Love Is Life

There was a time in my life I became afraid to love. Because all those times I fell in love, I got hurt. I thought maybe that's why it's called "falling" in love. I would give my all, loving deeply and wholeheartedly. It would be a truly emotional, extremely euphoric experience. I would dream about the object of my affection all day and all night, imagining good times together, thinking of what I can do or give him to show how much I cared. I would feel light as a feather, energized and excited, literally blooming with the joy I felt inside. Then somehow something would go wrong and my whole world would crash. Disappointment. Resentment. Anger. Pain. Why? Can we not love without pain? Is disappointment really a price to pay for all the happiness we feel when we're in love? Should we blindly accept that because we love we get hurt? It was only after many years of soul-searching and internalizing inspirational writings that I discovered that I can...

Red roses were her favorites, her name was also Rose. And every year her husband sent them, tied with pretty bows. The year he died, the roses were delivered to her door. The card said, "Be my Valentine", like all the years before. Each year he sent her roses, and the note would always say, "I love you even more this year, than last year on this day. My love for you will always grow, with every passing year." She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear. She thought, he ordered roses in advance before this day. Her loving husband did not know, that he would pass away. He always liked to do things early, way before the time. Then, if he got too busy, everything would work out fine. She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special vase. Then, sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face. She would sit for hours, in her husband's favorite chair. While staring at his picture, and the roses sitting there. A ye...

Viktor Frankl, a Vienna Jew, was interned by the Germans for more than three years. He was moved from one concentration camp to another, even spending several months in Auschwitz. Dr. Frankl said that he learned early that one way to survive was to shave every morning, no matter how sick you were, even if you had to use a piece of broken glass for a razor. For every morning, as the prisoners stood for review, the sickly ones who would not be able to work that day were sent to the gas chambers. If you were shaven, and your face looked ruddier for it, your chances of escaping death that day were better. Their bodies wasted away on the daily fare of 10 1/2 ounces of bread and 1 3/4 pints of thin gruel. They slept on bare board tiers seven feet wide, nine men to a tier. The nine men shared two blankets together. Three shrill whistles awoke them for work at three A.M. One morning as they marched out to lay railroad ties in the frozen ground miles from the camp, the accompanying guards k...

I had just walked in the door after dropping off the costume I had made for a friend's daughter when I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. It was my friend saying, "I know you worked hard on the costume and it looks very nice, but Janet doesn't like all those sequins. Could you change them?" I groaned. Annoyed, I started to call her back---until I suddenly thought of Grandma and what she had once done for me long ago when I visited her in New York City. It was the summer I was eight. I can still see the chalk on the sidewalk marking a game of hopscotch outside her building. As I entered I could smell the pine oil the janitor used to wash the hall floors. Flying upstairs, I knocked on Grandma's door. Grandma had something special planned every day. She had saved a few coins so we could go to a picture show. One day we threw bread to pigeons; another day we watered the evergreen on the fire escape. At the end of the week Grandma decided to cu...

One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart. Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, "Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine." The crowd and the young man looked at the old man's heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars, it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn't fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing. The people stared ­ "How can he say his heart is more beautiful?" they thought. The young man looked at the old man's he...

It was done in shades of blue with a touch of peach here and there and when I first saw it, tears sprang to my eyes. Something about the painting made me see beauty in something that had previously been just another duty. The child was sound asleep in his mother's arms, his head on her shoulder, her cheek resting against his curly hair. Light from a nearby window was just beginning to chase the dark shadows away. The rocking chair in the background was empty. Whatever his need, she had taken him in her arms without waiting to get to a more comfortable spot. The quilt she held him in was further evidence of someone's love. The little patchwork pieces so patiently arranged in design and so warmly healing. I knew just what had happened as I drank in the picture. She had heard his cries, wrapped him tightly in the warm quilt, told him everything would be OK now, and rocked him gently until his fears and tears were quieted and he was once again safe and warm and asleep. Bu...