To love a hippie is to take a walk into a soul’s garden and stop to smell the flowers.
It’s early morning sunshine stretching across a bed tangled with “I love you’s” and the soft gasps of dreams.
To love a hippie is to escape from the mundane into a world that is magical—seeing the joy in the moon rising above the distant sea and the beauty of lips pressed against fresh daisies.
It’s music that lifts and dips, this way and that, moving to a beat all its own. It’s bare feet and long hair tangled in your sleep, and it’s the smile you just can’t forget.
To love a hippie is to hold hands with nature while kissing the stars.
It’s moonbeams and rainbows—and just a little bit of thunder.
It’s the smell of summer rain steaming against the hot earth, and the touch of grass wet with dew upon up the toes.
To love a hippie is to decide that the rules aren’t always worth pursuing. For even on the best day, a hippie will manage to break a few.
A hippie’s love is free as the lark in the sky, and as vast as the night.
Everything and nothing at once, it’s the indescribable feeling of wanting but not needing.
It’s the taste of Elderflower liquor heavy with the smell of Ganeshas Dream hovering in the air. Bare shoulders and wild eyes that dance at the edge of reason and passion.
To love a hippie is to journey into the tempestuous unknown of this life with nothing more than a soft hand and hope.
To love a hippie is to thirst for adventure as others desire their morning coffee. It’s a love like sleek cobblestones and icy glaciers.
To love a hippie is to know that the journey will matter most—that the destination will somehow become lost between 2:00 a.m. kisses and fresh bread from the bakery. It’s homemade strawberry jam licked from expectant fingertips, and the taste of honey dust upon bare skin.
To love a hippie is to journey above the rules of relationships and far beyond the expectations of society.
It’s free love, and it’s always the best kind.
To love a hippie is to marry at sunset with the sound of the surf as the only witness. It’s a marriage of two hearts—without rings, without lace and without pretense. It exists because the universe has conspired to make it so.
To love a hippie is to journey not just into love, but into finding yourself as well. It is comfort and understanding—and patience as warm as mamma’s quilt by the fire.
To choose to love a hippie is to decide to make romantic love real. It’s a candle’s flickering glow.
It’s the beauty of love that exists simply because—just as the chicory grows along the wild riverbank—because the very best of things just are. Just as the sun rises in the morning above green-laced hilltops, and as the moon glows pearl-like over fields, the love for a hippie just is.
For a hippie loves another from the purest place in their heart; they don’t know how to love any other way.
If you’re lucky enough to be loved by a hippie, it won’t be because of anything you own or the money in your wallet. It will be because they see you for who you really are; they see the magic you create when you’re not looking.
They are the ones who love with the enthusiasm of a meteor shower in the middle of summer—for they do everything with all their hearts. They are full-throttle—passionate.
They don’t just desire your body; they want to touch your soul as well. They won’t just kiss your lips, but your fingertips too.
They don’t just want you for a night, but for as much of their future as they are willing to plan.
And while they know only the foolish make promises of forever, the truest oath they can make is this:
As long as the sun and moon still kiss the sky, they will try to love you as they did the very first day.
To love a hippie is to know that wherever life takes you, you’ve got your own bit of paradise right next to you—and she’s just waitin’ for a kiss.
Author: Kate Rose
Editor: Toby Israel