Love List: A Meditation on Joy

In the years before the pandemic, when I was in a state of physical and emotional turmoil after being diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, and desperate to find a way through my suffering, a friend recommended Insight Timer—a leading meditation app. It was here that I found Sarah Blondin’s work.

In addition to her beautiful writing, Blondin’s melodic voice is a soothing balm for the soul. It’s like listening to cool water flowing over smooth river stones on a hot summer day. You can’t help but become entranced.

In the first weeks of the pandemic in 2020, she released a free 20-minute meditation on her podcast, Live Awake, called Feeding the Heart, Caring for Goodness. Six years later, as we navigate a collective hell of another making, the relevance of her message remains.

Leading up to the meditation, she says:

“We speak most often of our dread, our worry, our criticism, and our judgments. We are fed fear through the media, and then we open our mouths only to regurgitate that same fear.

“We are caught circling, passing on, and handing the baton of our turmoil. I’ve noticed recently how little we speak of what is joyous to us, and instead recycle the hurt of the world, simply because we have forgotten to feed ourselves with love.”

I recently replayed this episode on a whim, allowing her voice to lull me into a state of soft reflection. After 20 minutes, I opened my eyes to tear-stained cheeks and an inspired heart, deeply moved by the experience.

“We have forgotten how to sit in the raw and present moment, to wake the heart inside of us; to really remember that though life is full of that which is hard and heartbreaking, we are each held together by a love that knows no bounds.

“We are here to grow and know love, so why do we speak more often of what hurts than of what heals and sustains us through this hurt? I must ask you, in this moment, to harvest with me, to cultivate, to encourage your being to step aside this fraught noise of the world and speak now of what you most love.”

This meditation is an invitation to come home to yourself—to remember, to live from love.

My mind started churning as the relaxing music played.

What do I most love? Not who—that’s too easy.
What saturates my senses and grounds me in gratitude and presence?

Small examples started streaming into my awareness. Many of them were associated with specific times of the year, and others were more general.

Allow me to share my Love List:

January

I love the sharp, piercing shatter of ice-covered puddles and the clean, crisp scent of imminent snowfall once winter returns.

I love the anticipation of a second kiss after the first proves it’s worthy of repeating.

I love how my cat smiles at me with her eyes. The way she insists on being snuggled—wrapping her front legs around my neck and tucking her head under my chin. She purrs contentedly as I rock and sway her like a baby.

February

I love the soft squish of my husband’s warm cheek against mine after he’s just shaved them smooth—and even more, that he intentionally seeks me out afterward because he knows I’m fond of cheek kisses.

I love the sensation of a dark chocolate truffle turning to liquid silk as it melts on my tongue—the perfect balance of bitter and sweet.

I love roses as yellow as ghee; the edge of each petal curled like the hem of a petticoat. The way each bud slowly opens over days, releasing its intoxicating fragrance beloved by so many.

March

I love the morning chorus of songbirds—a cheerful cacophony of competing voices and nature’s most delightful music. Never once have I grown tired of it.

I love the memory of the sweet smell of my mother’s skin, the comfort of curling my tiny body into her chest as a small child, then falling asleep to the rhythm of her heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

I love the brilliant sparkle of my diamond jewelry and the timeless sheen of polished gold.

April

I love the deep gray-blue of storm clouds set against the brilliant green of fresh spring leaves when the sun shines before the rain.

I love the deep wrinkles that arch from the corners of my dad’s eyes when he smiles from the inside out, the wheezing rasp of his uncontrollable, full-body laughter, and the way he tilts his head, his hand positioned just so, when he reaches the best part of a story.

I love the brilliant magenta and coral geraniums that spill over the edge of turquoise clay pots on our back patio, and the familiar scent they release as I carefully remove their spent leaves early in the morning. The fondness the women in my family have for geraniums goes back four generations.

May

I love finding natural treasures: crisp, hollow snake skins freshly shed; sun-bleached bones in the leaf litter; glossy feathers; and tiny split eggshells in the garden, their threadlike veins tracing the inside—the only evidence left behind by the baby bird who formed within. Each one, a symbol of growth.

I love the trickle of a cold stream, lined with mossy rocks to rest upon as I soak my tired feet after a long hike; the heft of a round wishing stone nestled in my palm—forever reminding me of my late mother.

I love the scent of my grandpa’s house. The faint, yeasty aroma that lingers after decades of home-brewing beer in the basement.

June

I love the buzz of bees—legs thick with orange pollen—the loud hum of cicadas in the afternoon, and the steady, melodic chirping of crickets at dusk.

I love slipping between cool, clean sheets after I’ve just shaved and moisturized my legs on Sunday night.

I love watching playful fawns chase each other through the underbrush while their mothers browse nearby, unbothered and serene.

I love the sulfurous smell of the marsh at low tide, the squelch of warm mud between my toes, and the way the earth seems to breathe before the water rises to reclaim it.

July

I love the tickle of a refreshing breeze against my bare, sun-bronzed arms and the relief it brings from the sweltering heat of Southern summers.

I love sinking my teeth into a slice of perfectly toasted bread—the initial crunch followed by a soft center—oozing with fresh, grassy olive oil and sprinkled with pink Himalayan salt.

I love searching rocky tide pools for aquatic treasures with my sister and perching on warm boulders slick with seaweed and brine.

August

I love the smell of crushed tomato leaves between my fingers. The sweet acidity of sun-warmed fruit, their skins bursting between my teeth. They are the literal taste of summer sunshine.

I love galloping across a field on horseback—the scent of freshly cleaned leather, the subtle squeak of the saddle, and the rhythm of pounding hooves beneath me. I love the exhilaration of dropping the reins and floating my arms like wings, granting us both a sense of freedom born from mutual trust.

I love the quiet peace of a pond; tranquil yet teeming with life.

September

I love the way the outside world disappears in moments of awe—standing at the base of the Tetons or gazing out over vast distances and realizing how small and insignificant we truly are in the grand scheme of the universe.

I love the piercing shriek of a hawk soaring in the blue sky above me in the late afternoon. Watching them hunt rodents in the clearings between the trees, and the feathers they leave behind just for me.

I love the fragrant perfume of tea olives wafting through the yard in late summer—a gentle reminder to pause and breathe.

October

I love watching steam rise off the black water of Walland Pond at Blackberry Farm, backlit by the rising sun; the quiet pops of fish just beneath its surface, feeding on unsuspecting insects.

I love the rhythmic crunch and swish of crisp autumn leaves underfoot, and the sweet, syrupy scent of their gradual decay.

I love the deep, ruby red of a Russian River Valley Pinot Noir and the spicy aroma of vanilla, leather, tobacco, and dark cherries as it swirls in a wide crystal glass atop a delicate, slender stem.

November

I love the cozy fragrance of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, and cloves—triggering nostalgia for afternoons spent baking with my mother as a child. The whir of her ‘70s-era stand mixer, and the faint scent of its motor mixed with creamed butter and sugar in the milky glass mixing bowl.

I love the satisfying thud of closing a hardcover book after the final page.

I love kissing the forehead of a baby that I love, and the instant intoxication that follows after inhaling their sweetness. As I cradle their tiny sleeping body in my arms, bathing in oxytocin, I feel as though they are a part of me.

December

I love the echo of stilettos clicking across a marble floor, worn by a confident and powerful woman—even more when I am that woman.

I love the sound of sleigh bells, the glitter of glass ornaments, the smell of fresh balsam, and the ambiance of twinkle lights and a crackling fire.

I love the glow after a fresh winter snowfall; how the sunlight bathes every surface in a luminous reflection—a welcome antidote to the darkest months of the year.