Blogs by Victor K. Pryles
Valentine's Day- A Discussion On Love
2/9/2007 7:46:12 AM
From a private correspondence in which I now keep the privacy of the writer and answer her crying question about love unrequited.
Is being in love the feeling of emptiness when you wake up in the middle of the night and reach out to touch someone and they are not there?
Is being in love telling someone you love them knowing they do not feel the same?
Is being in love the largest most painfull thing that I will ever go through that my current illness does not even come close?
Is being in love the feeling of getting lost evey time I see him, and missing him every minute?
Is being in love something that I can not control even when it is ripping me apart? If these answers are yes, then I am deeply in love with (name deleted) and he doesn't even get it.
Does it continue to hurt?????? When will it go away...............If I am so strong, then why does this make me cry?
This is so different that I had to ask an expert and I am so stupid when it come to these human feelings............I hate them, I really hate them..............it hurts, deeply hurts..........
Lovers have so felt for eons- yet, it has none to do with love.
They have been awed by the yawning emptiness in the bed beneath them, slapped arm across emptiness and folds of sheets that once encased a beloved, felt the great pang of loss, but it has none to do with love.
They have showered unrequited love upon the heads of their adored and in feeling the sting of non-response have had none to do with love.
The fact you feel your poor health small in comparison yet, however most painfully it may stab, there is none to do with love in this other 'special' illness. Though both are malignant maladies, one is physical while the other, just as deadly, is imaginative. One can be treated with medicines and chemotherapy, the other by diligence and awareness.
Seeing the object of your ardor, missing him in the moment you see him, getting lost in this nowhere land of desire and longing has none to do with love.
You begin to see yourself, your non-love, your selfish self only when you confess, as you started to here, that it is something that tears you apart for you have no control over it.
Indeed, here is the crux of the matter.
You admit no control, yet, knowing that this feeling goes on without you, has a mind of its own, you continue in it, though it is not given any conscious birth within you. It comes like a wave neither summoned nor expected, it crashes the shoreline of your heart without regard to your wish or in compliance with your thought.
The beginning of wisdom is knowing you have no control. But it is only the start, the barest requirement for remedy and reconciliation. But what remedy? Which reconciliation? I'll tell you, if you can bear it.
Isn't it amazing that you should feel such a way, yet your lover has none of it? Doesn't it surprise, and shouldn't it inform you, that you feel one way and he another?
Lovers over millennia have mistaken their pain for love, confusing their ego-centric, self aggrandizement with that which should exist in its place for true love. Yet, they continue in their misery, for in it they establish themselves as something real, when all is truly illusion. That swelling wave of unruly emotion makes them feel alive, you see--- yet in it's true form, if seen with clear eyes and a stout heart, would become mere vapor on loose to its crested, binding cruelty.
For cruel it is, and has on cresting taken many a soul into suicide or deepest soul wrecking pain until mental distress so alters their sense of reality that they begin to go mad, dying to themselves even more than when, unwilling victim of unbridled negative emotion, they began.
The battle is always for reconciliation, for finding a place in us that is real; a foundation where our knowledge meets our being and understanding is born. Our remedy is true love, to view the madness until we see its malignant nature--- a lie we tell ourselves until we believe all which is false is true, and instead embrace what love we can gather which always comes from above us.
Then why 'love' in this way? How can lovers be so blind and jump so deeply into all this non-love, this illusion of love?
The why is simple:
They can mistake their love for the real emotion, thus make battle both heroic and self-serving, lift themselves from their deep place of non-existence into one which promises purpose and reality, yet never delivers such. They can pretend that they exist, for surely no pain this great could happen to a non-being. Tell them it is a fiction and they will protest loudly, "It is all too real, and though I admit to dreams and imaginings which crowd my consciousness every day, these all abound with love and my loss. So be not cruel to me, and dismiss my anguish!"
Yet I know, they merely admit such cutting emotion to stab them real!
But all of it, every scintilla, each tear shed in vain, all cries from loneliness, every burning desire, each deadly longing, all sweeping obsession, --- has none to do with love.
How can love be present without sweetness? How can it exist without compassion, understanding, hope, reconciliation, kindness, sacrifice, compatibility and balance? Is love instead pain, hatred, loathing, misplaced reason, wrongly directed ardor, unforgiving, desperate, non-responsive, cruel, unkind, and binding in its requirement upon the beloved and the lover alike?
Until you diligently work to understand your lack of existence, your incapacity to control anything and find your real self, --- to see that all your emotion is truly negative, --- not positive--- and that you are incapable, as you are, of sustaining positive emotion, you will always be flooded by whatever should just happen in your life, and your love will be bitter to both you and those whom you love so.
But this is a long work, a difficult awakening. It requires much conscious labor and intentional suffering.
Before, in the throes of each insubstantial love, never did I attempt such work myself. So how much less may I demand it of you? My lack of love, my misappropriation of self onto the object of my desires, often left me as confused as you; perhaps more so. I dropped so deeply into a dream factory of my own construction that I felt this acute pain over and over again, and for long years in my life. I considered myself a fools fool.
And so I was, until slowly and with greater effort I came to know certain things. At long last, my being met my knowledge, (what I was embraced what I knew) and these two formed an understanding.
No longer willing to live with love that wasn't love, no longer happy or content to lead a blind life of self-mutilation, I began my search. That expedition into the construction of wholeness, the view of an existence where one undivided self is built on reality and not imagination or dream, --- ends only with more conscious labor and intentional suffering.
That being the case, isn't it much easier to remain 'in love'?
Isn't it more expedient to hurt... to really hurt? I assure you it is.
Here comes Valentine's Day, our exuberant celebration of all things erotic, our appreciation of love between couples; the wonder of our feelings for sensuality.
We bring flowers, so tender and filled with color from the heart of dear mother earth, then sprinkle perfumes on our lovers' loins, dangling gems to their ears or adorning their fingers with bands of promise. We get giddy with expectancy, happy at all, and drowsy with the languorous songs of romance.
On this day, above all others, we allow for the madness and lift it up. No longer concerned with the rational or the purposeful, we blanket ourselves with a lover's touch, --- a kiss. We jubilantly cast our feelings into the world Eros created, not the love of land, God or parent, no children's care or vaulted rationality; we aspire only to frivolity, gaiety and abandonment to our lover's arms.
This mass hysteria, so pleasant and inviting, does not cease with the day's end; it's bacchanalian release, demanded all other days of the year, as well. Such carelessness and freedom must be treasured next Monday or three weeks from now, let decade pile on decade, --- for all we care. It should exist always in my love life, my entire life, for is it not the most pleasant of diversions?
It is my deepest happiness that I feel at Valentine's arrival, why not tomorrow too? Why shouldn't this tickle of fancy from the little god Eros, not bedeck me with pleasantries the whole year ahead?
In fact, every day and always I should have this feeling.
I come from hopelessly romantic parents. They were married on Valentine's Day more than a half a century ago and eloped to achieve their matrimony. As another February approaches with its day of love, I know my darling mother will cry, after all these decades gone, tears that never cease to fall after nearly seventy years of display, over how she felt that glorious time.
Or how she misses that glorious feeling at that happiest of days.
I can't tell her that Valentine's Day will always come 'round. It will exist as long as lovers find impossible feelings real. As long as they invest reality with the stuff of dreams, loving the clouds they create so much they would rather be dead than not revel in such ephemeral beauty.
Even if I did tell her, she would cry nonetheless.
Such is the confrontation of the heart to the head. When logic is replaced by flowing joy and unbounded hope or reminiscence so dear. When a newer, more real love is scarcely known by us, --- how can it be otherwise?
Our Valentine Day should render us greater, more complete than all that currently stands in its place. Perhaps, someday this celebration will be a clarion call to the purity of true love, it's outstanding reality and possibilities, not its chocolate covered cousin who masquerades as a finished product.
That Valentine says:
We should be like mighty gods, so perfected by love that the erotic blends with the majesty of heavenly promised loves and our loving then gives birth to children of light and awareness. Love so present, so available it lives in truth and justice far beyond our rushing to the opposites, --- for love, as we do it, always creates its opposite.
We start to love and, because we are so inept at it, so ignorant of it, we slay the world with its opposed attributes.
See it rock back and forth from kindness to cruelty, from generosity to miserliness, from compassion to indifference, from egalitarian impulse to flagrant despotism, --- from love to hate.
My dearest (name withheld), bereft friend, lift up your eyes and know that the kind of love we need comes from above us. This kind doesn't waver. It is unchanging, yet mutable, ever delighting in its magnificent expression.
It is not something we are much capable of producing ourselves. Know that we can't even begin to achieve it; it is just above our heads and hearts. It awaits our acknowledgment, an expanded capacity in us, when it can pour down into us from its lofty level; it will permeate all our discourse and bind us together as one. It will cast light into our darkness and heal our souls.
See it coming? Can you catch a glimpse?
It is all we need. It is powerful enough to banish pain and death. It overcomes all disease and takes us to places we can't imagine as we are now. Words do it no justice, it is beyond words, and no matter how skillful the sculptor he can't mold a figure to cast its form.
But when it comes, no matter how fleeting, you'll have fear banished from your life. You will begin to embrace your self and hold tight to your lover aright. As the Higher in you meets the lower, you'll see clearly and with eyes filled to the brim with love and appreciation.
Then everything will have all to do with love.
This, which binds and creates worlds and galaxies, will become in us a thing of far reaching consequence. We will join in the cosmos and become partners with God. Our evolution will find its zenith, and from it all mankind will make a joyful sound.
But first, try and turn from that which has none to do with love.
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