Love is possibly the most overarchingly important, often thought of, and frequently misinterpreted concept in society. To refer to it even using the word concept feels inadequate, incomplete-- but in an attempt to speak honestly about it one must treat it as a universal concept rather than a special subjective experience, for all too often this latter manner of presentation is what we see. The subjective experience of love is what movies present us with. It is what people talk about at weddings. As outside spectators in these situations, we naturally generalize, making the subjective into the universal. In other words we see the couple getting married or the couple on screen as representative of love itself. We then start to wonder-- worry, even-- why we have not experienced this universally good thing. We get self-conscious and jealous. We start actively seeking it-- but the problem arises when the love we seek is the subjective version we have observed as a third party in the church pew or the movie theater seat. We are seeking something we don't-- and will never-- fully understand because it is the experience of someone else, of which we have obtained what is only (however beautiful) the merest glimpse.
If we base something as chiefly important as our experience of love on glimpses of a love from which we are separate, then we doom ourselves to incompletion by seeking only small parts of a much bigger whole. We do this when we ask someone out simply because that's what we think we are supposed to do and hey, she's good-looking and relatively successful and it's been a while since we slept with anyone or even kissed anyone, and so-and-so met his wife in this same situation so hey, let's give it a shot. We do this when we reject someone in the early stages for not being impressive enough or romantic enough or spontaneous enough or gender-normed enough (or when we try too hard to be all these things ourselves). We do this whenever we want the sex we know others are having or when we want the weddings that others keep inviting us to without first experiencing the feelings, the struggles, the sheer amount of time that made up the parts of their experience that we did not see. We want the climax of the film while forgetting all those unsexy moments that were left on the cutting room floor or even perhaps removed from the script altogether or not even considered in the first place by the writer who (at least in part, however earnest and heartfelt a person he may be) is trying to sell us on an image both beautiful enough to pay ten bucks to see and simple enough to be conveyed in an hour and a half.
Real love, universally and conceptually speaking, is not something that can be forced, controlled, or achieved. It is a mindset-- an ongoing, ever-developing, always imperfect mindset that requires (somewhat paradoxically) a combination of self-awareness and selflessness. You must know and value yourself, but you must love the world and the other people in it at least as much and, if possible, more. And you have to be comfortable allowing the self and the world to intermingle-- you must willingly share yourself (and not just the straight facts but also the feelings, the insecurities, the details, the overwhelming questions of intense moral debate): you must laugh and cry in front of others. You must take the risk of looking foolish for the greater purpose of being human.
Of course you cannot do these things to the point of being dominating or intimidating-- the sharing cannot be one-sided or it ends up producing its purpose's opposite: alienation. You must also actively seek to do things for and learn things from-- even draw things out of-- others. You must truly value them not because of what they might do for you or how they might make you feel or to what degree they are "marriage material" but rather because of who they actually are, what they do, what they stand for. To love someone is not to demonstrate your own value in order to impress, conquer, or even genuinely help the person for altruistic reasons. Rather, it is to actively value someone else and to help them see their own value better-- to help them develop it further. The desire to do this should drive any action or demonstration of your own value.
Mutual love then occurs when each party does this regularly-- when there is not pursuer and pursued, desire and object of desire, knight in shining armor and princess in high tower. Mutual love is two people standing on the same unsteady ground, recognizing the unsteadiness yet finding beauty in it all the same and longing to find even more-- willing to risk losing themselves completely for the chance at something greater.
In one-sided love, the lover loses their sense of self completely and might not get it back. The other party enjoys the benefits of their lover's love but eventually tires of it. They may feel superior to the doting fool or intimidated by the intense romantic, but for whatever reason they choose not to reciprocate. Some of the truly bitter breakups result from this; an uneven exchange of selves has occurred, and the split leaves both parties feeling off-balanced.
In pre-love dating, folks are hesitant to truly put themselves out there for fear of this damage, this loss, this altering of self, but ultimately this fear defeats the purpose of dating, which is after all an attempt to put an end to feelings of isolation and loneliness. This hesitance results in the awkward silences of initial dates. It results in that confused feeling of: hey, we're both attractive, successful people. Why is there no chemistry here? Or perhaps worse: the self-conscious assumption that it's your fault there is no chemistry, that you are uniquely flawed, ugly, and undesirable. Or maybe even worse than that: blaming the other person for the awkwardness, judging them as boring or not trying hard enough or trying too hard or not immediately meeting every standard, qualification, and fancy that composes the character of your ideal lover. In any case, many dates fail to get off the ground because of a person's unwillingness to really release control of the situation.
In mutual love it does not matter if one person loses their self in the other because the other is doing the same thing. They have each taken on the care of and responsibility for the self of the other, which means that identity is then maintained without isolation.
But of course that sort of trusting, selfless love takes time and ongoing practice-- and it's okay to want to be liked, to try to be impressive, to want to be wanted. But you also have to take risks, put yourself out there in a way that some people may find offensive or strange or unimpressively imperfect. And if someone puts their self out there in front of you, try being open-minded. Try to embrace and join them in their risk. It will not always work, but neither will love if you don't at least try.
If we base something as chiefly important as our experience of love on glimpses of a love from which we are separate, then we doom ourselves to incompletion by seeking only small parts of a much bigger whole. We do this when we ask someone out simply because that's what we think we are supposed to do and hey, she's good-looking and relatively successful and it's been a while since we slept with anyone or even kissed anyone, and so-and-so met his wife in this same situation so hey, let's give it a shot. We do this when we reject someone in the early stages for not being impressive enough or romantic enough or spontaneous enough or gender-normed enough (or when we try too hard to be all these things ourselves). We do this whenever we want the sex we know others are having or when we want the weddings that others keep inviting us to without first experiencing the feelings, the struggles, the sheer amount of time that made up the parts of their experience that we did not see. We want the climax of the film while forgetting all those unsexy moments that were left on the cutting room floor or even perhaps removed from the script altogether or not even considered in the first place by the writer who (at least in part, however earnest and heartfelt a person he may be) is trying to sell us on an image both beautiful enough to pay ten bucks to see and simple enough to be conveyed in an hour and a half.
Real love, universally and conceptually speaking, is not something that can be forced, controlled, or achieved. It is a mindset-- an ongoing, ever-developing, always imperfect mindset that requires (somewhat paradoxically) a combination of self-awareness and selflessness. You must know and value yourself, but you must love the world and the other people in it at least as much and, if possible, more. And you have to be comfortable allowing the self and the world to intermingle-- you must willingly share yourself (and not just the straight facts but also the feelings, the insecurities, the details, the overwhelming questions of intense moral debate): you must laugh and cry in front of others. You must take the risk of looking foolish for the greater purpose of being human.
Of course you cannot do these things to the point of being dominating or intimidating-- the sharing cannot be one-sided or it ends up producing its purpose's opposite: alienation. You must also actively seek to do things for and learn things from-- even draw things out of-- others. You must truly value them not because of what they might do for you or how they might make you feel or to what degree they are "marriage material" but rather because of who they actually are, what they do, what they stand for. To love someone is not to demonstrate your own value in order to impress, conquer, or even genuinely help the person for altruistic reasons. Rather, it is to actively value someone else and to help them see their own value better-- to help them develop it further. The desire to do this should drive any action or demonstration of your own value.
Mutual love then occurs when each party does this regularly-- when there is not pursuer and pursued, desire and object of desire, knight in shining armor and princess in high tower. Mutual love is two people standing on the same unsteady ground, recognizing the unsteadiness yet finding beauty in it all the same and longing to find even more-- willing to risk losing themselves completely for the chance at something greater.
In one-sided love, the lover loses their sense of self completely and might not get it back. The other party enjoys the benefits of their lover's love but eventually tires of it. They may feel superior to the doting fool or intimidated by the intense romantic, but for whatever reason they choose not to reciprocate. Some of the truly bitter breakups result from this; an uneven exchange of selves has occurred, and the split leaves both parties feeling off-balanced.
In pre-love dating, folks are hesitant to truly put themselves out there for fear of this damage, this loss, this altering of self, but ultimately this fear defeats the purpose of dating, which is after all an attempt to put an end to feelings of isolation and loneliness. This hesitance results in the awkward silences of initial dates. It results in that confused feeling of: hey, we're both attractive, successful people. Why is there no chemistry here? Or perhaps worse: the self-conscious assumption that it's your fault there is no chemistry, that you are uniquely flawed, ugly, and undesirable. Or maybe even worse than that: blaming the other person for the awkwardness, judging them as boring or not trying hard enough or trying too hard or not immediately meeting every standard, qualification, and fancy that composes the character of your ideal lover. In any case, many dates fail to get off the ground because of a person's unwillingness to really release control of the situation.
In mutual love it does not matter if one person loses their self in the other because the other is doing the same thing. They have each taken on the care of and responsibility for the self of the other, which means that identity is then maintained without isolation.
But of course that sort of trusting, selfless love takes time and ongoing practice-- and it's okay to want to be liked, to try to be impressive, to want to be wanted. But you also have to take risks, put yourself out there in a way that some people may find offensive or strange or unimpressively imperfect. And if someone puts their self out there in front of you, try being open-minded. Try to embrace and join them in their risk. It will not always work, but neither will love if you don't at least try.
Very well said
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