Writing about Love

On this first day of a new year, I thought to write about love. Almost every story has love in it somewhere, even if not the love between a man and a woman. There are so many kinds of love without a sexual connotation – parental love; love of humanity; sibling love … the list is endless. I started thinking about a different aspect – there is love even without a human aspect. So I bring you –



One of the most beautiful poems ever written was penned by a British poet named Rupert Brooke, tragically

killed at a young age in the first World War. In his short life (1887 – 1915), he wrote prolifically, and his

poems are still quoted today. In one of the most memorable, “The Great Lover”, he detailed all the things

that were most dear to him – from “the strong crusts of friendly bread”, “the cool kindliness of sheets” to “the

benison of hot water.” It was his way of counting his blessings, and I think that is something we all need to do

now and then.

On re-reading his poetry recently, I was moved by the fact that although he died at 28, he lived each one of his brief years so intensely, almost as though he were aware that he would not be granted the time to savor and reflect. “The Great Lover” inspired me to make a list of things that I take for granted in Jerusalem, but which nevertheless enrich my life:

These I have loved:

The sound of the siren that ushers in the Sabbath, knowing that for the next 24 hours my life will be peaceful

and elevated above the mundane. The wind sighing in the pine trees outside my window, and the birds that nest

there so that each morning I awaken to birdsong. Dawn shyly creeping on my balcony when Jerusalem is

bathed in pearl as the city still sleeps.

I love the skyline of the Old City with its domes, minarets and turrets. Touching the stones of the Western

Wall and communing one-on-one with the Creator. The special quality of light in Jerusalem, especially sunset

when indigo shadows lengthen and the sky is strewn with stars.

I love the quiet street where I live, the feeling “I’m coming home!” as I turn the corner. Eating breakfast on

my white dishes with their big splashes of blue and yellow flowers, and pouring milk from a fat clay jug.

I love the knicknacks accumulated on holidays abroad and in the Jaffa fleamarket where I went with a dear

friend. A pottery vase of flowers picked from my own garden – a rose, a daisy, a simple geranium. And in

winter, the embrace of my thick, blue dressing-gown that hugs me in warmth. Old photos of people we loved

who are no longer with us.

So many things to love. But none more so than the company of family and friends; the laughter of

grandchildren and the trusting way they offer you their tiny hands. The things we love the most cannot be

bought with gold. They surround each of us each day waiting to be acknowledged and appreciated.

If we can take a few moments to pause and savour them, then – like the dead young poet – we can say

these things were lovely and – we loved!


May the coming year be filled with many things – and people – to be loved and cherished. Happy writing.

To contact me or locate my books, click on Books or About Me at the top of the blog.


5 thoughts on “Writing about Love

  1. Rebecca Goldsmith says:

    Beautifully written, and many of the images you conjure up, in the descriptions of the things you love, I really identify with.

  2. Rita says:

    Thank you I just returned from the jaws of death and to come back and read this piece was so coincidental that I can’t express my feelings I am still very woozy but this one really made my day

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