“Come closer, little bird,” Baba Yaga croaked, stirring her soup with a crooked spoon. “You’ve been asking the wrong question.”
You ask where love lives.
You ask how to find it.
You ask how to know if it is real.
Bah.
Love is easy to find.
There are fields full of it.
People fall into it every day.
The trick is knowing which love can survive winter.
When I was young—and yes, even witches were young once—I thought love was lightning.
A sudden thing.
A fire in the blood.
A pair of eyes across a crowded room.
A hand reaching for yours.
A promise whispered beneath the moon.
But lightning burns forests as easily as it lights them.
No, no.
The older I get, the more I trust the loves that arrive quietly.
The love that carries boxes up crooked stairs.
The love that notices when your pantry is empty and leaves soup on the porch.
The love that remembers how you take your tea.
The love that says,
“You seem tired today.”
The love that does not ask you to become smaller so it can feel larger.
That is the love worth watching.
Do not trust anyone who makes you abandon yourself in order to keep them.
A wolf may call itself a shepherd all day long, but eventually it will show its teeth.
Watch carefully.
Not for grand gestures.
For patterns.
Watch how they treat disappointment.
Watch how they speak of those who have left them.
Watch whether your spirit expands or contracts in their presence.
A wise heart knows the difference.
And if you find yourself standing at a crossroads, uncertain which path to take, listen not to the shouting voices.
Listen for the whisper.
The small voice that says:
“I feel peaceful here.”
The forest speaks in whispers.
So does truth.
And so does love.
The kind of love Baba Yaga trusts is not the love that sweeps you off your feet.
It is the love that helps you stand on them.
The kind that sits beside you on the porch while the sun goes down.
The kind that laughs at the same old story.
The kind that knows your scars and does not ask you to hide them.
The kind that leaves room for your own wildness.
For your own dreams.
For your own journey through the woods.
Because love is not a cage, little bird.
Not even a golden one.
Love is a path.
And the right companion does not carry you down it.
They simply walk beside you awhile.
And when the road grows dark, they reach for your hand—not to lead you, not to own you, but to remind you that neither of you must walk alone.
“Now off with you,” Baba Yaga grumbled, tossing another stick on the fire.
“And remember: if you must choose between being loved and being yourself, choose yourself.
The right love never asks you to choose.” 🖤🌙✨
Baba Yaga The Wise 
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