I have known the love of friendship more intimately than any other. And while I may be biased by my experiences I believe it to be the highest and purest form of love. For it is not determined or bound by duty, blood, biological instinct or legal contracts. It is a choice and, as such, allows us to keep our wings.

Almost everything the world has to offer leaves me floored. I cannot love by halves. I cannot see beauty without being moved to tears. I cannot feel understood without overwhelming gratitude. I cannot experience a work of art without ebullience. Life comes to me as a torrential downpour–I tilt my head back, open my arms and allow myself to be soaked.

I hasten a retreat into imagination not because I despise the rain, but to catch my breath, soothe my heart and recover my childlike eyes.

I was given a tiny pot of daisies when I moved into my apartment. They are plain yellow daisies–nothing especially beautiful about them. Were they in a large field of flowers they would look unremarkable.

Neither is there anything special about the tin pot in which they live. Left in the garden section of a home goods store, it would reside at the dusty bottom of a neglected clearance bin.

I love these flowers because they wilt every single day. And every single day a tiny splash of water brings them instantaneously back to life. They are beautiful because they are fragile and resilient. I care for them because they show me their hurt as well as their joy.

If these flowers were a person, they would be my friend.