 |
| Photo by Molly |
Love 101
This is a holiday that makes a lot people feel isolated and sad. We don’t celebrate, although I almost bought my personal husband a card that said, “Darling, I love you from the very bottom of my butt.” This piece is just about regular old love from the my last book, Somehow:
I asked a ¬ six‑ year‑ old colleague of mine what love is.
“Oh, it’s just this stuff,” he said, rolling his eyes.
I think that’s right.
Love is caring, affection, and friendliness, of course, compassion and a generous heart. It is also some kind of energy or vibration, because Mr. Einstein showed that everything ¬ is— the same stuff moving at different speeds, from glaciers to ¬ six‑ year‑ old boys.
I wish the movement of love in our lives more closely resembled the grace of a ballerina, but no, love mainly tromps and plops, falls over, burps and tip‑toes through our lives.
Love looks like us, and that can be a little daunting. Love is why we are here at all, on the couch and in the world with a heart for the common good, why we have hope, and a lifeline when we don’t.
There is sweet family love, entangled by history, need, frustration, and annoyance. There is community love, a love of music, Zorba’s reckless love of life. It can be vital or serene. There’s the ecstatic ¬ love—for the natural world, or in ¬ bed— there’s the love of justice or the transforming love of what we might call Goodness, Gus (the Great Universal Spirit), God, Grace Over Drama, or like the cavemen in Mel Brooks’ 2000 Year Old Man, Phil.
Love is often hard, ignored, or hilarious. But one thing is certain: Love is our only hope.
Love springs from new life, love springs from death. Love acts like Gandhi and our pets and Jesus and Mr. Bean and Mr. Rogers and Bette Midler. Love won’t be pinned down.
Love abounds and abides, flirts and weeps with us. It is there for the asking, which is the easy part. Our lives’ toughest work is in the receiving.
Love presents most obviously in babies and kids being cuddled, yet also as patience with annoying humans we live or work with—or are. We feel love upon seeing our favorite auntie and neighbors and first responders, we see it in radical self-love—cups of tea, warm baths—fundraising efforts for the hungry and oppressed, in unexpected acts of patience, in peace marches and non-violent resistance, in the kindness of a waitress, and in the warmth of the hand that pulls us back to our feet when the loss of love has all but destroyed us.
Love is this stuff. I am sploshing it all over you as I type.
— Anne Lamott
No comments:
Post a Comment