WHAT'S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?
What is love, this thing which we spend most of our lives pursuing? Some of us might quickly run for the quote books, some snicker, some just sit quietly and muse - but none of us would find the question meaningless, and all of us wants an answer.
Well, what is it, then? It's been described as a rose, a summer's day, an oil slick by the curb, cold plums in the icebox - but sometimes metaphor just can't grab the *isness* of the thing. It's been likened to something that grips the gut (in medieval times it was the liver) - but that makes it sound too much like dyspepsia. Sometimes people mention negatives - it's not hatred, it's not anger - as if somehow these can be developed into the proper pictures. All the card shops, the stenciled hearts on millions of bumper stickers, the endless complications of soap operas - none of these yield an "is" that can be fully grasped.
The better question, I think, is not "What is love?", but "What does love do?" "What is love?" is gluttonous, impatient with ambiguity. It wants the orange's pip without stopping to smell the delicious scent of the oil in the slowly unwrapping peel. "What does love do?" helps us flesh out more clearly those bones which keep us connected and intact, the "loves" of our lives. These loves most closely resemble the gravity that moves the pendulum in the great foyer of Boston's Museum of Science. We are gently moved around an anchor through all the curves in our lives, some larger and more expansive than others, but all making a pattern we recognize as our own face, our own spirit.
What do these loves do? They make paradox. The more they get used up, the more they grow; the more they grow, the more they get used up. Loves, like plants, work best with water, light, an occasional pruning, a strong manure made of friction, and a proper culling. Loves make a web of connection out of us, bring the grail of purpose to the breakfast table. When we love - when we truly love and are not simply looking for a mirror or an umbilical cord - we act out our own best impulses to tie together, to nurture, to soothe and revive. In loving, on whatever level, we come closest to making "human" a transitive verb.
All sweetness and light? Hardly. Good loves never happen without some fights, some sparked tinder, some bit of wickedness, some doubt and self-pity. Yet given all the toxic waste that comes from loving, loving is still the reason for living - not money, not power - because it's the only thing that can mend life when the money runs out and the power dries up. It's not easy, and most of the time it's not clear, but the gentle pitch and yaw of the pendulum inside us is the compass we all follow, a slow rotation that forms in us all of what we consider precious and whole, what we consider worth living for.