To love is to choose to love. The infatuation of early romance is lust. The adoration of a newborn is wonder. For both loves–and all loves–to endure, deepen, and exalt, we vigorously cultivate opening our heart, train our mind to cooperate, and voluntarily offer acts of love.

Even the bond of a blood relationship does not guarantee our love, much less unconditional love. However, family relationships offer the opportunity to learn deepest love lessons. We are called daily to love when the mood least suits us, when mind-matter, like judgment and justification, jam the heart’s plumbing.

Authentic loving isn’t a habit sure to form if practiced for 21 days straight–the secret number for getting a behavior pattern to stick. We arrive at supreme expression when the heart finds its source of strength and the reserves of vast love, and we corral our mind into finally allowing our heart to reign.

I don’t love the patch of black-eyed susans standing proud in a bed of damp grass, lush from an evening’s rain. But the sight inspires me to want to love and share the beauty of the susans’ loving demonstration.

Love is willful. We have no choice but to love. We are lovers. We are servants of love and conscious life, which is loveable. Our only choice is whether we want to experience genuine love, none, or a pale, troubling reflection.