i hope you spill your coffee and see art in the stain

this is about hate. it's also about love.

Hate used to be my sister’s favorite word. She was an angry child, spurred on by a physical disability and a pestering sister. When peas came, she would wrinkle up her nose, fold her arms in defiance, and use that beautiful, lovely, all-encompassing word: I hate those.

I used this word similarly. I hated peas, too, of course, but also swimming. A froofy hat. The color pink. The church we went to. Braiding my hair. Many more things were added to the list of hate in my few years of childhood.

Eventually I was guided in a better direction by teachers: “Don’t say that word!” They would shriek this phrase at us, which, of course, made it even more fun to say. “Ugh! I hate homework. I hate that teacher! I hate that girl, that boy, that friend, that idiot, that dickhead stupid asshole.” Hate became cool, a fashionable way to tie your words together, used as casually and liberally as the ribbon tied in your hair.

One day, my grandma chastised me for not doing my homework on time. Or maybe it was for cracking my knuckles? While I don’t remember the reason I do remember the feelings: anger, shame, annoyance. When my mom got home, I said the words that finally made me feel differently about hate. I said I hated her, my own grandmother. My mom’s face, wrinkled from the trying journey of raising two daughters, fell, and she looked away.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do!”

Even as I said it, I knew she was right. Of course I didn’t mean that. I would never in a million years mean that. But I was too prideful to be wrong. And if I was wrong, why did I say it in the first place?

I stopped saying hate as much, but it took a long time. Many times of saying it, feeling shame for saying it, then saying it again. Turns out I was using it to glue my words together, which isn’t as easily cut as a ribbon.

As it usually does, it helped to love. One day I looked up from sweeping the floors of my college bedroom. It was a warm summer day, and I had opened the windows to let the fresh air in. Wind swept into the room, ruffling the curtains and tickling my nose with the sweet smell of dirt and fresh flowers. The sun danced through the tree outside across my wooden floors, brightening the whole room. I could hear my roommate’s music playing softly.

I remember the blue linen draped across my bed looking particularly lovely in that moment. Truly, it was the most beautiful piece of fabric I could imagine. It wrinkled in such a carefree and naturally elegant way. Who had made it? I wondered. They must have handcrafted it so carefully, putting their whole heart into every stitch. And how lucky, I was the one that got to lay on it.

I wish this was the bed I was talking about, but it’s actually from annevdva on pinterest

So yes, of course I hate things. I’m human! But when I realized that humans can love at the same time, that I could love at the same time, hate changed.

Oddly enough (or maybe it isn’t odd at all), love seems to be one of the most intuitive feelings to a living being. Sure, maybe we disagree on the precise definition. But we’ve all known it. I’m sure I felt it before I even knew words: a baby’s laugh has to mean something, right? And I like to believe my dog’s tail wags harder when I tell her I love her. Sometimes, I like to whisper these words to my plants, and I imagine they stretch their branches just a little further, to tell me they love me too.

So now, to me, hate only refers to the absence of love. When I say I hate peas, I'm choosing to disregard that they were my childhood friend’s favorite food. I’m ignoring that I often gravitate toward that same shade of green when I pick out a hat. Memories of my sister's wrinkled nose still make me laugh. Even in the things you hate, I believe if you try hard enough, you’ll eventually find love peeking through.

This is a simple enough idea that it’s easy to forget, and even harder to implement. Like anything else it takes repetition, practice, belief. And, of course ,there are stipulations: love requires safety. But I hope you can learn to love anyway. I hope you choose love again and again, in every situation, in every lifetime, in every opportunity you get.

I hope when someone screams in your face you laugh at their crooked teeth.

I hope when you spill your coffee you see a stunning artwork in the stain.

I hope when your heart breaks, you admire the courage it took to let someone else hold it.

I hope in your grief you write poems, sing songs, and cry such beautiful tears that the sky can’t help but to join you in a glorious rain.

I hope you draw a thousand pictures of peas, lay down on a soft blue linen in the sun, and love it all the same.

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who wrote this?

I’m Raine, and I believe in writing as a form of art, activism, and self-expression. I would describe my newsletter as deep talks with a friend over coffee, writing in your notes app after a fight, pouring your heart into a love letter, and crying to your mom over the phone. My writing is a reflection of my deepest thoughts, which I try to be true and honest about, in the hopes that others will do the same. I hope you enjoy picking through my brain as much as I enjoy welcoming you in.