So I’m on a plane from Perth to Sydney.
The sky is blue. The clouds are white. I am not sitting next to a triangle.
Perfect time to write, yeah? Pull the laptop out, put on summink ridickelass like ‘Maneater’ and try and think of something new to say about my non-existent love life. Yet the woman next to me seems to be praying, another plays with her baby. The kids I’m travelling with could be reading over my shoulder for all I know. It’d be a remarkable literacy accomplishment but still. These companions make it slightly inappropriate to write about such things, besides, there’s no lack of love here. Well, there’s a lack of romantic love perhaps but hey what’s love got to do with it, got to do with it? What is love? Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more?
I wrote about one kind of love in my last blog, when a dude told me he loved me on a second date while making out. I was insulted. He hardly knew me, he just knew what I looked like and that I knew what Sufism was. I think love is knowing everything about someone but still liking them.
Love is caring more than you thought you would, more than you thought you ever could, where you feel pulled and pushed by invisible strings towards it
Love is doing nice little special things for someone else that they may not even notice. Love is someone who makes you a better person, someone who brings out the best in you even though they might know your worst.
Love is falling to the floor, tears rolling down your face, stomach almost aching with laughter, inability to speak with laughter and little private giggles.
Love is smiling at text messages, emails, postcards and notes left on your kitchen table.
Love is have someone to share cooking responsibilities with when camping in a group.
Love is not even realising that the walls you built for yourself don’t exist anymore. They didn’t come tumbling down dramatically they just ceased to be.
Love is stimulating conversation and talking shit and saying nothing.
Love is happiness, kindness, joy, trust, peace and all those words like that
Love is holding hands and making out and farting comfortably
Love is buying someone else something from an op shop.
Love is more than needing, more than desire.
Love is picnics and dancing and cooking
Love is lame poetry and soppy songs.
Love is people being their best selves.
Love is a collaboration
Love is a conversation
Love is a celebration
Love is simple.
Love is sharing
Love is daydreaming, but together.
Love is hoping
I could keep quoting pop songs, I can write as many advice columns as I like about flings I don’t want, I can enter competitions for dating blogs when I’m not dating, but there’s no hiding the fact that I really just want to talk about the things I love right now.
So I’m on this plane with five kids from the desert, heading to a big city on the other side of the country. This isn’t the place to talk about my work but know this: I love what I do. Not every day, but even when it’s hard I love what I learn, the people I work with, what we share, the art we create together and the stories we tell.