Earlier today, I was standing in my little garden, speaking to my plants. I asked them how they were doing—if they were struggling, if something felt off. It’s something I often do, like checking in with old friends. And somewhere in that quiet conversation, I caught myself saying, “I love you all because I brought you here.”
The moment I said it, it made me pause.
Did I really love them just because I brought them into my space?
Or was it because I nurtured them? Cared for them? Invested time, effort, water, sunlight, and little whispers of encouragement? Was the love rooted in my act of giving? Or was it simply because I liked them—the way they looked, the way they filled up empty corners with life?
I stood there longer, asking: Where does love come from? What is its foundation?
Is Love Ownership?
There’s a strange emotion in bringing something—or someone—into your life. A sense of closeness. A desire to hold them near, protect them, perhaps even claim them. It’s tempting to mistake this for love. The way we press a flower to our nose over and over because it smells divine. The way we stare at a beautiful face, or listen on loop to that one hauntingly perfect song.
Is that love?
Or is it fascination? Attachment? A craving to possess beauty, to trap it before it fades?
Love as Investment
Maybe it’s the effort that creates the bond. Like raising a child, or tending a garden, or building a project. When we pour ourselves into something, our emotions get tangled with the outcome. We start to care—not just because the thing exists, but because we helped it exist. We want it to thrive, and its pain becomes our pain. Its joy, our joy.
Does love come from this investment?
Or is that just pride in what we’ve shaped?
The Question Lingers
I don’t have a definitive answer. Only layers of thought, like petals unfolding one by one.
But I do know this—some part of love feels like stillness. Like standing beside a leaf without needing it to bloom. Like listening to a song not because it’s perfect, but because it’s yours. Or not even yours—just something you chose to be close to.
And in that choosing, again and again, maybe love quietly takes root.