Tag: love

What Is Love?

A simple question that carries a lifetime of answers


Notes from Alex

I’m sitting here today, just letting my thoughts wander, and one question keeps circling back around in my mind: What is love?

It’s a question people have been asking for centuries. Songs try to explain it. Poets write about it. Movies chase it. Books fill entire shelves trying to define it. And after all this time, we’re still sitting here asking the same thing: What is love, really?

We all know it’s more than empathy. It’s more than just a feeling that shows up one day and disappears the next. It’s bigger than a song, deeper than a movie plot, and stronger than words on a page. Love feels like a kind of power — something every one of us is searching for in one way or another. And if we’re honest, sometimes when we actually come face to face with real love, it scares us a little. True love asks us to be open. To be vulnerable. To give parts of ourselves without knowing what we’ll get back.

The writer of Corinthians tried to describe love long ago. Scripture says love is patient and kind. It doesn’t envy or boast. It isn’t proud. It keeps no record of wrongs. It protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres. Those words have been around for generations, yet here we are, still trying to live them out and still trying to understand how something so clearly written can feel so hard to practice.

Maybe that’s because love isn’t something we solve once and move on from. Maybe love is something we learn over and over again. It shows up in quiet moments — in forgiveness when it would be easier to stay mad, in staying when walking away would hurt less, in choosing compassion when frustration feels justified. It’s not always loud or dramatic. Most of the time, it’s found in the small, everyday decisions we make.

So what is love?

Maybe it’s the choice to care when caring feels risky. The courage to open your heart again after it’s been bruised. The willingness to see people for who they are and still meet them with grace. Love isn’t just something we feel — it’s something we practice daily.

And maybe the reason we keep searching for the definition is because the search itself keeps us grounded. It reminds us what matters most: connection, kindness, forgiveness, and hope. It reminds us we were built for something deeper than just getting by.

The question may never have a simple answer. But maybe that’s okay.

Because every time we ask what is love?, we get another chance to live a little closer to it.

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A Season That Felt Heavy

A freewrite on heaviness, holidays, and the quiet search for light

There are some days when I just don’t feel inspired to write.
Or create.
Or even slow my thoughts down enough to make sense of them.

Some days, my mind feels like it’s moving in five directions at once, and trying to gather those thoughts into something meaningful feels almost impossible. Today is one of those days. So this is a freewrite—just me jotting down what comes to mind, unfiltered and honest.

This past Christmas, I noticed something that sat heavy with me. Here in the little town of Metlakatla, Alaska, there was a feeling in the air that I couldn’t quite shake. A heaviness. Almost like a dark shadow lingering just beneath the surface. At first, I wondered if it was just me—my own weariness, my own perspective. But after talking with several people, they confirmed what I was seeing and feeling.

The heaviness was real.

Holiday seasons can be strange that way. Some years, they come easily—filled with laughter, warmth, and joy. Other years, they press in hard, stirring up grief, loneliness, and old wounds. This last one was oddly tough. Harder than expected. And it saddened my heart to see that weight reflected in the eyes of my family, my friends, and my people.

I wish there were an easy way to bring back the joy of the holiday spirit once again. To remind one another that light still exists, even when it feels dim. That hope is not gone, even when it feels distant.

Maybe part of the answer is simply noticing. Acknowledging the heaviness instead of pretending it isn’t there. Sitting with one another. Listening. Praying. Holding space. And choosing—again and again—to believe that darkness does not get the final word.

Scripture reminds us of this truth:

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.”
— Isaiah 9:2

Light still dawns. Even here. Even now.
And I’m holding on to that hope.

— Alex

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📝 Notes by Alex: Writer’s Block – The Great Shut Down

The Great Shutdown: When Indifference Becomes the Hardest Feeling

It’s been a week. Maybe two. I open my laptop, stare at the blinking cursor on the blank page, and… nothing. The well is dry, folks. Not just dry, but capped with a thick slab of concrete labeled: “YEAH, OKAY, WHATEVER.”

That label. That feeling. It’s what I’m struggling with today, and it’s what brought me here to talk about a very specific kind of writer’s block—the emotional one.

The Shutdown Mechanism

Have you ever been hurt to the point that a part of you just shuts down?

It’s not a dramatic collapse. It’s a subtle, insidious numbness that creeps in after the big wave of pain has passed. You’re not crying on the floor, you’re not raging at the sky. Instead, you’re just existing, gliding through life on a thin sheet of practiced indifference.

When people ask how you are, the default answer is a pleasant, empty, “Fine.” And when something genuinely good or bad happens, the emotional response is the same, muted drone: “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

For me, that feeling is pure poison. I try to be positive, upbeat, and stubbornly hopeful. That’s my brand! That’s how I navigate the world. But some days, holding onto that hope feels like gripping a slippery rope on a sheer cliff face. It’s exhausting.

This emotional shutdown is like a short circuit in my creative wiring. How can I write about joy, pain, wonder, or connection when my internal translator is stuck on that one phrase? I can’t access the genuine emotion I need to pour onto the page. The words feel flat, hollow, and utterly inauthentic.

The Challenge of Positivity

We live in a world that glorifies resilience, strength, and endless hustle. We are told to choose joy, to manifest success, to power through. And while I believe in the importance of a positive outlook, sometimes the effort it takes to maintain it when you’re truly hurting feels like a challenge too big to meet.

It makes me wonder: Is the “Yeah, okay, whatever” feeling a defense mechanism? Is it my exhausted spirit throwing up a white flag, saying, “I can’t afford to feel deeply right now, because feeling deeply might break me again?”

Maybe. But a writer who can’t feel is a mechanic without tools. I need my emotions—the good, the bad, the complicated—to be open and running, even if it makes me vulnerable.

An Open Question

I’m sitting here, pushing through the concrete cap, trying to find the genuine spark of feeling underneath. I’m doing the little things: I put on a good playlist, made a proper coffee, and decided to write about the fact that I can’t write.

It helps a little. Honesty is always a good starting point.

So, here is my question for you, my amazing readers:

Does anyone else struggle with this thought? With the battle between wanting to be upbeat and the overwhelming need to just shut down and protect yourself? How do you push past the emotional “whatever” and reconnect with your genuine, messy, feeling self?

I’m looking for inspiration today. Maybe, by sharing your strategies, you can help me—and others who might be stuck in this same emotional no-man’s-land—find the way back to hope, and back to the page.

Drop a comment below. Let’s talk.

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It’s All About Family

Rediscovering the connections that hold us together.

As the holidays approach at what feels like lightning speed, I can’t help but pause and reflect on what truly matters. In a season filled with gifts, gatherings, and endless to-do lists, it’s easy to get swept up in the noise. But at the end of the day—during the holidays and all year long—it’s all about family.

And when I say family, I don’t just mean blood relatives. I’m talking about the people who have walked with us through life. The ones who show up. The ones who love us, challenge us, support us, laugh with us, and sometimes even cry with us. The brothers and sisters we grew up with, the cousins who feel like lifelong friends, the aunts and uncles who shaped us, the moms and dads who carried us, the grandparents whose wisdom echoes in our hearts. And yes—our friends who became family along the way.

As we continue on this journey we call life, one thing becomes very clear: we need each other.
Through the good times and the not-so-good times, through seasons of joy and seasons of struggle, we were never meant to walk this path alone.

Somewhere along the way, as technology advanced and life sped up, we lost a little bit of that connection. We became more plugged-in, but more disconnected. More reachable online, but harder to reach in real life. And honestly, that’s heartbreaking. I miss the old days sometimes—the days before constant notifications and WiFi, when conversations were face-to-face and time together felt slower, richer, more intentional.

But even as the world changes, one truth stays the same:
Family is where life happens.
Family is where memories are made.
Family is where we return when the world gets noisy.

I love my family—all of them. The ones related by blood and the ones bound by love. And this holiday season, I’m choosing to slow down, to reconnect, and to remember what matters most.

Because in the end, it really is all about family.

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The Long Goodbye

Notes from Alex

About a year ago, I wrote a short story about a journey I’ve come to call The Long Goodbye. The phrase is often used to describe dementia, because it slowly and painfully erodes a person’s memories and personality, leaving loved ones to witness the gradual fading of someone who is still alive. It is, in every sense, a heartbreaking journey—not just for the one walking through it, but for everyone who loves them.

For my family, this has become deeply personal. My father has dementia. Watching the disease touch his heart, his life, his very being, is almost too much to bear at times. There are moments where he looks at us with weariness in his voice and says he is ready to go home. He has told my sister and me this, and he has told his wife the same. Those words carry a weight that cannot be ignored.

In the midst of it all, we’ve found ourselves reminiscing together—about old times, about laughter and love, about people who shaped our family’s story. My Pops often shares memories of my mom, Bobbi, his first wife. They were like two peas in a pod, and I can tell that he misses her deeply. These memories bring him comfort, and in a way, they remind us all of the beauty and richness of the life he has lived.

I share these thoughts not to diminish his relationship with his current wife, but to honor her as well. She has sacrificed greatly to care for my father in this season, and that love and dedication has not gone unnoticed. For that, our family is grateful.

The Long Goodbye is not a journey anyone would choose, but it is one that teaches us to hold onto the good moments tightly, to honor the past, and to walk each day with grace and love for the one we are slowly letting go.

Even in the heaviness of this journey, I am reminded that we are never walking it alone. God meets us in the valleys as surely as He does on the mountaintops, and His love does not fade even when memories do. The Apostle Paul wrote, “Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16).

That truth gives me comfort—knowing that while my father’s body and mind may be fading, his spirit is being kept in the hands of the One who never forgets. And in that promise, we find strength to endure, love to keep giving, and hope to keep walking this long goodbye with grace.

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Homecoming Freewrite — Notes from Alex

Noticing the shadows — a year home in Metlakatla.

I’ve been home in Metlakatla for just over a year now, and the place I thought I knew is showing me new faces. There’s a kind of quiet I remember from growing up here, but underneath it I’m seeing something else — a current of worry and a tangle of things I didn’t expect: prescription pills trading hands like gum, illegal substances moving through corners of town, people who used to be on opposite sides now strangely close. It’s confusing. It’s sad. It’s real.

What puzzles me most is the connections. Folks I remember as neighbors or coworkers now move in ways that suggest there’s a map of relationships I don’t have. Enemies become pals, dealers and users exist beside pastors and parents, and the lines between “that kind of person” and “someone from church” blur. Maybe that’s how communities survive — we adapt, we hide our shame, we make peace with what we can’t face. Or maybe it’s how a problem grows: out of silence and the things done in the shadows.

I’ve been praying about it. Not the quick, “fix-this” kind of prayer, but the heavy, persistent kind that asks for truth and healing. I believe shadows don’t have the last word — light does. If there are people bringing drugs into our streets and wrecking lives, this shouldn’t be something we normalize or tuck away like a family secret. We owe each other honesty, care, and accountability. We owe our kids a town that doesn’t make brokenness into a quiet economy.

That doesn’t mean I want to point fingers from a place of judgment. I want to see people helped, not shamed. I want the folks stuck in cycles of addiction to find paths out, and for the people enabling the flow — whether knowingly or not — to be confronted with help and consequences. And yes, I want the hidden things brought to light, because only in the light can healing begin.

It’s a strange mix: pride in this place that raised me, and grief for the things that are wrong. It’s also a call — to pay attention, to speak up when I can, to pray louder when I can’t. Maybe the first step is simply noticing, and then doing the next small thing: check on a neighbor, show up to a local meeting, call someone who can help. Small lights can join to make a blaze.

“For there is nothing hidden that will not become evident, nor anything secret that will not be known and come to light.” — Luke 8:17

A short prayer: Lord, bring what is hidden into the light. Bring healing where there is harm. Give us courage to act and wisdom to love well. Amen.

“If we want a healthier community tomorrow, it begins with the choices we make inside our own homes today — for our kids, for our families, for the ones watching us most closely.”

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A New Chapter in Aviation and Life

Back in My Wheelhouse

Over the past few weeks, I’ve stepped into a new role that has placed me right back into the world of Private Jet Aviation. It feels good to be back in my wheelhouse—sales and operations—working with an incredible ops team that truly loves what they do. What makes it even more rewarding is that we are a fully remote team, spread across the country, yet united by our passion for aviation. Different walks of life, different backgrounds, but one shared drive. It shows in the way we work together.

When I came home to Alaska, my heart was set on helping in any way I could. I wanted to contribute, to lend my experience, and to move projects forward. But the reality was harder than expected. Leadership support was missing at key moments, and decisions that needed to be made simply weren’t. It left me confused and, if I’m honest, a little discouraged.

In the end, it became clear that my help wasn’t truly needed in the way I had hoped. That was a difficult realization, and making the decision to move on wasn’t easy. But today, I find myself deeply thankful for this new opportunity and for the people I now get to work alongside.

I still hope the best for the projects happening here in Metlakatla. This is home, and I care about the work being done. But for now, I’m grateful to have found a team and a space where my skills are being put to good use again.

At the end of the day, I see this as another reminder that the journey—whether in aviation, family, or faith—isn’t always a straight line, but every turn has a purpose in shaping where we’re meant to be.

Faith-focused:
“Through it all, I’m reminded that God’s plan often unfolds in ways I don’t expect, but always in ways that prepare me for where I’m meant to be.”

Family-focused:
“It’s another reminder that the work I do isn’t just for me—it’s about creating stability and setting an example for my family, showing them that resilience matters.”

Aviation-focused:
“Much like flying, this journey has had its turbulence and course corrections, but every adjustment keeps me moving toward the horizon where I’m meant to be.”

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A Word About My Father

Notes by Alex – FreeWrite

“A Life of Love, Laughter, and Family”

I wanted to take a moment to talk about my father, Alex Atkinson Sr. He’s a great man—now in his 80s—and throughout his life he has shown what it means to live with love, honor, and respect.

Growing up, my sister and I always knew we were deeply cared for. Dad didn’t just say he loved his family; he showed it in the way he supported us, stood by us, and carried himself with quiet strength. His example taught us that family is something you don’t just belong to—you invest in it, you nurture it, you hold it together.

I remember him telling me how much he had learned from his own father—“Pops.” He picked up the ways of hunting, fishing, and providing, and then carried those lessons forward. Dad shared them with his nephews, with me, with my cousins. That spirit of passing things down—knowledge, traditions, laughter, and care—has always been his way of looking out for our big family.

What I’ll never forget is his smile. Around family, he always had a big grin on his face, ready to laugh, ready to make others laugh. Joy seemed to flow naturally from him, and it lit up our gatherings in a way that made everyone feel at home.

My dad is an amazing man. Not just because of what he’s done, but because of who he is. He is love in action, the kind of steady presence that anchors a family. And for that, and for him, I am forever grateful.

Closing Reflection

As I look at my own life now, I realize how much of my father lives on in me. His lessons about love, honor, and respect shape how I show up for my family and community today. His laughter reminds me to bring joy into every room I enter. And his faithfulness inspires me to stay grounded in what truly matters. In many ways, I see my role now as carrying the torch he lit—continuing the legacy of care, faith, and strength that he embodied so well.

The Bible says in Proverbs 20:7, “The righteous lead blameless lives; blessed are their children after them.” I see that truth in my father’s life. Because he walked in integrity, we—his children and family—continue to live in the blessing of his example. I carry the torch he lit, continuing the legacy of care, faith, and strength that he embodied so well.

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“Finding Light in the Dark Night”

Notes by Alex – By Alexander Atkinson

Through the Dark Night of the Soul

Today, I found myself slowing down—taking a real, honest look inward. It’s been a season of self-evaluation, reflection, and growth. But let me tell you, growth isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes, it feels like a storm, like wandering through a tunnel with no light in sight. I’ve come to call that time in my life “the dark night of the soul.”

It was rough—probably one of the hardest things I’ve walked through. But the biggest takeaway I have from it is this: YOU CAN GET THROUGH IT.

When you’re in the thick of mental and emotional struggle, it’s easy to believe it will last forever. But growth often begins in the moments when we choose to take one small step forward, even when it’s hard. For me, that has meant actively working on my mental well-being, choosing not to sit in the darkness but to walk toward the light.

Growing through mental health isn’t just about surviving—it’s about actively nurturing ourselves, seeking connection, and using the resources available to us. Here’s what I’ve been learning:

1. Self-Care and Well-being

  • Mindfulness and Meditation:
    Even a few minutes a day of slowing down and just being present can make a difference. Mindfulness has helped me quiet the chaos inside and tune in to what’s real and true.
  • Physical Activity:
    A simple walk, moving my body, getting outside—it’s surprising how much it shifts my perspective and mood.
  • Sleep Hygiene:
    I’ve learned to value rest. Without it, the mind struggles to heal and reset.
  • Healthy Diet:
    Eating well isn’t just for the body—it impacts the mind. Balanced meals, less processed junk, and being intentional with what I put into my body have helped me feel more stable and energized.
  • Limit Substance Use:
    Letting go of things that numb me has allowed me to feel again—and feeling, though hard at times, is part of true healing.
  • Practice Gratitude:
    Gratitude has been my anchor. Some days it’s as simple as saying, “I’m thankful I woke up today,” and other days it’s a long list of blessings.

2. Building Connections and Support

  • Social Connections:
    We are not meant to walk this life alone. Spending time with friends, family, or just being around people who bring light helps chip away at the loneliness.
  • Support Groups:
    Finding people who understand—who get the struggle—has been powerful. There’s strength in knowing you’re not the only one fighting this battle.
  • Volunteering:
    Helping others, even in small ways, shifts my focus outward. It gives me purpose, and purpose is a powerful antidote to darkness.

The truth is, mental health isn’t just something we “fix” once. It’s something we cultivate—through small, daily practices, through seeking help when we need it, and through being gentle with ourselves in the process.

If you’re in that dark night of the soul, I want you to know that you are not alone. The road through it may not be easy, but there is a way through. And on the other side? Growth, resilience, and a deeper understanding of who you are.

“Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise. Healing begins the moment you believe you are worth the light.”

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A Moment to Freewrite: The Beat of Our Culture

“Our stories were never lost—just waiting to be revived. Last night, the drumbeat echoed through the Longhouse, and with it, the spirit of our people.”
— Notes by Alex

Last night, I was moved in a way that’s hard to put into words—but I’ll try.

I’m just taking a moment to freewrite, letting my thoughts flow and my fingers type as they wish. Sometimes, we need that—a space to just be and create without boundaries. Last evening, we gathered at the Longhouse as two of our local dance groups performed: People of the Rising Tide and the 4th Generation Dancers. They danced and sang for a group visiting our community, and what they shared was nothing short of beautiful.

There’s something powerful—unshakably powerful—about watching young people commit so fully to something so meaningful. You can see the dedication in their movements, feel the conviction in their voices. And then there’s the drumbeat—steady, sacred, and alive. It resonates deep in your chest, almost like your heartbeat syncing with something ancient.

Some songs bring tears to my eyes. They’re sung in our Native language—words that carry more than just meaning. They carry memory, identity, history. They carry us.

The storytelling through song and dance is incredible. And what strikes me the most is that when I was growing up here, much of this wasn’t around. These traditions had been set aside… not lost, not forgotten—but buried beneath years of silence. Now, a new generation is unearthing them. Reviving them. Living them. It’s beautiful.

It gives me hope. It gives me pride.

My prayer is that this revival continues, that the stories keep being told, that the songs keep being sung, and that our dances keep shaking the ground beneath our feet. So that generation after generation can share in this sacred gift.

Let the drums echo. Let the stories live on.

— Alex

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