February

Holding Love and Difficulty

As we begin to wrap February, I find myself contemplating a profound paradox: how we hold love and difficulty simultaneously, refusing to collapse into one or the other. During a hike with my dogs early this month, I discovered something remarkable—someone had walked the word "LOVE" into the snow on a hillside. Each letter was traced by footsteps through fresh powder, a deliberate act of creating beauty in harsh conditions. It struck me as the perfect embodiment of what Jung called "the tension of opposites."

Jung taught that psychological wholeness comes not from choosing one side over another, but from holding contradictory forces together without rushing to resolve them. This practice applies most profoundly to our internal landscape—the opposing emotions we feel, the choices we make between competing desires, and the contradictory aspects of who we are. When we stop trying to be only one thing—when we allow these opposites to coexist within us—we move toward wholeness rather than a flattened, one-dimensional version of ourselves. From this tension, something transcendent can emerge: a new perspective, a third way that integrates both sides rather than forcing us to pick one.

The deeper practice of this showed up vividly this month. A planned beach escape was cancelled by the very blizzard that buried us in snow—a disappointment I felt sharply. Yet alongside that disappointment, I witnessed the sheer joy of children sledding and playing in the fresh snow, felt deep appreciation for peaceful walks with few people present, and for my community coming together to help each other dig out, share resources, and check on neighbors. Both the loss of warmth and rest AND the gift of connection and aliveness were true simultaneously. I didn't need to choose which to feel—I could hold both.

The practice deepened in my relationships, too. I encountered a particularly frustrating situation with someone who often triggers an automatic reaction in me. This time, I made a choice: I created a little space between what happened and how I responded. Just a pause, a breath, a conscious choice. I didn't get it perfect—I rarely do—but when I noticed myself reacting rather than responding, I reflected and tried to see the other side.

This is what choosing love looks like in difficult moments. Not pretending everything is fine, but refusing to give away our power and agency through automatic reactions. We have a choice. And like any muscle, this one strengthens with practice, becoming easier and more natural over time.

Ways to Practice

Ways to hold opposing forces without collapsing into either extreme:

Create the pause - When someone or something triggers you, practice inserting space before responding. Even a few seconds can shift you from reaction to conscious choice. Ask: "What would love (or wisdom, or my best self) do here?" Then choose that response, even if it's hard.

Hold both/and - When you notice yourself in either/or thinking ("I either like this person or I'm angry with them"), practice saying: "I feel both frustration AND care. I hold both grief AND gratitude." This prevents collapse into one extreme and allows complexity to exist.

Let opposites generate something new - Jung's "transcendent function" emerges when we stop trying to resolve tension prematurely. Sit with the discomfort of not knowing which side to choose. Often, a third way emerges that's better than either of the original options. When facing a dilemma, resist the urge to solve it, avoid it, or give up immediately. Give it time to reveal unexpected possibilities.

Choose love as a response, not just a feeling - Love isn't only what we feel; it's what we do. Someone walking "LOVE" into the snow took action. When facing difficulty, ask: "What would it look like to respond with love, or kindness, or compassion here?" Sometimes that's setting a boundary. Sometimes it's offering grace. The key is conscious choice.

Brief Updates:

Our February 18th session was one of my favorites—the engagement and vulnerability were exceptional. We explored managing mental overwhelm, all-or-nothing thinking, and finding new ways to engage as our capacities shift with age. The wisdom in the room was extraordinary.

Closing Reflection

Despite the continued cold and abundant snow, the birds have returned to my morning runs. Their songs fill the air even as temperatures stay frigid—they don't wait for perfect conditions to offer their music. They simply sing.

This feels like another lesson in the tension of opposites. The birds hold both the harshness of winter AND their own essential nature. They don't let difficulty silence their song. They respond to life with what they have to give, regardless of circumstances.

February has shown me that love and difficulty aren't enemies—they're dance partners. We don't have to choose between them or collapse into one when the other appears. We can hold both. We can create "LOVE" in the snow. We can sing despite the cold. We can pause before reacting and choose a response that honors our wholeness rather than our automatic patterns.

What opposing forces are you trying to resolve prematurely? What if you let them both exist and waited for something new to emerge? How might you choose love as a response—not just a feeling—when facing your next difficult situation?

"Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift." — Mary Oliver