Between Time and Confetti
Some months, words find me before I have had the chance to understand their meaning. Other months, the theme is so clear that the words feel inevitable. And then there are months like this one, when finding them takes a little more effort.
I have written this month’s blog three different times.
The first draft was about my painting, Between Ice and Thaw. It was my reflection on the ICE raids in Minnesota, which moved me to create a beautiful and thought-provoking piece of work.
I know many people see nature in the painting—a horizon, or even a specific place, like Lake Superior on a day when ice has crashed against the shore and an ominous fog blankets the distance, softening the line between water and sky.
I see something else.
I see the juxtaposition of a resilient community standing up for the rights of its neighbors, fighting against the forces of both climate and political weather to ensure that its voice is heard.
The second draft grew from a fun conversation with a close friend. We spoke about theater, acting, and production. That curiosity sparked a youthful joy in me. Suddenly, I was ready to sell everything, run off to New York, learn how to produce theater, act in a play, and give myself entirely to a passion I have only experienced from the audience’s side of the fourth wall.
In that reflection, I also explored my ache for novelty—and my fear that life is moving faster than I can hold it. The mundane can drain the life from a life that is lacking, well, life.
Sometimes.
The third draft focused on my love of music.
I do not sing nearly as much as I once did. Instead, I have tucked that curiosity into poetry, self-serenades in the shower, and living-room karaoke, where I make a dear friend listen as I perform my versions of John Legend, Sam Smith, and Adele.
I also go to concerts.
This month, I dragged two of my closest friends with me to see Ella Mai. I also scored last-minute tickets to see Olivia Dean.
Olivia Dean reminds me a lot of Sade: UK-inspired R&B, emotional restraint, and a depth that makes you want to pull everyone you know a little closer, hold every hug a little longer, and love a little deeper.
Toward the end of the concert, there was an enormous confetti explosion. It was a fully sensory moment of sound, light, texture, and warmth.
When the lights came on and we began making our way toward the city streets, I found a piece of confetti resting on my shoulder.
It read:
LOVE’S NEVER WASTED.
And here I am, looking at a piece of pink confetti, writing the fourth and final version of this month’s blog—which, if you know me, is a struggle. I love odd numbers: one, three, five, and so on. The fact that this is version four makes me slightly anxious.
Sorry, Beyoncé. If you know, you know.
In my final hour—I literally wrote this last night—the thought that remained with me was the one that had landed on my shoulder:
Love’s never wasted.
I see it in a city and community standing up for what they believe in, turning care for their neighbors into a call for change.
I see it in a shared love of theater and in conversations with people who make us feel truly seen.
I hear it in music, perhaps one of our truest expressions of love, experienced alongside the people who challenge us, stand beside us, and have witnessed every tear—those born from joy and those born from sadness.
Perhaps I did not write four different versions of this blog after all.
Perhaps I spent the month writing about love in all the places it refuses to disappear.
In our resistance.
In our curiosity.
In our art.
In our friendships.
In the songs we sing, even when no one is listening.
All month, I had been searching for the words.
Maybe the words were finding me all along.
Love’s never wasted.
— James Allen, 2026