Dear Wolfie,

I know the real love letters are supposed to go to your email address, but I'd rather keep my declarations public so there's no misunderstanding.

Your allegedly disordered mind has won my love by showing/speaking honesty, insight, passion for the earth, compassion for our fellow creatures, a knack for wordsmithery, and a quirky whimsy I found irresistible at first read.

Of course I have no way of knowing what the rest of you is like. But I've never loved (and rarely known) a person free of issues, or expected love to be offered with the option of no drama, at least not for duration longer than a night.

What scares lovers off--and should--is when we can't or won't take responsibility for who we are, when we expect the people in our lives both to pretend our issues are not real or not important, and to manage our emotional lives for us. Or when our needs take all the oxygen available.

It seems to me, you own your own shit. Rest assured, you've got a friend in Arkansas.


Retired psychologist, wordsmith, teacher, MFA candidate. Buy me coffee:

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