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I like the way that separateness punctuates our togetherness.
I know, that might sound weird at first—but my dear, it’s the magic in those spaces between.
It’s the subtle melody that infuses our love behind the scenes. Like a really good song plucked gently and passionately on a guitar, there are moments of silence, of subtle pause…that make the music all the more sweeping and powerful.
It’s the way that I know where I end and where you begin.
It’s the way we are not falling into each other.
It’s the way we encourage one another to go out and do all the awesome sh*t that inspires us.
This all breathes life, it births a sort of breezy spaciousness that gives our love depth. Because it is deep, it goes for miles underground with a network of thick and succulent roots—but it reaches far and wide, too.
Quite the opposite of suffocating.
Our love is not a slow-motion drowning, which I’ve experienced far too frequently in the past—like being out to sea with no legs, like losing myself completely in the gleam of another’s gaze.
Our love instead is a vibrant open meadow where there are trees, tall grasses, views of the blue-tipped mountaintops, and hundreds of wildflowers in jeweled hues. There are puddles, butterflies, and the musky scent of mud. There is so much to explore. There is room to play and bask and taste the unfurling rays of sun on our cheeks.
So while I can appreciate certain concepts that seem super popular right now, like twin flames—I like that we don’t have to label our love as such.
That feels so liberating.
I like that I don’t consider you to be a lost part of me; that you don’t think of me as the thing that completes you.
In this, we flourish. Our love flourishes.
Because our love-meadow needs room and space to grow.
Like a plant, our relationship sources nutrients from all the ways we tend to it—and I just adore the way it feels when I’m off doing my thing, and you’re off doing yours.
It feels amazing to miss you.
Togetherness blooms and flourishes in this climate; it sways like an ancient oak tree, it soaks up nourishment from those thick roots and becomes brilliant, like a ruby hibiscus climbing on the gate of an old garden.
Love needs room and space to grow.
In this, we grow.
We gain clarity about our own needs, our desires, our boundaries—and that gives our love definition. Strength. Clarity.
It gives us the ability to say no, to speak up, and to continue being responsible for creating our own fulfilling lives.
And then, when we come back together after a long day, it feels absolutely incredible to sink into your arms.
Because we are touching—our skin, our hearts, our souls. And it feels so good. But we are not merging. We are not overly intertwined.
In the past, I’ve mistaken that merged messiness for love—you know, where we sort of become the other person. But that, I’ve found, is not maintainable. Or fun. It tastes bitter, like losing ourselves.
But this spaciousness that we have cultivated, my dear, it’s gold.
I feel so full and alive—and I get to share that fullness with my life, my friends, my work—and deliciously, with you.
I like the way we are both solid in who we are and who we wish to become.
Oh, this spaciousness, this air, these breaths—they ground our love. They give oxygen for fresh blood to pump as crisp, emerald leaves emerge above the rich soil, a result of those thick, trusty roots we’ve cultivated in our love-meadow.
See, spaciousness gives us a sense of independence that makes interdependence and all the ways we rely on each other so much more meaningful.
It’s funny, too, because I once thought this kind of stable, steady, spacious, sharing love would be boring—not as soul-drenched as a fiery love that consumed my every moment.
But in actuality, those toxic, tumultuous, all-consuming loves that we are tempted to call things like twin flames are boring. They eat away at our power, our freedom, our sense of self.
That’s not sexy at all.
And what we have, my love, is anything but boring. It is dynamic and soulful. Because we let it move. We let it breathe.
We respect each other. We know that we can agree, disagree, share interests, and have our own interests, too. We know that we can be ourselves—bad jokes, tender hearts, and all.
We know that we can hold our love, without grasping it too tightly. We can relax into it.
We know how to let go—to happily send each other running off into the arms of our passions, our destinies, self-care, friendships, alone time, service—all of that good stuff.
It is tingly and enlivening.
It’s this way of seeing love as one piece of the puzzle in our lives. And it can be such a nourishing, sparkly, and inspiring piece–0h, hell yes.
But it is one piece.
And I like to climb the trees of the great paradoxes, for it seems that in those spaces between, in the embracing of our separateness—we find the true meaning, the poetry of union and intimacy.
We discover the truth of love, in its tenderly exuberant hues, in its raw, expansive beauty—as we peel back the fantasies, the cultural narrative of the fairy-tale romance we’re “supposed” to want.
And we see deeper.
And we see wider.
And we exhale a sigh of long-awaited relief.
We put things in a proper perspective, which feels wildly pleasurable.
You are not my other half. But you are my love, who makes my life more wonderful, for seeing me, for holding me, for encouraging me to chase my dreams and love myself.
And I am not your other half. But I am your love, who makes your life more wonderful, for seeing you, for holding you, for encouraging you to chase your dreams and love yourself.
And this is freedom.
This is love.
This is the freedom that is infused in love—if we let it be there. If we are brave enough to let there be pauses, stillness, and motion—if we can be close, share ourselves, miss each other, and do all we need to maintain ourselves, too.
This is the melody of our togetherness. It is tinged with the sound of a fresh mountain breeze.
There is space, there is room.
We don’t need to anxiously cling to one another.
For love is a lush, safe place to rest and unfurl as we look out at the vistas of our life. It is that open, flower-speckled meadow facing the blue-tipped mountains.
Together, separate. Together, separate.
It is our infinite dance.
Inhale and exhale.
It is our melody.
It is not the fantasy—but it is so much better. It is all the growth, the discovery, the passion, the everyday routine, the ways we tenderly care and support each other, the way we sit on the couch reading our own books, making eye contact and sharing sweet, sensuous kisses every once and awhile.
So, I wouldn’t call us twin flames—for I don’t really know what those words mean. I think we often braid them into our fears and far-fetched fantasies, then it all gets smeared together, murky and confusing. I know I’ve done that before, and the last thing my busy brain needs is more chaos to sort through. Besides, I am always wanting to rid myself of all that is illusory.
Our love is simple. It is a secure attachment.
And just for fun, because we both love psychology, my dear—this is called object constancy, where can go off and do our own things, knowing that we will still be there for each other when we return. Within that, there is an anchored feeling of trust and consistency, even if we get angry or upset with each other sometimes.
Yes, it is a secure attachment that we’ve both worked hard for.
It is a healthy love.
And in the end, that’s what matters. Because in the simple beauty, in the sweet, grounded spaciousness of a healthy relationship—that’s where the real magic is.