Actually, love: around strangers
Last February, I went to a little library that celebrates love through discourses over a book, Conversation on Love. The book itself tries to deform the reduced definition of love, which is solely on romantic love. One of the areas that the book touches is a Love for strangers.
As abstract as the idea is, that we can love strangers, I recall the moment just after finishing the book on one Sunday evening I spent with friends in Jalan Sabang, Jakarta while eating a plate of Nasi Goreng on the street when two old men came busking, singing songs from the 60s, which my father fond of and always been accompanied us through, driving among paddy fields towards his hometown on Eid holiday.
From their small figures, the voices roared battling against the turmoil on the street, but it was clear as glass, and I couldn’t help but be in awe by their little performance as I clapped my hand. While giving them coins, I told them how I enjoyed their performance and that was when I saw: beaming eyes, beautifully framed by their enormous smile that I can still vividly picture when I close my eyes. I swore that it was the most heartfelt smile I’d ever seen, and it cost beyond the coins I spared for them.
As I went home that night, my mind wandered about their smile. Could it be perhaps the reason why they smiled that day, was not because of the money that I gave —that barely could cover their food — but rather after they roamed around in the street on that humid day, went from each crowd to another, neglected and rejected, in one rare moment like that, they were finally seen.
My friend once told me, “Being seen is a powerful feeling”, and from that day, when the sentence resurfaced, I took a huge breath and immersed myself in the chain of each word. I contemplated over little actions people did to me that were enough to make my day, or the relationship I kept hanging onto even when it made no sense.
If I could try to ratiocinate it all, Would it be: the reason why my heart warms after some stranger pulls and holds the door for me in some random convenience store, or why I kept coming back to a person when I know it doesn’t serve me, would the reason behind all of these were because out of nearly a hundred averted eyes I encountered daily, those eyes were straight looking at me? And there I was: feeling seen.
Back in that tiny library room, I could feel seen in a conversation with a stranger—who turned out to be one of the owners — that lasted for nearly two hours after asking about whose books were inside. We jumped from one book to another and filled each silence with quotes that we just remembered.
When opened up one book that he was about to show, a little note fell, and while smiling he said “This is one of the things that relive me as a library owner, seeing a book form bigger meaning each time the book was borrowed”. I stared at the notes for a while, realizing that the note was written for a friend who just graduated, and the book was supposed to be a gift for them. As someone who back to back borrowing books from a library, I found it strange to find a book filled with scribbles, footnotes, and personal notes being lent. But as I saw the aged book, the dent covered its body, and filled with folded papers that it became bulky, I could say that it had been loved throughout its life. So I said, “Yes, I love it too”.
After a while, the conversation landed on a question for me, “What book are you currently reading?” I never thought much about the question, as it was a usual starter among readers, but I never thought that the question could feel so invasive, especially after you read something so personal that it almost breaks your heart. I paused a bit, asking myself whether or not this stranger deserved my story, to some extent I had to stop, when I knew I would impulsively add my stance and personal remarks until an overview turned into an oversharing.
I among people who suffer from this illness, have encountered a lot of conversations in which I regret to drop some personal information that others might not need to hear. And as much as an uneasiness left a stain after I ended my sentence, looking towards him expecting to feel completely embarrassed, he stared down and said, “Yes, I think we should all try to listen and understand more about people’s struggles”.
I think, sitting down now in the circle of writers—full of strangers and some familiar faces—at one corner of Gelora Bung Karno is another practice of listening to others. Closing the event, we shared where our heads wandered when we wrote for an hour-long session. It felt almost like a support group, when we dumped our life’s concerns, validating each other’s feelings and fostering each other thoughts. It was wonderful to see a huge amount of trust to give strangers our story even our closest ones might not know about it, and it suddenly felt easier after more people let down their facade. One shared her worries over uncertainties in life, and most of us nodded and shared how we dealt with them. It’s crazy how it was once a big danger that I faced, and now it’s a partner I linked my arms to, going through life. I bear, accept, and evolve. Here, I learned what Lemn Sissay shared in Conversation on Love:
“Our experiences are bridges, not ravines however painful they are.”
It’s natural to feel threatened to be vulnerable, it is against our survival instinct, after all. But I think sometimes, it is worth the risk to pull your belly forward and let yourself be unguarded. Though there might be a chance of people jabbing you there’s also a chance of people patting your worries away instead.
Series of uneasiness for telling my stories— believed it or not, mostly are reciprocated— has led me to this way of believing in others, believing in humanity, of the little kindness and love we gave towards each other. It might sound naive, and it might be, but living a life ominously had granted me a life without such joy I have now. Here’s my mojo from a movie that I love,
“When I choose to see the good side of things, I’m not being naive. It is strategic and necessary. It’s how I’ve learned to survive through everything.”
— Waymond Wang, Everything everywhere all at once.
You might argue, “Oh those things are solely kindness, not love!”, and frankly speaking it was at first strange, to put the word “Love” against a stranger, as we see love as this grand thing, a sacred trust that is impossible to give it to strangers.
But what if we hacked our minds to think that these little kindnesses that we share or receive from strangers are a form of love? what if we dethrone love, and see it humbly?
That love lies between each human’s interactions, love roams in the bustling road, love happens all year, it doesn’t exist only in a month, and as cliche as it is, love is indeed, everywhere.
Rhyming with what our heart-throb prime minister said in his intro for the movie Love Actually,
“If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually..
is all around”
