Love

I think about love a lot. It fascinates me—how, who, why not. Peter Ustinov said that “Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.” I like that, but it’s clearly inadequate as a description of what I feel for a growing number of people who aren’t even habitual, and it seems to feed on itself. I am that I am, like that.

I find some people hard to love, or even to sympathize with sometimes. I can clearly see myself in another person and still not want to be with that particular expression of spirit while it’s doing that. Of course, that’s just a failure of imagination and has no effect on the range of human behavior. That’s what I have to contend with. I look for ways to love others because I feel good when I do, and I don’t pretend to be doing anybody any favors.

I find some people easier to love at a distance, but I usually want to be with my several loved ones now and again at a frequency appropriate to our individual proclivities and comfort. Love is one thing, personality is quite another. Some of my loved ones would drive me even farther round the bend if I had to deal with them every day, giving my spiritual practice a goose, I suppose.

A buddy of mine says parents should say “I love you” to each child every day. That strikes me as a bit rigid, but he used to be an altar boy and loves rules.

I’m not as free with “I love you” as I could be, and I think it’s because of the way things were when I was growing up. I don’t remember either of my parents ever telling me that they loved me. I’m probably not as free with anything as I could be.

“I love you” admits that you and I are related at a vibrational level, in the ethereal plane or whatever, and I acknowledge our common humanity and divinity, a lot like “Namaste.” When I was young the guys would ask each other, “Did you tell her you love her?” Saying “I love you” was a commitment and declaration, and sometimes it still is.

So I manage to love a lot of people and circumstances that would’ve annoyed me to no end when I was 25, maybe including you. Now, I may well love you, but I’m probably not gonna be telling you so. And I might not love you, but I’m willing, and it’s none of your beeswax anyway.