What makes you happy?

What is your favorite place?

What makes you feel good?

What delights you?

What do you wonder about?

What is your greatest passion?

What is your most cherished memory?

What do you need to feel safe?

The more I wonder… the more I love. -Alice Walker

Two halves have little choice but to join; and yes, they do make a whole.

But two wholes when they coincide… that is beauty. That is love. -Lillian Darr


The Love Story of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The romance between Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett is legendary. No couple has ever written of unconditional love more eloquently or sincerely, or provided a more beautiful example of it in their own lives. When, they met, she was 38–a frail and lonely but incredibly gifted poet. A spinal injury had left her in a wheelchair from the age of 15. He was only 32, and a handsome worldly English author.

For the first two years of their courtship, Elizabeth could not believe that Robert really loved her as much as he professed. She thought it was just her poetry that captured his heart. With patience and poetry of his own, he finally convinced her that his love for her was complete. Early in the relationship he wrote to her saying that he loved her poetry with all his heart, but loved her even more. Elizabeth responded in her most famous poem to the man who loved and accepted her unconditionally:

How do I love thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with a passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints—I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Sonnet XLIII

Elizabeth Barrett Browning


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