Reflections on the Quality of Love

Love knows no virtue, no merit; it loves and forgives and tolerates everything because it must.  We are not guided by reason.

Leopold von Sacher-Masoch

This morning I read this quote on my Google homepage and felt strangely moved and liberated by it.  The words awakened in me an urge to flaunt my belief in them and to hold them up as proof -- in some imaginary dispute with certain authority figures of my past -- that love is not rationed.  And then I looked von Sacher Masoch up on Wikipedia, and learned that it is from his name and views that the term "masochism" derives. (just a little delegitimizing?).  Masoch was a highly regarded writer in the mid 19th century, but he was no ordinary, family man; he signed a contract with his second wife in which he agreed to be her slave in return for her willingness to tyrannize him while wearing animal furs (which attire she was to don as often as possible, and especially when she felt cruel).

Masoch's words, however, strike me as distinctly unsexual -- as an almost altruistic description of love. They paint a picture of love that is unjudgmental, selfless, and generous without limit, but without a hint of perversity.  The quote makes me wonder if Masoch perceived a connection between sexual and unsexual love that to most people is not apparent. And perhaps that is what drove him mad.  He is said to have been mentally ill, and tormented by an obsession with sex.

I have always been confused about the quality of love, if there is some essential quality to it.  As a child, I grew up thinking it was sacred, and must be reserved for few.  As an adult living in an urban setting among social liberals, I got a different message: I learned that love in its highest order is free and does not discriminate -- that if you are a very evolved person, love replaces judgment in your heart.

My mother used to scorn a liberal use of the phrase "I love you," arguing that too-frequent avowals of love cheapened its meaning.  Now she is a Buddhist, and so presumably seeks a different perspective  -- one that sees love as everywhere and unconditional, and that, contrary to western tradition, eschews attachment.

Love is supposed to be a great unifying force, to break down the barriers and differences between people.  But it has its politics, like anything else.  Strange to say, but I'm not sure it comes naturally to me, whatever it is!

Back to the Grind

Well, few of you dared to touch that last post of mine, though I would have been interested to hear some more viewpoints.  Today we hear depressing news about the healthcare reform legislation going up to the senate for debate.  We hear that the democratic coalition is falling apart, and that unless tight abortion restrictions are contained in the legislation some uneasy supporters of the public option will jump ship. What I don't understand is why the public option is up for debate, but the abortion legislation is not.  We have a democratic majority in the house and senate.  Why can't they control the terms of the discussion? How can everyone fall prey to this nasty, irrational, extortionist politicking? 

Well, enough. Onto less controversial matters.

The Thanksgiving holidays are over, I think we can all agree.  It is back to the grind.  And I knew today would not be pretty, not following nearly five days off from school, the arrival of gray skies and rain, and the prospect of departing grandparents.  Sure enough, Kieran refused to get out of bed for breakfast, or to get dressed.  He finally emerged in his pajamas (5 minutes before the schoolbus was due to arrive), and stood armed in the living room with an oversized Christmas teddy bear recently brought down from attic storage. As soon as I approached him, he whacked me with it. Perhaps alarmed by his own temerity, he rushed back to his room.  His grandfather then tried to lure him out of his room, but Kieran whacked him, too, and then slammed the door in his face.  Enter Jeff on the scene, but still, to no avail. Jeff must have spent ten minutes talking to him, trying to engage him in a conversation, and to coax some small bit of co-operation from him.  But Kieran refused to budge or even talk, and his only response, when asked for an explanation, was "no reason."

I have come a long ways as a parent.  In the old days, I would have not have allowed Kieran to win this battle.  He would have been on the school bus, smarting over the punishment he got for hitting me.  And there would have been a terrible scene, all the more traumatic for the presence of his grandparents whose softheartedness would have enraged me -- made me feel useless, mean, and ineffective, and fueled my determination to be unyielding.  But today, I noticed, I merely felt grateful and supported because they were there with me, along with Jeff -- extra heads and bodies to help me figure out how to deal.  Perhaps it is a sign of maturity that I can now accept help from people whose methods differ from mine, without feeling compromised.  I can take the easy road when it is available, instead of the high one.   And so it was that I let Kieran's grandparents drive him to school.  Reports have it that Kieran refused to enter his classroom, but instead clung to his grandma at the door, wailing inconsolably.  The teacher became alarmed and my MIL found herself, also in tears, trying to explain the situation to a bewildered classroom.  After some time, Kieran finally disengaged, and let his grandparents depart for Michigan. 

As usual, Norah was quite a different story.  When my FIL asked, "Aren't you gonna say good-bye to Grampa?", she retorted flippantly: "No."  "Ah, why not, what did I do?"  he queried playfully.  "You're not my friend!" came the fierce reply (for no apparent reason).  Grandpa tried again, this time using an empty sweet and low packet as a puppet and pitching his voice as high as possible: "Won't you be nice to your Grampa?"  Norah loves to talk to this puppet, and so she replied, a little flirtatiously, "No, because he babysits me!" (a reference to Grandpa's physically sitting on the children and thereby eliciting bouts of hysterical giggling and screeching).  And so the banter went on and on between Norah and her grandfather, with Norah finally taking leave of her imaginary playmates to give him a good-bye hug. 

Now Norah and I are at home alone together.  First time in weeks.  She's as happy-go-lucky as ever.  I'm a little sad, but also ready to get back to the grind, to do a load of laundry and clean my kitchen for a change (hope I haven't forgotten how), and to stop eating dessert three times a day and drinking a half bottle of wine every night.  I'm making pea soup in the new crockpot my in-laws bought me, and waiting for Kieran's bus to arrive.  Wish me luck.