to love (and be loved)
knitting scattered threads of my learnings on love
A philosopher once asked, “Oh dear students, have I not told you of what the most beautiful thing in this world is?”
His students replied in an almost melodic chorus, “To love another and to be loved in return.”
“Indeed,” the wise man concurred, “yet we often forget that the second most beautiful thing in this world is to love.”
on attachment, on rest
“Thank you for the story,” a confidant once told me, “it’s reminded me that there will come a day where I’ll forever lose my best friend in this world.”
Us humans have a natural tendency towards infinity and that which is perfect. Hence we desperately cling onto what we have — hoping for its attachment throughout the flurrying sands of time.
I would love to pester my sister towards infinity.
I would love to be in the company of my parents to no end.
I would love my old classmates to forever be available to hang out.
But the world does not work that way. And the moment for the shoe to drop will inevitably arrive no matter the reason: whether it be through the suddenness of circumstance, the fade out of time, or the pain of death. So whether that be now or later should not pose a problem to the love we have. Because love’s existence (it is!, it was!) is what matters, above our fleeting hopes of it (it will!).
We innately understand this fact of life, embracing the ever-constant change in our lives — sisters become busy, parents grow older, friends disperse on their respective paths. And in the minutiae of our existence, from one step to the next, this game of hello-and-goodbye comes to us naturally.
So when in some circumstances we fail to accept this, it is a sign of expecting more than nature intends. It is a symptom of clinging too hard to what is transitory. And our inability to be infinite — in this small existence at least — necessitates a degree of detachment.
But that does not mean the love does not matter.
“I love you, you know.”
“Don’t say that, or else my expectations will shift. And I won’t respond — you already know my answer.”
I knew. And that’s what matters.
To love and be loved is to be at rest. When one is the source, do they not simply bask in the feeling of their own pleasant emanation? When one is the subject, do they not simply enjoy the gentle warmth of affection in their name?
At ease, soldier.
// I love, I yearn, I shatter. It is proof of my God-given capacity. //
on grief, on yearning
Moons ago, I sensed a good companion of mine was acting odd. So I reached out and he gleefully asked me to come visit; he needed a good talk, he said. It turns out this friend of mine had only recently broken up with his romantic partner — an outcome I never would have guessed, knowing him.
How? I wondered. This was him after all, a man whose character was defined by such a capacity to love. Through my visit, he told me the story of the philosopher that began this piece. And I pressed him for his thoughts and needs, only relenting when I could tell that he was truly at peace.
“So as the philosopher said, the second most beautiful thing in this world is just to love, period. And that’s already more than you could ask for.”
“I understand. So with that in mind, I’m guessing you still love her?”
“Yes. But my love for her dictates that we should part ways. And that’s enough.”
Loss of those you love, in one way or another, necessitates an inner response. We are only human after all. And our grief is a shout of joy — a piece of evidence that we are capable of such a sacred concept.
It is the consequence, the follow-through, the last act of love.
And sometimes circumstances decree that such is the best fruit of love that we can offer.
He didn’t mean that it was proper to feel forever pained 24/7 after a loss, but that the grief was a sign that the loss truly mattered. That the bond was important. That the love was sincere.
It’s only natural not to want to confront grief, to want to move along ASAP, or to somewhat avoid things that might trigger that heavy chest and loss of breath, but it’s crucial to recognize that grief will remain. Grief. Will. Remain. And life will just grow around it. And sometimes some episodes will plunge you into that grief again. And sometimes it won’t occur to you at all. But it won’t leave you; it will remain. And that’s just how life works.
Grief is not overattachment. For those with great powers of acceptance still grieve. And our forefathers whose spirits were so attached to the Infinite too did grieve. It is a natural state with fine lines that separate it from utter unacceptance. So ye grievers are meant to tread carefully.
Grief’s miniature cousin is found in yearning. When that which you love is not by your side — be it temporary — a pang in your heart sounds out, seeking its object of affection to pour all its throbbing essence for. To yearn is, too, a consequence of love, and be it less severe than grief, it may also lead those in overdrive beyond the cliffs of no return.
And nevertheless we dare to love, risk our devastation, and accept its consequences. And that is the challenge all humans dare take up.
Through the character of the librarian Oshimo, Murakami said, “Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who’s in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It’s like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven’t seen in a long time. It’s just a natural feeling. You’re not the person who discovered that feeling, so don’t go trying to patent it, okay?”
// Yet I love, yet I yearn, yet I shatter. It is proof of my God-given capacity. //
on sunshine, on emulation
The Sun is a behemoth of a heavenly object, its engimatic splendor blinding those who dare lay their eyes upon it.
Love is the Sun itself — it warmly radiates through and through, with nothing in return from the recipient. No strings attached, no expectations, no return.
“When I was a child I had no friends, so during recess the Sun would befriend me. It was there when nobody else was.”
“Was it really there — for you?”
“Not for me, but for everyone. It’s a natural giver to all, and I’m just one of its recipients. But I’m glad about that, and I know the Sun is, too.”
I am learning to become the Sun.
// I will love, I will yearn, I will shatter. It is proof of my God-given capacity. //
on derivatives, on Love
Is it at all possible that such a feeling has not a splendid Source?
The One who planted such a power in the way a mother gazes her child — that willingness to give all and lose all for the subject of one’s endearment.
The One by whom oceans and mountains shudder in his control to feed the meek creatures that thrive under His total affection.
The One who conspired in His plans to twist the universe in all too perfect and all too personal ways for each of his creations— manifested in traces upon traces of mercy.
Everything can be interpreted as a form of His Benevolence.
Exalted is He from Whom love derives from. And sacred is His Love.
Yet we tend to forget. And yet we tend to take for granted.
We exhibit our ingratitude in many forms, from our discontent with destiny to our unwillingness to chase it — not to mention our failure to regard His pleasure in each act of our life. But He has nevertheless instilled such an ability to love in our chests as hints of our potential to love Him in return.
This reflection is apparent when we are at our most potent in loving and at our most vulnerable to love. The same lengths we go to please our family, the same sacrifices we make for our friends— would you apply the same love to Him? The love we have for one another — does it ultimately point towards Him? Our fear of losing that which is anyway finite — do we also carry for He who is Everlasting?
Such are the lessons hidden in the love between His creations, from which we earn a glimpse of Love at its purest. If even this world’s love is this beautiful, imagine the next.
And lest you forget — I love you, in His name.
And hope we can earn His Love and deem it the most important treasure of all.
Among the philosopher’s crowd was a pious poet, features wizened by the desert sands. His eyebrows raised at the melodic answer to the earlier question. Though the students answered in sound unison, many seemed not to understand.
But he nodded to the philosopher, both thinking the same — all the young ones needed was time. For one only truly understands love through the first-hand. And everybody eventually does.
So the poet smiled, and wrote:
So we love, so we yearn, so we shatter. It is proof of our God-given capacity. And through this, we learn His Love and learn to love Him in return.
