I’ve spent the past four-and-a-half months living in a tent above the Breitenbush River deep in the Oregon woods, and about a month ago I was thunderstruck with a realization that I wrote on the front cover of my notebook:

I CAME TO BREITENBUSH TO LEARN ABOUT LOVE.

The truth is, I am lucky enough to have always known love. My family and friends are open and affectionate and celebratory and do not hesitate to express their love through words, actions, and touch.

And yet. Somehow, I’ve never felt fully able to take IN the love that surrounds me in a real, embodied sense. The love I receive has always seemed like a brainier knowing, not a bodily belief.

And I think one of the reasons why is that the act of receiving love requires vulnerability. Softness. Openness. And exposure. Scary shit that feels (to me at least) something like: