Love

I've read Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet many, many times. He writes a letter about love in which he warns that young people do not yet know how to love. They smash themselves against one another, and in the collision, break themselves to pieces.

I find myself thinking about this as I approach my sixth anniversary.

I have gone through so many transitions when it comes to things I believe. Though I am still young, I remember that when I was even younger I was troubled by these transitions. I felt like I was not being true to myself if I was constantly changing my mind. I believe it was my father who pointed out to me that I was changing my mind because I had acquired new evidence. Thus, I was not being fickle. I was being reflective. And it is good to be reflective, because it is through reflection that one determines whether one's practices are useful, meaningful or good.

I appreciate transitions much more now. I recognize that if I have reached a point of transition, it is because I have learned something important I could not fully comprehend or synthesize before.

Today, I'm thinking about love.

Originally, I thought of love as urgent, desperate, wild passion that pushed back the raging dark. Love to me was a barrier, the last white, great flame that would surround me when I felt certain that I would dissolve. Love was intense and it was its intensity that I craved. What I longed for, more than anything else, was to be thrown high upon crested waters, riding waves that would buoy me up when I felt I might be falling.

And there is power to that love. I won't deny it.

But the love one needs to fight back the dark is not love in its deepest form. One might say it is the very tip of the jutting iceberg, clear and understandable even as an adolescent. This is the love that cuts, burns, grinds down, sparks, careens, swoops and buffets.

This is not the love I feel now.

My current love is a steady, nurtured emotion. It is one I have tended. I have watered it like a plant, exposed it to sunlight and made sure the soil is loamy, rich and thick. It is a deep, deep feeling, and it pulses so faintly that I am not always aware of it. It is like my breath. It comes steadily, easily, so much a part of me that I forget it. Except, of course, for those times I pause to concentrate on it. This is the love that forms when people have seen one another, broken and whole, and recognize the beauty in the person seated before them. This is a quiet love, a forever love, the rope that is forged strand by strand, carefully, slowly woven together to form Gleipnir.

There is still passion. I can leap and twirl and dance and know his hand is outstretched, ready to clasp mine. I can feel sunbursts of joy exploding in my chest. The dark is still held back, but this time, it's not because of him. It's because of me.

The world is a very large place and we are but two people in it.
The world is a very large place but we are two people in it.

We are the children in a storybook, his hand pressed in mine. A sun sinks beneath the earth in a conflagration of orange, indigo and red. We watch, transfixed.
I turn. I lean against his side.
"Let's walk," I say.
He nods. "That way," he points.

We find each other in the journey.

Repairing the World

Once upon a time there was a girl utterly entwined with God.

Her skirts swirled in wind made of His breath; her heart thudded to the beat of His heart. His commands weighed heavily upon her so that she bowed her head and bit her lip. Dejected, she made her way into the world, feeling terribly forlorn, bereft and alone.

But in her darkest moments she caught at His cloak and wrapped it around herself, infusing herself with its glittering motes of light. In those moments, when her soul was bleak with sorrow, His hands wrapped around hers so that she felt the white-hot flame of His knuckles and nestled into the crevice left for her body. He held her close and she felt the rain fall, a steady stream of tears as He wept for her pain at the same time that He inflicted it.

The girl sought to outrun her pain and so she pulled the rainbow behind herself, a fleeting assortment of glowing colors. Crimson brought the sun, so that dawn unfurled across the horizon, a golden sun casting yellow rays upon a rapt audience of intangible angels. Blues and indigos shadowed her cheeks, forgotten bruises that only appeared in certain light, which only incisive eyes could see. Pink tinged her lip, giving it a healthy glow, while white glowed in the orbs of eyes which sparkled with heavenly light. No matter how she ran, she could not escape the God that followed her, cocooned within her heart, carried within her bosom. She need not speak a word; it mattered not. God was with her as indelibly as her soul.

He knew her every thought and it wounded Him. Fresh blood dripped from scraped cheeks; her nails clawed across His face. Each drop fell to earth and thudded against the rich, loamy soil, taking root and blooming as a single, beautiful rose. She fought Him and she loved Him so that the two were bound in undying struggle, as she sought to escape the one who knew her more intimately than anyone except herself.

He sent her someone to ease her suffering.

At first she could not see him.

He was fit and trim and devilish, a mischievous smile twinkling in his eyes. He played at nonchalance while gambling all in a desperate attempt to win the girl who had been damaged in terrible, invisible ways.

She repudiated him.

Laughing, she pushed him back, but her laugh was tinged with bitterness for she was certain that she was beyond help, beyond salvation. Her tears were dark and salty but he licked them from her lashes and offered her his crumpled handkerchief. She laughed again, but this time with pleasure, and as she looked up at him with flickering faith he smiled.

He knew he had won.

He knew it far before she did, because she did not believe. Lost in tunnels deep under the earth, she thought it uncertain that she would ever seen sunlight again, let alone live to break through to the surface. Patiently, he extended his hand and led her through the corridors, taking her through the maze and out under the night sky. A thousand brilliant stars lit the sky and in each one of them she could see his reflection.

That was when she knew she loved him.

He had known it far before her, but in that moment a tear of liquid gold fell from his eye and rolled down his skin. She leaned forward to brush it away, her fingers soft against his flesh. The tear melted onto her finger, then hardened into a ring. It was a ring made out of his belief and joy and sorrow, a ring that spoke of tomorrows and yesterdays. It was the essence of him.

She learned him as he had learned her, poring over him like an intricate text. She learned him as they slept at night, fingers skimming over muscles and bone, knotting together to form a pillow for his head. She heard his soul whispering to the water, saw how stillness and calm bound him together. She searched for his peace and found it when he slept, because then she could follow him to the idylls that encompassed his deepest visions, and visiting, learn how to create her own.

Out of nightmares, she built ornaments, deconstructing the pieces till all that were left were tools, varied and strong. Over time, they became functional, so that instead of bits and bobs of frippery she constructed children's playthings and scattered them about their home, creating the environment that would one day welcome their child. The carpet was deep and plush, scattered with pine cones and evergreen needles. He would walk whistling through it and she would laugh to see his joy and together light would spill out of them and weave the fabric of their wold together.

At last, they had a child.

And in that child she saw all her hopes and dreams bound together in one, a glorious, glittering menagerie of opportunities and concerns. She was still fearful; the jackals had not wholly abandoned her. But the cruel God whose face she had struck no longer appeared to her so cruel; indeed, was it not His eyes that stared back at her in the eyes of her child? Was it not His face she saw when she pressed her lips to her child's cheek? Radiant and unconditional, beaming with affection, her child stared up at her.

She knew that virginal blood could stain the coat of many colors. She knew the hidden face of lust, the rampant hate that could tear her child from her arms. Despite this, she loved, and loved wholeheartedly. Her skin had been sewn back together by a patient tailor, the man who stood beside her and looked down into the eyes of this coruscation, their shining babe. His face, too, appeared to her as the image of God.

The rebuilding of her world had been a difficult undertaking. He had managed it, brick by brick, stone by stone. He had strung her together with beads and sequins and silver-tipped words and pressed her into readiness with the touch of his hands. It was her turn now.

To become a craftsman.

To become a conduit.

To repair the world.

I'll Fix Your Damage And You'll Love Me- Right?

April is Sexual Assault Awareness month.

Due to this, Jenny Payne has written an article in The Columbia Spectator called 'Time To Talk.' In her article, she details the emotional coercion and abuse that she suffered at the hands of her depressed, obsessive and threatening boyfriend.

Her boyfriend would hold a knife up to his face and threaten to kill himself if she did not do certain things in order to 'save' him.

Or in her words:

I didn't know how to respond when he said he would kill himself if I didn't do what he wanted, when I would Skype with him and he would hold a knife to his throat. 

 On Halloween night of my senior year of high school, he told me about his plan to run away from home. He wouldn't listen to me when I asked him not to, and I became scared when I read his increasingly violent texts.

 He only stopped his threats when I agreed to have sex with him. I didn't have any other choice unless I wanted to feel responsible for both his escape and planned suicide. 

 That was the first time I had sex.

The question that I think we need to ask ourselves upon reading this article is: what made this possible?

And I think the answer is that the media, pop culture, fairy tales and books that we raise our children on all give over this message. It comes in two forms. The first message, for girls, is the famous 'Beauty and the Beast' story. Only 'Beauty' can take an angry Beast who cannot control his temper, tame him, nurture him, heal him, fix his damage, and save him from himself. He is transformed through her. This is also the plot of every single Harlequin or Regency romance. It is also, more disturbingly, the plot of most contemporary teen fiction.

For men, the message appears in the 'Damsel in Distress' form. Men are consistently taught that they exist to rescue the 'Damsel in Distress,' whether it's the fact that they need to wake Sleeping Beauty, kiss Snow White awake or protect a girl who otherwise makes poor decisions. Contemporary books change the formula so that the boy is a rock who protects the girl from her otherwise maladaptive choices and/or her suicidal self.

The problem with these messages is that they resonate around the following scenario:

1. I fix your damage, in a completely selfless way that allows you to threaten me, yell at me, deride me, push me away, because I know that deep down you're just scared and you don't really mean it.

2. I officially expect nothing in return, but deep down I want you to be grateful to me for fixing your damage, and due to your gratitude to love me.

3. Usually, the reason I need you to love me out of gratitude is because I feel insecure/ not confident about myself, and don't think that you could or would love me for myself. You can only love me for what I do for you (mentally/ emotionally/ physically).

Thus, impressionable children and teens develop the notion that love exists when someone is 'saved' or 'rescued' by someone who comes along and selflessly 'fixes their damage,' asking nothing in return. Not only is this the model of love that the majority of our children see, but it is in fact the love, the great, the stormy, the deepest and most passionate love.

And while sometimes, in its most extreme form (like when it takes the form of domestic violence), we as a society discuss why this is problematic, much more often we not only respect this love but allow it to be the dominant love seen in our culture. It's this love that is portrayed in so many films, especially teen-focused films. It's this love that we uphold all the time. It's this love that wins the Oscar in Silver Linings Playbook, is the core idea of The Mortal Instruments, this love that's a drug described in the horrifically abusive relationship idolized by so many girls that manifests as the Edward Cullen-Bella Swann relationship. It's also this love that appears in the incredibly successful 50 Shades of Grey.

What all this means is that if you ask your average teen what the word 'love' means, they not only have no idea, but they usually have an unhealthy idea. Many believe love is something you fall into, it is completely uncontrolled (you cannot choose who you love, or how strongly you feel about that person), that it involves saving the other person, and it involves disturbing amounts of selflessness/ self-sacrifice. Alternatively, love is not distinguishable from lust, and is mainly a status issue (whose girlfriend/ boyfriend is hotter/ more attractive). The whole idea of love as two people walking together, growing together, trying to help each other to develop socially, mentally, emotionally and otherwise is not present. The whole idea of a loving relationship as not involving extremes, but rather involving measured thoughts, discussions, debates and even disagreement doesn't exist. Loving, as teens see it, is an all-or-nothing enterprise. And the idea of a relationship where one chooses to stay with one's partner, not because of an uncontrollable pull towards them, but because one respects their values, beliefs and character traits, is totally out of the question. That is seen as 'not romantic.' Because our idea of romantic has become skewed. We do not see passion unless a feeling is uncontrolled, we do not see love unless it is all-or-nothing love, and we do not like the characters in the loving relationships unless they are willing to sacrifice anything for the one they love, asking nothing or little in return.

What this means, in short, is that we need to teach the concept of love, and also of healthy relationships, because our society does not.

Although I do not know Jenny, I know myself. And thus I think it is likely that Jenny had a deep, intense, terrifying but at times possibly exhilarating relationship with her boyfriend. She felt needed by him. She knew that nobody else could help him except her, which made her feel special. At the same time, she was worried that she was not enough or could not do enough for him. And since her whole self-esteem and value had been reduced to: Can I or can I not fulfill my mission, can I or can I not save him- failure was not an option. She had to save him, to do whatever it took, in order to prove that she was that magical, important person that she secretly wanted to be but worried she wasn't.

In this article, Jenny has not yet addressed why this happened to her. She apportioned blame to the boyfriend- and rightly so. But she calls what happened to her rape, when in fact, at the time, it was consensual. It is almost as though she does not want to see her part in this at all, possibly because of the deep shame she feels in being complicit. She sees herself as the victim of intimate partner violence- when she was both a victim and simultaneously complicit in it- at the time. She talks about how she landed herself in the psych ward by "trying too hard to save another's life." She says that "nobody ever asks to be the victim of sexual violence." And all of this is true. But it's simultaneously not completely true. Because Jenny stayed in that relationship when other women would have left. And the question that I would argue she needs to explore is why. 

Not because I'm trying to say Jenny should be blamed. She should not be blamed. Nor should battered women who stay in abusive relationships be blamed. There are many factors for why a battered woman, or a partner in an emotionally or physically abusive relationship, stay in the relationship. But it's too easy to put it all on the partner and make him into a monster. The partner was manipulative, coercive, and obviously sick. But what was it in Jenny that made her stay? What needs did she have that were being met, in some twisted form, by this relationship? And once she identifies those, how can they be met in a healthy way?

Our society does not yet have the compassion to see that it should not be viewed as shameful when people are party to their own abuse. Our society likes a lily-white heroine, a story where Jenny was a sweet girl who  was a victim and her boyfriend was sick and manipulative. But what if that's not the true story? What if Jenny, too, had something in her that made her stay, whether that was low self-esteem or other insecurities that could only be assuaged if someone made her the center of his life, even in a negative way? Can it not be that she too has what to work on?

I've written before about the fact that I am not naturally attracted to men who are good for me. I had to work long and hard on understanding healthy relationships and unhealthy relationships, figure out what needs my unhealthy relationships were meeting, and how to refocus these needs or reframe them towards the goal of being a partner in a healthy relationship. But one of the first things I had to do- and obviously I am not Jenny- is admit, despite shame, that I had been a party to certain hurtful things that had been done to me. Which is not to say that I am deserving of blame. But it does say that the story is not so simple- that one person is the monster and the other is the angel. Usually, there's something there for both people to work on.