Devotion is a manifestation of love. Not just the words of love, not just the feeling—but the practice of love over time, even when it's hard.

The book Zen and the Art of Archery by Eugen Herrigel teaches us an important lesson about the transpersonal forces of our world—namely, that these forces cannot be known in and of themselves. The author tells the tale of a German professor who, determined to learn Zen, travels to Japan to find a Zen master. Upon finding this master, he asks to learn Zen from him. The master replied that Zen cannot be taught directly. He could not teach him Zen. Zen can only be learned through a medium. The master's medium was archery, and he told the professor that he could teach him Zen only through this.

Like Zen, love needs a vehicle of expression. It cannot be transmuted directly but needs a medium through which to travel. And not all mediums are created equal.

It is easy to profess love when everything is beautiful and effortless. But what happens when love becomes inconvenient? When the one you love changes? When they become sick, bitter, mean, or difficult? When life alters the dynamic between you?

How deep is your love?

My favorite encapsulation of the concept of true love comes from Scott Peck's The Road Less Traveled, where the author claims that the highest form of love is the unconditional desire for the spiritual growth of the object of love. A complement to this notion comes from Eric Fromm's The Art of Loving, where the author's main thesis is that love is an action, not a feeling. It is a practice carried out day after day.

Be wary of cheapening love with words alone. The feeling and the profession of love are but the first step. The journey and practice of love is devotion. It is staying with someone through their difficulties. It is being with them even when they are difficult. It is the fundamental desire for their spiritual growth and betterment.

Devotion is not dramatic or grand. It is often quiet, repetitive, and unglamorous. It is changing bandages, listening when you're exhausted, showing up when no one else does. It is patience, consistency, and endurance.

I think often about how the word love has been cheapened. It is a blunt instrument, whose meaning is so expansive that it can easily be justified into whatever form its proclaimer wishes it to be. How can we use the same word to describe the love of our parents, our dogs, our food, our romantic partners, and friends we've just met? The damn word is so adaptive that no one can be faulted for using it in any context.

And yet, it rubs me the wrong way when I hear someone I just met say they love me. Call me a pedant, but I hold a particular meaning for that word. When someone new says they love me, I think: Do you, though? You hardly know me. You may enjoy my presence, what I have to say, or whatever qualities. But what happens to your "love" when I become inconvenient or have needs that place demands on you?

Look, I get it. People have a feeling of affection and they proclaim love. We want more love in the world, so we say that word to each other. I get the intention, and I'm not trying to be the love police. But I can't shake the feeling that using that word so frivolously dilutes its potency. A harsher phrasing, if you'll permit me: the ubiquitous, unconscious deployment of that word to describe a basic, untested affection is a prostitution of an expression whose meaning merits caution and protection.

The way I see it, it's the sustained practice of love—the active, conscious choice to love someone—that is more worthy of the throne this potent word occupies. This practice is devotion. It is showing up each day for your love, even when it is hard and inconvenient to do so.

So here's my invitation: the next time you want to express your love to someone, ask yourself—how can my love for them be manifested through devotion?

You may find yourself loving in a whole new way.