What is this thing called Love? Beats Me.
“I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
“I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.” — As I Walked Out One Evening, W. H. Auden
Whether it’s human nature, or it’s socialization, most of us have a sizeable dose of the romantics in us. The popularity of romcoms and love stories in general attest to our yearning for love. To love and be loved. Idealized, no doubt, but that doesn’t take away from the fervent hope that it could happen to us. Dare we dream, to find and be with the world’s greatest love? We do, indeed.
And it’s not the sole province of women. Men, despite a common tough-guy image, furtively long for the love of their life. To love and be loved. To cherish and to hold. Till China and Africa meet.
Love, as the song goes, is a many-splendored thing.
But what is love? When we say “I love you” to someone, do we know what we ourselves mean by that? Is it the same love as in I love coffee? Or I’d love for you to do that? I love that film? I love my dog? I am guessing not. But what is it?
It seems to me that most of us, if not all, desire this magical thing called love, even though we don’t actually know what it means. Would we know it when we find it? Or is it like pornography, which former US Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart said “I know it when I see it”?
I know, it’s not very romantic to equate love with pornography. But in many ways, a lot of what we call love may well just be that, or something close to it. What is the love that drives two teenagers in the backseat of a car? Surely it’s more lust than love, as Meat Loaf so poignantly portrayed in his music video of Paradise by the Dashboard Light. I ain’t no prude, and passion has always, and will always, compelled people to satisfy their biological urges. I get that. Most of us would agree, however, that love is seldom part of the equation. You can’t just “make” it.
When you love someone, does it mean you can’t exist without that person? That your life becomes utter emptiness should love flees? I don’t know. I’d like to think that I’m more resilient than to depend on someone else for my existence. But yeah, you’d feel an emptiness, wouldn’t you, if love is lost. Is that what it is? That you just ain’t complete anymore?
Why, though, should we define love by its absence? What does it mean to be in love? When you are in the presence of love? I don’t know. I’ve been married four decades, and I think I love my wife. But I don’t think there’s anything storybook about it. I’m happy when she’s happy. I’m sad when she’s sad. And sometimes she makes me happy. And sometimes she makes me sad. I love so much about her, yet I can’t stand some of what she does. That’s all part of the deal, isn’t it? It ain’t unmitigated bliss. As with anything in life, there are ups and downs. Just as Billy Joel said, “But she’ll bring the best and the worst you can be.” I’m far from perfect, so I don’t expect anyone else to be perfect either. We all have our idiosyncracies, some which others may find adorable, and some which rub others the wrong way. For me, the key is to acknowledge and accept that. I don’t choose to love only certain aspects of my wife. I tell myself that I love her in her entirety. I don’t have to agree with everything she does, but it doesn’t make me love her any less.
I think it was Robert Louis Stevenson who said “You can give without loving, but you can never love without giving.” I don’t have much to give, but one thing I can do is to offer my understanding and acceptance. Acceptance of her as a total person. Acceptance of her not in terms of good and bad, but in a holistic sense.
Still, I’m no clearer about what love is. Not even sure it exists. The fact that my marriage has lasted four decades doesn’t really mean much. Maybe we’ve just grown used to each other, like a pair of well-worn slippers. Maybe we’re simply too lazy to try new things. Who knows. But through it all, one thing I do bear in mind is that I endeavour to share her delight, even when it’s something I’d never do myself. I enjoy seeing her happy, even if I don’t agree with her method or her madness. And to abide her sadness, even when I contest its causes. It’s not easy, this thing called love. But all things considered, it’s pretty cool.
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” — Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
