Love when I was young was a bodily presence. It was desire, longing, possession, chemistry, romance and the intoxicating belief that another person could somehow complete the unfinished parts of myself.
I married my childhood sweetheart and we were so young. We fell head over heels into a fairytale concept with hearts full of sincerity and minds that had not yet met disappointment. We stood before each other on a Catholic altar believing love would colour us in, and in my case, possessing little understanding of who I was, what faulty beliefs I carried, or how much growing was required to maintain a strong relationship. My emotional immaturity was not a failing; it was simply the starting point of being a man.
Over time, life begins its patient and insistent work. Children arrive. Mortgages arrive. Careers, ambitions, disappointments, resentments, illnesses, responsibilities and grief all arrive. We become fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, friends, uncles, aunties and eventually grandparents.
Every role asks for something different from us.
Every relationship becomes a classroom.
Love is no longer measured by butterflies in the stomach but by school lunches and drop offs, difficult conversations, hospital visits, tears, betrayal and forgiveness and daily sacrifices made without witness or accolades.
The great surprise for me was that love often reveals itself not through happiness but through hardship.
My own writing, whether in One Day One Life, Pilgrim or Messenger, circles the same question repeatedly: how do we learn to love when we spend so much of life trying to be someone else? How do out partners, family and friends love us when we do not know how to love ourselves?
We chase success, status, certainty and validation. We seek meaning in careers, possessions and achievement.
Yet beneath all the striving sits a quieter truth. Every human being is searching for connection. Every human being wants to be seen. Every human being wants to know they matter.
The propaganda of success tells us we must become more.
Love whispers that we were enough before we started running.
Then there is self-love.
Self-love may be the most misunderstood form of love of all. It is not the narcissistic self-importance or endless self-care rituals of the shiny, sexy, fabulous Bondi crew, but that has its attraction.
Self-love is the courage to sit quietly with who we are. It is accepting our imperfections without surrendering to them. It is forgiving ourselves for what we did not know when we were twenty, thirty or forty. It is emotional honesty and congruence. Many of us spend decades seeking love from others while quietly withholding it from ourselves.
As I grow older, I have placed a gentle focus on living without expectation and 80% of the time I am successful. Infatuation still raises its head though and this can be for people, places and things. Infatuation allows us to project our hopes onto an outside force but mature love seems to grow when the projection ends. Acceptance starts when the illusion falls away and we see the ‘other’ in all their beauty, contradiction, fragility and imperfection.
As I age, the less interested I am in being right and the more interested I am in being honest. Emotional honesty may be the highest expression of love available to us. To say, “I was wrong.” To say, “I need you.” To say, “I forgive you.” To say, “I love you” without expecting anything in return.
Perhaps that is why death teaches us so much about love. Death removes the possibility of future negotiation. Standing in the shadow of mortality, we discover that almost nothing mattered except the people we loved and the love we gave away.
I sometimes imagine two old souls speaking across the veil of time. One waiting patiently. One still walking on this earth. The years of frustration, misunderstanding and separation have dissolved. The sharp edges have been filed away by grace. All that remains is gratitude for having shared the road together.
Love may simply be remembering. Remembering who we are beneath our fears. Remembering that every person is fighting a battle we cannot see. Remembering that our lives are brief and precious. One day, one life:
I am calling you home my love,
Home where my heart waits for you.
Who would have thought separation would be this hard?
Certainly not you, as persevering with me was a constant challenge.
But I have mellowed and the edges are washed smooth.
Funny how death has been the cure for my malaise.
We were just kids my love.
How were we to know?
Time takes joy and sorrow luv,
the loss becomes a flow.
So here I stand in the fields of no regret, a gentle sun warming my back and a loving wind opening my smile.
My intention and words are genuine as I am incapable of trickery standing so close to Him.
None of this is my doing even though I welcome the respite.
Instinct was my greatest foe but desire holds no allure in this new life.
Only love remains.
Now I call you home my love.
Maybe you hear my voice during those dark, still nights waiting for the knock on your wall telling you I am awake.
We were just kids my love.
How were we to know?
Time takes joy and sorrow luv,
the loss becomes a flow.
