bear. Or both. The bear causes suffering, too, mind you. They kill fish and other animals, even other bears sometimes. They aren’t trying to inflict pain; they are simply living. So, the bear does its living, and does its killing, then hikes a mountain to enjoy the beauty of the world. The bear is not so different from us. To the trout, the bear might be a horrorsome beast, a plague on the forest that they wish they could escape from, and to the bear, we might be the same. In many ways, humans have lessened the cruelty of the world. We don’t eat our children or slay our spouses. We don’t crawl around in the mud and kill each other with our bare hands over food. At least most of us don’t. So if the bear deserves to exist, don’t we?

I think we used to be something like the bear. A half-conscious creature that did not sing or dance, but did enjoy mountain views. I mean this in the evolutionary sense – that many hundreds of thousands of years ago our ancestors were creatures much like this – but also in the current sense. We all grew from babies not much larger than a grapefruit, and in that stage we could not speak or play the piano or paint beautiful masterpieces. I also believe that if we no longer existed, perhaps bears would keep growing and changing, and in a few million years animals that looked a bit like bears but acted a lot like humans would point up at the night sky, and instead of seeing Ursula Major they would see Hominid Major, or The Great Man in the Sky, and they would regale their cubs with stories of ancient empires that rose and fell long before them. 

What I am trying to say is that our human stage of immense consciousness is inevitable, and even if it isn’t, I think it should be. There is no beauty without some suffering, and no living beings that do not cause some pain. I think that we create more than we destroy, and hopefully we love more than we hate. I think any animal that sees beauty and creates it deserves to exist, so I guess us and bears are in the same boat (even though I don’t think I’d want to be in a boat with a bear). The world is a better place with humans in it, and I know I’d be pretty sad if there were no more people to watch Back to the Future.

I also understood that there were multiple factors that led to this particular downturn:

1. When I started my blog in 2009, blogging was still fairly new so the vista was wide open. By 2023, people were on information overload.
2. Similarly, when I created my first course in 2010, there were very few online courses, which made mine more visible and trustworthy. Now the online course world is saturated.
3. The algorithm changes on Instagram every so often. I was favored during the covid years, and when the algorithm changed my posts became less visible.
4. Ai had entered the scene, making it easier for people to find information through Ai sources instead of through someone’s blog or courses. As I understand it, someone could even create their own course on anxiety, for example, simply by asking Ai to create that course. Someone might even say, “Create a course on relationship anxiety based on Sheryl Paul’s blog posts,” and presto, the course would manifest.

I had a choice in terms of how I responded to those changes: I could either hustle to chase the algorithm and join the new platforms (TikTok; Substack) or I could reduce my time online and contemplate a new direction for my work.

I chose the latter.

I chose to listen to the outward signs and the wisdom of my soul and respond from the grounded and truthful place inside of me that was ready for a smaller life. (I shared more in-depth about this choice in our recent Gathering Gold episode on The Fear of a Small Life.)

In other words, it was time to pivot.

As the world became more disconnected and less human, I felt called to become more human.

Becoming More Human

For me, becoming more human meant getting off my screen and into real life in real time, which was a major reason why I was called to lead our first Another Way retreat last June. Ai can do many things, but it can’t sit on the floor in a room at a retreat center in Colorado with thirteen other incredible humans exploring our dreams, sharing our creativity, walking the inner and outer labyrinth, laughing and crying and laughing again, and watching new friendships form. If it hadn’t been for Ai changing the landscape of online courses and therapeutic spaces, I’m not sure I would have moved forward with leading the retreat. And, as it turned out, it was one of the most fulfilling work experiences I’ve ever had.

One of my favorite parts of my work is connecting sensitive, beautiful, kind, compassionate, deep-thinking, and deep-feeling people with each other. In a world that has judged sensitivity harshly, that has sent the message to deeply feeling people that there’s something wrong with them, it is such joy to connect these people with each other and watch the healing balm of friendship blossom before my eyes. This happened at the retreat, it’s happening in our Gathering Well motherhood group, and it’s happened in my 9-month courses. Regularly I’ll receive an email from a past member of the 9-month course letting me know that their small group is still meeting. Few things bring me more joy than receiving those emails.

On the heels of the retreat, it became clear that I longed for more group work but in a smaller way. For years, due to the large numbers on Instagram and other places, my courses soared as well. And while there was some exhilaration in reaching a wide audience, I also started to feel a disconnect. With hundreds of people on my courses, was it really possible to connect deeply with each person? I did my best to connect on the forums and the calls, but I was always left with a bit of an impersonal feeling which wasn’t in alignment with one of my core values, which is real and deep connection.

In short, what I realized after the retreat was that if I was going to be leading a course, especially my longer courses, I wanted to know each and every person on that course.

So, in a strange way, I have Ai to thank for returning me to a smaller, more intimate way of working.

Break Free From Anxiety: A 9-month course on the art of living 

Which brings me to announcing that the 8th round of my most comprehensive course, Break Free From Anxiety, is now open for registration.

If you struggle with relationship anxiety, health anxiety, death anxiety, money anxiety, career anxiety, friendship anxiety or any other intrusive thoughts and are ready to be guided daily into the mindsets and tools that will help you heal from the root, this course is for you.

If you struggle with self-doubt, perfectionism, and a need to control, this course is for you.

If you feel inspired by my posts and long for more direct guidance and in-depth daily emails, this course is for you.

If you’re drawn to the idea of connecting with like-minded people in real time, this course is for you.

If you’re paralyzed by resistance and struggle with taking true responsibility for your well-being, this course is for you.

If you’ve wrestled with depression, this course is for you.

Based on what I shared above and the direction of my work, I’m limiting the number of participants in this course to facilitate real connection, especially through our regular Zoom calls. I’ve also decided to increase both the number and length of the Zoom calls to allow time to delve into the material together. As such, I’ll be encouraging as many people as possible to show up for as many live calls as possible (as opposed to listening to the recordings afterwards). We all long for community, and true community requires showing up in real time and making the commitment to prioritize the spaces where we have an opportunity to explore deeply with safe others.

The live calls will be held every other Tuesday starting on September 29th from 3:30 – 4:45pm ET.  

Of course I understand that not everyone will be able to make every live call, and the recording will be available afterwards, but I’m asking for a strong commitment to attend whenever possible so that we can form a true cohort and community over the nine months together.

P.S. A Few Thoughts on Ai

Full disclosure: I’ve never used Ai. I do understand that it can be very helpful around certain topics and can save time, but so far I haven’t felt an impulse to delve into that world.

Let me also be clear: I understand the allure and have no judgement about people who use it for certain tasks. I certainly have my concerns when it’s used for therapy or creativity, but to be fair I really don’t know enough about it even in those spheres to weigh in with any real knowledge.

What I do know is this: Ai is incapable of sharing genuine human connection. As far as we know, Ai doesn’t have a heart or a soul. It doesn’t smile when you’re talking or lean forward when you’re crying. It has never felt what you’re feeling so it can’t offer one of the most healing medicines for suffering, which is knowing that someone else has walked in your shoes. Ai can’t hold your hand or place a hand on your back. It can’t cry alongside you and fire mirror neurons that let us know: I’m seen. I’m heard. I’m not alone. Ai will never replace human connection no matter how advanced it becomes. This I trust in the belly of my being, in the ground of my soul.

Also, I know I’m not alone in my pull to return to smaller, in-person of connecting.

As the world becomes spread it, many people feel a longing to return to local ways of living.

As the world becomes bigger, some of us long for smaller.

As the world becomes more tech, screen, digital, and Ai based, there’s a return to the analog and the human.

Let’s be human together. I look forward to seeing you on the course. You can learn more and sign up here.

What I love about David Whyte’s piece is how he takes the topic of unrequited love out of only the realm of romantic love. We’re all familiar with the theme of the chase that dominates the storytelling in mainstream culture; it’s entirely based on equating love with longing. If the object of your affection or desire is just out of reach – maybe giving you something but not everything – we often call that feeling “being in love.” We’re so deeply wired to equate being in love with longing, which is essentially the definition of unrequited love, that we in the West have a hard time recognizing what Robert Johnson calls “oatmeal love” as being as good and rare as it is.

In one of my favorite books, “We: Understanding the Psychology of Romantic Love,” Robert Johnson writes:

“So much of our lives is spent in a longing and a search – for what, we do not know. So many of our ostensible “goals”, so many of the things we think we want, turn out to be the masks behind which our real desires hide; they are symbols for the actual values and qualities for which we hunger. They are not reducible to physical or material things, not even to a physical person; they are psychological qualities: love, truth, honesty, loyalty, purpose – something we can feel is noble, precious, and worthy of our devotion. We try to reduce all this to something physical – a house, a car, a better job, or a human being – but it doesn’t work. Without realizing it, we are searching for the Sacred. And the sacred is not reducible to anything else.”

“Something is Missing”: The Longing for Wholeness

If we dare to remove unrequited love from the realm of romantic love and recognize that the longing we have for that feeling of being in love has replaced what was traditionally a longing for the divine, the conversation starts to move in a more interesting and fruitful direction. What I mean is that romantic love comes down to right size when we stop asking it to serve the role that religion once played. It is entirely possible that we were never meant to fall in love in that all-consuming way with another human being – at least not forever.

We can fall in love, but when we come down to earth we must recognize that the normalcy of everyday life doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with the relationship, and that we can’t expect our partner to be a god or goddess. We can allow them to be human with human flaws, and if they also take back the projection that we’re supposed to be a muse or a goddess we can get on with the business of just being two humans together learning about the art of loving.

But as I started with, David Whyte isn’t only talking about romantic love in this piece. He’s talking about the love between a parent and child, between friends, maybe even between neighbors, and then finally, the love with God or the divine. That first line just catches you in the heart: “Unrequited love is the love human beings experience most of the time.”

Why?

Because from the moment we’re born we go from the divine bliss of oneness to separateness. In that very moment we experience unrequited love, a sense that something is missing.

And it continues as the baby gets older because even the most loving mother will never be able to meet all her child’s needs. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love her baby with her entire being, but the baby might not feel that perfect love because there will be times when their needs can’t be met. A baby will be too cold or too hot, hungry or too full, lonely, sad, scared. It’s part of being human to learn how to tolerate the messiness, but as the child grows they will inevitably, at some point, realize that there are gaps in the loving, there’s something missing, because it’s part of our human experience to have something missing, to feel some sense of existential loneliness or existential incompleteness.

“A Beautiful Temporary”

I’ve often written about the highly highly sensitive person with OCD who is acutely, painfully aware that the world is incomplete, and this can show up in the “just right” theme of OCD where they’re trying to get their outer world just right – this penny has to line up in perfect symmetry with that book, or I have to close the door three times in this certain way. It’s like their soul itches and they misguidedly believe if they can scratch it in just the right way by arranging the outer world just so, they’ll find wholeness and then relief.

Of course, it never works. There is no amount of arranging in the outer world that will create the inner wholeness we seek. And in fact, there’s no amount of anything that will create that permanent state of wholeness because I don’t think it exists in human form. We are born in separateness and we will die in separateness. Along the way we can experience deep connection with other humans and animals and the natural world, but it doesn’t sustain. It’s not supposed to sustain. As David Whyte writes, “Requited love may happen, but it is a beautiful temporary, a seasonal blessing, the aligning of stars not too often in the same quarter of the heavens, an astonishing blessing.”

When we accept that there’s an element of brokenness in the world, a piece that will never be complete, we might stop trying to stitch together the tears in an attempt to create an unbroken cloth. Or maybe we don’t stop, because maybe that’s also part of our human experience: to taste acceptance of imperfection or loneliness or incompleteness and then forget what that tastes like and resume our quest to scratch the spiritual itch.

For other people, the quest is focused on romantic love: if I can find my perfect other, my soulmate, my ideal, I will find completion. This hole in my soul will be filled in. People can spend their entire lives seeking that perfect someone and come up empty because it simply doesn’t exist in this world. As Whyte says, “What other human being could ever love us as we need to be loved?” We think if we find our physical ideal or the partner who meets our need for deep conversation we’ll feel loved in the way we need to be loved and the existential emptiness or loneliness will disappear. But it never happens. It’s not the plan here on Earth, as I understand it. It happens in moments, which is the beautiful temporary of requited love, but it’s not how we experience life most of the time.

Falling In and Out of Love with the Divine

So we can say: If I’m not meant to find perfect love with a parent or partner, am I meant to find it with God? I used to think so.

I used to believe that it was possible to be in perfect union with the divine and that was the solution to our problem of separateness – that’s the true remedy for longing. And I still believe this to a point. I believe that when we can channel the need for bliss that we mistakenly assign to other humans onto our relationship with the divine flow of the world – whether that’s through our relationship to nature or creativity or in meditation or yoga or dance – we can taste that ecstatic, joyful place.

But it’s not a sustainable place. We fall in and out of connection with the divine just like we fall in and out of connection with a partner or a friend or a child. We taste these blissful places – we fall in love for a period of time – but then we fall out of love. This can happen multiple times a day in all of our relationships, including our relationship with the divine. It’s so painful to fall out of love or intimate connection.

I’ve talked about this pain I sometimes feel with the natural world, especially in the particularly vibrant seasons of spring and autumn, where I can’t quite merge in the way I long to merge. There’s a feeling of being inside of the beauty and then on the outside which creates longing. I’m starting to believe then instead of expecting to be in a constant state of connection part of our task is to love the longing, to see the wisdom of longing not as something to fix or fill but to meet and accompany.

Requited Love

We tasted requited love at the Another Way retreat in June. We had five days of belonging and connection and reciprocated love. It was beautiful beyond words. And then we knew that it was time to come home and bring this template back into our daily lives – not to try to replicate it necessarily but to draw from it, the way we can draw from the peak experiences in life, like a wedding day. The love is revealed, and we can dip our cup into that well when we need to remember what perfect, requited love feels like.

And maybe when we keep deepening that well, when the waters run deeper and deeper as we grow all of our relationships in life, including our relationship to ourselves and the divine, in our later years we can access it more readily. This is what I’ve experienced as I’ve gotten older: a trust in the healthy relationships which also allows me to accept the less healthy ones with more grace. I don’t need people to be more than they can be. I don’t expect one person to fulfill all my needs. I don’t expect my relationship with the divine to be consistently open and joyful and connected. I’m very much working on all of this, but this is what I’ve noticed.

When I was eighteen, I had a beautiful girlfriend. For about six months, I was pinching myself – I couldn’t believe my luck. But then one day, very suddenly, the doubt entered my mind like a piece of grit: did I love her? Did I really love her? The question plagued me night and day. I told her about it, after much internal anguish, but back then I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain how I was feeling. She thought (and perhaps I thought) that my intrusive thoughts and obsessions meant I didn’t love her. I thought I was going insane. We broke up.

A few years later, I had another relationship, again with a beautiful girlfriend. Two months in, the intrusive thoughts and obsessions struck back. At this point, I was planning for a career in academia, and knew I needed no distractions. I broke up with my girlfriend. (And I ultimately abandoned the academic path, which is a separate story, involving crippling anxiety and what one might call Existential OCD.)

After this, I was in the wilderness for close to a decade. During this time, I had zero romantic contact, with anyone. My mind and body ached for some closeness, but the anxiety was too great. Until I met my now wife. When the Relationship Anxiety slithered in, after about three months, I didn’t run. One of the reasons for this was my discovery of Sheryl’s work, which opened up to me a whole community of people going through exactly what I was experiencing. It also gave me a lexicon to describe it. Over the years, I have oscillated between preferring Relationship Anxiety and ROCD as a label; the former seems gentler, the latter more brutal and clinical. But it doesn’t really matter — the point is that I was not alone. I stuck with my relationship, and was lucky enough to discover that my partner was fully on board with my journey. I sought therapy, which I am still in. The therapeutic alliance helped cement my marital one. I am the luckiest husband in the world.

I became a professional poet in about 2013, and had my first book published in 2016. I am best known as a children’s writer, performer and teacher, and the vast majority of my work is aimed at children. Over the years I have become known as a humorous writer and a comedian, and have won awards for my ‘funny’ books and performances. I love humour, and view it as healing. I adore working with children. But I also write for adults, where my experiences with Relationship Anxiety have been pivotal. As a result, I have thought deeply and philosophically about love, both as a concept in general, and as it applies to me specifically. With this in mind, I’d like to share what has become one of my best known poems in this vein. It is a piece that means a lot to me, and hopefully people will find it interesting:

And So I Write

the word LOVE in my diary, to remind myself
of the underpinning of all the things I do.
I craft the letters with a ruler,

taking great pains to ensure that everything
is smooth, straight, in order. I decorate the word
with a border and I colour it all in, in a way

I haven’t done since primary school.
I really want this word to stand out – LOVE.
The unassailable axiom; the uncaused cause;

that than which nothing greater can be conceived.
Until I realise that the letters aren’t quite even.
Some of the lines are thicker than others

and if you squint a bit you can see
a slight smudge on the page. The letter O
seems sort of squished, and although the word

is still, recognisably, LOVE, it looks somewhat
misformed, somehow. And so I carry now
this buckled LOVE everywhere I go –

in my diary, tucked tight in my rucksack –
and this imperfection is part of everything I do,
a bold, flawed LOVE on the pages of my days.

Joshua Seigal

One final note: please do pay a visit to my website, where you fill find lots of FREE poems, for both adults and children: www.joshuaseigal.co.uk.

Sending big LOVE to all!

I’m overjoyed to share this beautiful piece of writing from Zoe, one of our long-time Patreon members. Zoe shared this in our recent summer solstice Gathering Gold Zoom meeting, and I was so touched by it that I asked if she’d be willing to plant it in our community garden. You may remember Zoe as she graciously shared two poems with us a couple of years ago about relationship anxiety and fairness.

As a poetic and insightful HSP, Zoe speaks to the heart of our human experience, and in this piece reflects on how the transition of moving into a new house with her husband catapults her into the paradoxically precious and painful awareness of the passage of time. 

***

I hear siren number five and it’s only 10am. My nervous system was so attuned to the sounds of inner East London, silence had become just as overwhelming. But for anyone who lives there or passes through, its culture leaves you with a palpable fizziness, in the best way.

Saturated with Hackney life, my husband and I dismantled our old world to build another. Walking through our new house, I became acutely aware that this was the start of something. Anticipation turned concrete. I could see the excitement reflected in his endearingly frantic WhatsApps about bed frames and musings on ‘earthy tones’.

But with every beginning, there is an unavoidable end. Within these four walls, our love will grow and grow and grow until one of us leaves the physical realm. The sadness struck me far louder than any siren. ‘Have you booked your health check yet?’, I ask for the third time in a week combined with 11pm Google searches of ‘whole body MRI scans for £50 and under.’ No success yet, unsurprisingly.

We talk about the passage of time, and this house feels like an embodiment of that seemingly merciless aspect of the universe. But is it merciless? Could it be necessary, even generous? I was called to write on this in response to the below prompt from Victoria in our latest Summer Solstice meet-up:

“As the light begins its slow return toward darkness, what truth is life inviting you to hold that you’ve been trying to resolve instead of embrace? What paradox is asking for your friendship rather than your solution?”

What do I do when the lines around your eyes become deeper? When you turn the key to our front door slower, or one day, lose the key? That will be a strange day. When your frame becomes more frail, hourly requests to put the heating up. It feels like I’ve just learned how to love you, fearlessly, but now I have to learn to lose you, fearlessly. But perhaps they are the same?

This house will witness it all, from choosing tacky gold baubles for our first tree and gifting unhinged immersive experiences, to me or you, one not both, switching the fairy lights on and off each night, and gifting soft pillows for weary bones. That we have finite time is the real gift, but I don’t know how to let go of the idea we won’t be together for infinity. I tell myself we can be the exception, but I know that to truly love you means accepting losing you. This house will witness it all.