I am spreading last summer’s blackberry jam thick and sticky on my morning toast, jam that I cooked down from buckets of berries, my face enveloped in sweet steam on a hot August day at Wren Cottage. The process was made exquisite in a huge copper pot set on an outside stove while the sunflowers swayed behind me. A Bewick’s wren flitted in-an-out of the eaves taking a shortcut to the berry-laden hedges. It was a day for the soul. This morning I screw the top back on the jar and watch a February snowstorm gather forces, ticking ice against the kitchen window. It is 2025: my soul is both joyful and shattered. But there is jam.

Joy has everything to do with a healthy baby joining our family this week. I am riding the happiness, not the shock of US and World events. But I realize that silence — about anything — just capitulates, just allows. So let me talk about another power.

Love of jam. Love of friends. Love of a warm blanket. Love of a good stitch. Love of a nap. Love of family — no matter their politics. Love of a new baby smile. Love of a hot meal. Love of a really good book. Love of encouraging emails. Love of poetry. Love of a fresh espresso in a china cup. Love of a good health report. Love of endless time to read. Love of a walk. Love of a challenging puzzle. Love of a cool find in a consignment shop. Love of a phone call from a daughter. Love of a card in the mail. Love of sitting with strangers and lending a hand. Love of listening. Love of boundaries. Love of random acts of kindness.

Love is not just on my mind because of this month: it is the strongest weapon I have against all the hate and venom and dehumanizing happening on our doorstep; massive suffering put into place very quickly because of prejudice and greed. It costs me nothing to help.

What do you love? How will you find it? How will you give it? It is free from me.

We cannot feel helpless. Find a way.

Winging love to you.