If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love’s sake only.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
During one of my previous lives I had a habit of memorizing poetry, the more epic the better. On occasion this surfaces as an impromptu recitation of Die Lorelei (in German, though that is all I retain from high school language classes). I can also sometimes be tempted to do American revolutionary war poems (many, many war poems), or Evangeline, and on rare sad days even Lacplesis.
For the most part though the poems have faded away, along with all the trivia acquired as a history student, accessed only when confronted with a reminder. The other day I was wandering around Pittsburgh when I spotted a memorial plaque marking the exact spot where the local incarnation of the Great Railroad Strike of 1877 happened, with deaths on both sides, and a conflagration that burned the depot. Of course, I cried.
Despite my choice to leave the country, I am in fact hopelessly in love with my homeland, the political process, the history and future of this messy nation. Today is Valentine’s Day, a false, commercial, and insipid day set aside from all the rest without rational reason, and my unravelling issues as a citizen expat are identical to those I’ve encountered in my romantic adventures.
My objection to the day is simple: love should be an operating principle, true love a substantial daily experience. Roses and candy and fancy dinners are all well and good, but distract from the hard work of real love. Just like election year debates act as a smokescreen rather than helping identify the most worthy candidates. Do I care who has good television presence? No. I care about voting records and other tangible proof of political courage. Full stop.
During one of our entertaining phone conversations last year Gordon asserted some point about my tendency to date thugs and I replied indignantly I feel quite cordial toward all of my exes – even the serial rapist!
He laughed and pointed out that would be a good title for another book, but I think it rather unwieldy. The point is valid though. When I love people, I love them for exactly who they are, not some projection of need or desire. Wherever I have encountered love it has been a fundamental truth, something precious and real.
In my life inconvenient facts like geographic distance or murder arraignments have never mattered much because I have found that love is viscous, inescapable. Love does not evaporate when you realize the other person is difficult, contrary, annoying, or has poor laundry habits. Love is not predicated on preference, but rather on something deeper.
Infatuation and romance last a year, maybe two – if you are lucky. The more sustainable variety of regard is quiet, kind, and enduring. Infatuation drives people to distraction. Love gives rides to the emergency room, year after year, without fail.
I mostly hang out with writers, musicians, artists, logicians, and other varieties of professional liars. This makes it very difficult to know what is true, and what is just a story. But love transcends rational thought and outlives passion.
Love is love, something found, not chosen – though we each make our own choices to accept or decline, to nurture or sabotage. True love does not die but remains, either a continuing gift or a grievous loss. People can be stupid, careless, mean.
From my observation most people (myself included) just flail along without a master plan – hurting each other all the time, whether accidentally, through good intent, or by malicious design. I work hard to be attentive but tend to be more analytical than emotional, which can sometimes feel quite cold and cruel.
Over the last year many friends my age have fallen prey to nostalgia and started to look up lost friends, old acquaintances, made plans to attend reunions. I have very little interest in such actions because the people I care most about have generally remained in my life. The only exception is of course abandoned lovers – specifically the very few I did not allow to become part of my extended chosen family. I do not think of them often, but when I do I wonder what they remember, how they account for whatever happened.
If etiquette allowed I would be keen to inquire. This would not be wise; James correctly advises that I really ought not talk to anyone who has threatened to take my life or kidnap my child. Fair enough – though none of these people scare me, I respect the fact that we acted as incendiary devices in each others lives.
Over the winter holiday Ana Erotica asked if my heart has ever been broken and I answered No, without elaborating. .
This was a prevarication of sorts, because the organ in question was in fact literally smashed during the car accident. I have also experienced woeful sadness over the deaths of loved ones. But she was asking about romantic love, and I have in fact never had my heart broken in that cliched way. Why?
I have certainly loved deeply, and been loved in return. I have also lost more than I can calculate. But, critically, I have never chosen who to love, only who to talk to. When I walk away it is an act of preservation. I am a strictly disciplined person, it is true – but I also retain an innocent faith in both electoral politics and true love. Even though I have fled my country of origin. Even though I have engaged in bloody battles. Even though much of my life has been an illustration of loss and grief and pain.
I still love my children, my husband, my mother, my friends, and everyone who has ever sincerely loved me. I still vote, and think, and act out of a principled regard for other people. I maintain a simple conviction that this story has a happy ending.
Today on Mister Rogers the characters in the Land of Make Believe discussed their particular and various definitions of love. There was no consensus, except Lady Elaine’s comment You know the feeling when you find it.
Happy Valentine’s Day.