This poem was written as a response to a prompt by Carolyn Jones in an ongoing writing experiment called "The Opportunity," which appeared on her publication, Words in Bloom. The prompt was "What does love ask of us that we rarely admit?" It appeared in the February 1, 2026 edition of
I may have posted this already, but there's a wonderful line supposedly written by Louise Colet to Flaubert: "We do not choose--we are elected into love."
I don't think she was thinking of offices in her image. From the context in Flaubert's Parrot (where Julian Barnes quote letters), it mean the choice was not ours. It's fate.
I so glad to hear from you, Siodhna, and happy this landed in the right way. I think Love manifests in our lives in a variety of ways, and it needs to be said, and it needs to be promised, but if it’s real, it asks to be practiced over and over again.
Hi Paul, after nearly fifty years nothing matters more to me than choosing to love “again and again and again” with the actions that accompany doing that. Beautiful truth, Paul. Daniel
If we're honest with ourselves? I think we choose, whether it's out of selfishness or comfort or reasons of necessity. Sparks can be there for all of the reasons we choose, and, if we're lucky, we learn how to seek and find delight in different moments.
Paul, I really like what you have written here, and I find myself wondering about the small place where something still feels unfinished for me.
Maybe love also asks for the quiet admission that we need to practice this work inwardly first. We need to meet ourselves, incomplete and flawed as we are, before we can truly meet another. Otherwise, we may perform love beautifully outwardly while still withholding it from the one person we live with every day: ourselves.
I agree with you: love is work. It asks for hands, repetition, presence, choice.
And I also feel how all the work in the world cannot fully compensate for missing love within ourselves. At some point, love asks us to stop treating our own “unlovable” places as evidence, and begin calling them home too.
I may have posted this already, but there's a wonderful line supposedly written by Louise Colet to Flaubert: "We do not choose--we are elected into love."
We may be elected, Lev, but if don’t practice love again, and again, and again, we can easily be tossed out of office.
I don't think she was thinking of offices in her image. From the context in Flaubert's Parrot (where Julian Barnes quote letters), it mean the choice was not ours. It's fate.
Yes, there are people who believe that or they feel that it’s true.
Wisdom and truth, Paul. This landed in my heart, especially this very day when I needed to read it.
I so glad to hear from you, Siodhna, and happy this landed in the right way. I think Love manifests in our lives in a variety of ways, and it needs to be said, and it needs to be promised, but if it’s real, it asks to be practiced over and over again.
So very true
Beautiful! Love this❤️
Thank you for reading and commenting, Laurie ! 🙏😊
Hi Paul, after nearly fifty years nothing matters more to me than choosing to love “again and again and again” with the actions that accompany doing that. Beautiful truth, Paul. Daniel
Thank you, Daniel. I appreciate your comment!
What a beautiful response! 🩵
Beautiful love!
Facts!
So lovely, so true.
Thank you, LeeAnn
Love is a vixen.
I thought mine was a fox!
Wow, vulnerability ✨
Thank you, Jo-Ann
You’re welcome, Paul😊
💙
💙💙Thank you, Deborah
Do we choose or are we chosen.. ? and the sparks?
those moments of delight ..are they worth it.. when we are left to seek them like an addict will always seek his fix.
If we're honest with ourselves? I think we choose, whether it's out of selfishness or comfort or reasons of necessity. Sparks can be there for all of the reasons we choose, and, if we're lucky, we learn how to seek and find delight in different moments.
We do in fact do that.. and make those moments the solace that becomes salvation . .
Paul, I really like what you have written here, and I find myself wondering about the small place where something still feels unfinished for me.
Maybe love also asks for the quiet admission that we need to practice this work inwardly first. We need to meet ourselves, incomplete and flawed as we are, before we can truly meet another. Otherwise, we may perform love beautifully outwardly while still withholding it from the one person we live with every day: ourselves.
I agree with you: love is work. It asks for hands, repetition, presence, choice.
And I also feel how all the work in the world cannot fully compensate for missing love within ourselves. At some point, love asks us to stop treating our own “unlovable” places as evidence, and begin calling them home too.
Love every day
With every breath
With every caress.
Practice makes perfect—thank you for reading and commenting, Malcolm!
Perfect Paul. Wouldn't add or take a word away from it. Distilled wisdom.