The English language has limits on love. Literally, just that one word. So, whether you’re gushing about your spouse or your kids or your friends or your grandma or your dog or 80s music or your favorite pasta primavera dish, if you are an English speaker, you are limited to one word: “love.”

The Greeks, on the other hand, have a bunch of words for love. There’s eros, which is romantic love; storge, love for family; and philia, love for friends.

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Hello, paper. I love writing a poem a day on you or on my screen and sending it to my best friend who sails around the world with his wife. He sends me a poem a day back. I’ve been doing this since April 2010.

I love writing it no matter what, though for a long time I bucked like a wild horse, resisting it, resenting it.. feeling like I’d shackled myself to the desk to write a damn poem. Here’s what tamed me: I wrote to my friend and his wife and told them that after four years of sending them poems, I was exhausted and not enjoying it and it was time to move on.

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I never considered myself a warrior. A worrier, absolutely and undoubtedly – but never a warrior. As is true for most of us in life, I have experienced my share of traumas in all shapes and sizes, each one leaving behind an emotional battle scar. The scars run deep, dictating my beliefs about myself and imprinting upon my inner voice.

Truth be told, the greatest war I’ve ever fought is the one with myself. Most of us fight similar wars, except we call it Healing. Continue Reading

When I was an undergrad, I was encouraged to join a service organization. My college hosted a volunteer fair for several area organizations, each with a student representative to talk about their program and how we could put our energy to use in the service of others.

There was a handsome boy named Charlie, with thick, dark, shaggy hair, and the rugged good looks of a Disney prince who was talking about a homelessness project. I was suddenly interested in homelessness, so I joined that team.

Charlie faded into the background, holding the hand of his hippie girlfriend, and I was signed up for weekly “social visits” with homeless people at MainSpring House in Brockton, the economically depressed city the next town over.

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