Love Letters to the River

As we embark into the last full month of winter, it gives us space to feel the longing of connection and the days where love shows up effortlessly in every droplet of summer sun. We emerge from the darkest, shortest days, where hibernation and nesting allows deep rest and repair, and find that our social connection is also reigniting. The excitement grows as our hearts fill with the community we have missed during the past 8 weeks, and the month of love perfectly and gently leads us back into that space—wiping the sleepy dust from our eyes as we awaken from a deep, long slumber. 

It’s February, and love is in the air— if we tune into it, we can feel its gentle hug in many facets of our lives, not just the romantic ones. 

February often asks us to define love by pairing it with romance, gifts, and outward displays of affection. While those expressions have their place, they can unintentionally leave many people feeling overlooked or incomplete. A broader view of love invites us to notice the relationships that sustain us every day—friendships built on trust, the devotion of Mother Earth, the care exchanged between neighbors, and maybe most importantly, the commitment we make to ourselves to keep showing up. Love is not a single day or a single person, but a practice that grows stronger when we recognize the many forms it encompasses. 

If love can live in friendships, family, and self-devotion, then surely it can live in landscapes too. We form attachments to places the way we do people—through time, presence, challenge, and shared becoming. I often think of February as the month we begin writing love letters again—quiet notes of gratitude we send to the people, places, and rhythms that hold us through the year. Some letters are written in ink, others in memory, and some in the silent language of longing. The river is one of those great loves in my life, and every winter, when distance grows between us, I find myself writing to her in the margins of my thoughts.

My Dearest River,

Winter always reminds me of how love can grow, even from a distance. My heart yearns for the longer days when I am reacquainted with your faster flow. I love how the sunlight dances across your surface, igniting my visionary senses in incomparable ways. Your smell awakens a deep remembrance of how you have sustained life in me and around me, long before I ever knew you. You remind me that love does not disappear when unseen. I love you. 

Winter creates a kind of distance that love letters were designed for—to bridge my yearning heart and the way the river holds me in rhythm. Without question, the main reason I river guide from Memorial Day to Labor Day, is to return to that connection, that deep love and understanding one gets from being alive and embodied in Mother Nature. The water still moves, but my time with her is limited, leaving behind a subtle longing that returns every winter. In Pueblo, we live at the confluence of two bodies of water and we know the river is more than scenery—it’s a companion, a teacher, a reminder of continuity and patience. We understand the methodical and mighty ways the river shows up for our town, and the effects we witness today, have long been in place before humans gave it a name. But even in the colder months, when access is harder and days are shorter, its presence anchors us. It offers a quiet reassurance that connection doesn’t disappear, but it simply waits, flowing steadily toward spring, ready for us to thrive. 

My Dearest River,

I have watched you from afar and from the depths of your waters. You are a constant guide and teacher as I try to replicate your movement. The beautiful ways you show up in vastly different environments reminds me that movement cannot—should not be contained. It is necessary to be big at times, wild and unpredictable and other times are meant for a quiet, subtle meandering. Thank you for showing me that loving myself means moving in a way that is perfect for the moment. I love you. 

The river reminds us that wellness is not static. Just as water stays healthy by moving, our bodies rely on circulation, movement, rhythm, and a desire for change. The darker days allow the much needed time for rest and recovery, and to embrace the slower flow of life for a few weeks. Yet as we emerge from the winter solstice, the time has come to welcome new movement and deter ourselves from a rigid stillness—a life with less movement, shallower breath, a quiet tightening we don’t always notice until spring demands more of us. When we move with intention, even gently, we mirror the river’s wisdom of adaptability, persistence, and flow. Wellness doesn’t require force or perfection, just regular engagement and respect for where we are in the season. The river current teaches us to keep moving, stay responsive, soften around obstacles and trust the pull toward what is ahead. Like the Arkansas, our bodies know how to move forward, we simply have to keep showing up for ourselves and letting the unforced flow guide us. 

My Dearest River,

You have loved me at my best and my worst. Days where just showing up was all I could do, you embraced me and carried me effortlessly through your waters. Loving you has been the easiest devotion of my life, and I hope you always feel how my heart overflows for you. You came into my life somewhat unexpectedly, and I knew in that moment, we would never be apart again. You reminded me how to love again. I love you.

I’ve come to understand something about the way we are meant to live here in Pueblo. We thrive not because life is always easy, but because we learn through land, water, and one another—how to hold love without condition. This town knows devotion. It lives in the way we show up for our neighbors, the way we root for each other’s healing, and the way our hearts stretch wide enough to carry both hardship and hope. Just like the waters of the river, love here does not withhold itself based on perfection. It flows anyway, steady and enduring—reminding us that we, too, are worthy of being loved fully, exactly as we are.

Perhaps that is what February invites us to remember, that love letters need not be reserved for romance alone. We can write them to our bodies, to our neighbors, to the land that sustains us, and to the waters that shape our towns and our spirits. The river continues her steady flow through Pueblo, carving resilience into the banks and the hope of what lies ahead in the current.

And whether we stand beside her now or wait for warmer days to return, the relationship remains.

Love is in the air—and in the water, and in the quiet promises we keep to stay connected. If we listen closely, we may find that the river has been writing love letters to us all along.