susan smith nash
Here it is, Mother's Day,
and I'm desperately groping for a workable definition of "love." I love my mom, I love my son, I love my
family -- those sound culturally acceptable, but the sort of familial love they
denote does nothing at all to explain the exalted "love" found in
literature.
When I say I love my son,
it is an emotion that surges in the wake of irrational bonding; a feeling that
manifests itself in actions, both automatic and by design, that demonstrate an
active nurturing, protecting, guiding, giving, and forgiving force. That's on a good day. Sometimes that same "love"
manifests itself as nagging, scolding, browbeating, jumping to conclusions,
blaming, and self-justifying. I feel
fairly guilty & I wonder if I've scarred my son. Who knows. People can be
fragile. But, hey -- maybe he deserved
it (joke). I am at a loss -- I remember myself at age 15-1/2 (my son's age),
and I think that in some ways I was somewhat worse than he is. And yet, his actions torture me. Maybe it's because I'm assuming he had the
same outrageous thoughts as I did at that age.
I had fantasies of spending one summer traveling through Mexico alone on
local buses -- the type holding pigs & chickens -- just to see "hidden
Mexico." I thought it would be
fun. My mom said it was okay for me to
go if I could find someone who would go with me. Of course, no one was even the slightest bit interested in my
proposal.
Honestly, I sometimes
think that mother-love is masochism.
Are love and madness
intertwined in familial love? Obviously
they are when family loyalties require one to avenge a death, or to commit an
"honor killing." I recently
returned from Azerbaijan, a former Soviet republic where people speak a
linguistic relative of Turkish and practice moderate Islam, at least in the
capital city, Baku. In the hills,
however, tribal customs prevail, and the phenomenon of "honor
killing" is discouragingly familiar.
Usually it is the young girls who are subjected to this. For example, if a young girl is raped, and
if anyone finds out, then it is the duty of a male member of the family to kill
her, rather than to have the family subject to humiliation. This is done out of family duty, which is in
theory a form of love. When I found out
about this practice, I was horrified.
That is the most extreme case of "blaming the victim" I have
ever heard. Unfortunately, the practice is widespread throughout Islamic
countries. In fact, the Queen of Jordan
is campaigning against it. Sadly, this
is one of the practices that gives Islam a bad reputation, and leads to
stereotyping and demonizing.
One should not kill in the
name of "love." And yet, this
sort of psychosis is preached every day, particularly if one lives in a society
in which it is necessary to demonstrate one's worthiness to continue in the
clan by a great show of loyalty. The
issue of "family love" becomes even more vexed in these cases. Just watch The Godfather or Goodfellas
if you have any doubts.
But what of the exalted
love of poetry and drama -- the one that drives lovers to madness, suicide, and
murder, or to great feats of heroism, bravery, and courage?
The "love" of
Greek philosophy, particularly that of Plato, is more a force than a
relationship between two people.
Essentially philosophical, and an extended metaphor for the awakening
consciousness that gradually learns to differentiate between categories (the
good, the pure, the beautiful), and to rank the various deviations from the
ideal, this sort of "love" leads to desire. But what kind of desire is created? In Plato, "love"
engenders a desire to become one with the ideal. It is a craving for unity with what results on top, what is considered
the best. The fact that the desire is
destined to always go unfulfilled is rather painful and tragic. However, that is the basis for romanticized
ideal "love."
On a more positive note,
in Platonic philosophy, "love" allows the mind to understand the
realm of perfection, and to soar into the skies. "Love" is the driving force that makes mental
transformation possible, and, in theory, the joy of understanding.
In NeoPlatonic philosophy,
as written and described by Plotinus, and later Boethius, the force of love is
a pseudo-mystical force. Instead of
simply driving one to a higher plane, or enabling one to understand the perfect
forms, it virtually possesses one. There is also the dark side of love -- a
kind of chthonic "possession. That
state of possession compels the person to enter into an exalted, enraptured
state, in which one receives intuitive knowledge in a mad, disordered,
semi-chaotic rush of enlightenment. Such began the so-called "dark night
of the soul" more thoroughly developed by mystics.
For most medieval mystics,
love and madness were one and the same.
The English anchorite Julian of Norwich experienced convulsions,
hallucinations, and extreme pain as she suffered through a serious
illness. Later, she wrote about the
experience and explained that the hallucinations, visions, and pain helped her
understand the concept of love, and how Christ suffered and died on the
cross. Her writings were reproduced and
widely circulated around England, where they were considered works of divine
love. Today, we would probably say they
were the scribblings of a woman suffering from a severe psychological
disorder. Would we call it
madness? That is not the politically
correct term of choice. But, that is
generally the gist of it. We would use
the word "mad" before we would say her work described
"love." The other mystics
were much the same -- Ste. Therese of Lisieux lived in 19th century
France, and her sufferings from tuberculosis, and her hallucinations were
considered divinely inspired visions of love.
Love is a kind of madness. This
madness makes our world a better place.
In medieval traditions,
the best art and literature allowed the reader to understand relationships
between people and the divine order, and the more intricate the picture, the
more treasured the objet-d'art. Perhaps
the most dramatic examples were the gothic cathedral and Dante's Divine Comedy. Both illustrate the levels and hierarchies as one ascends to the
realm of perfection. Out of the
religious world, troubador and epic poets likewise described how one could achieve
perfection by means of love. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, love
for one's queen requires devotion, bravery, and adherence to rigidly defined
codes of conduct. In troubadour poetry,
the poet sings the praises of his lady love.
The object of his devotion is a cultural projection rather than a real
person, and the desire he expresses seems more narcissistic and/or idealized --
it is more about wanting to achieve the state of joy that supposedly
accompanies a mental appreciation of perfection. Strangely, no one ever seemed particularly happy. In fact, what they were creating was a way
of knowing that limited knowledge precisely because the categories were so
rigid.
Interestingly, by the time
we get to Shakespeare, we have a world that no longer is content with rigid
categories and inflexible social and political structures. The Renaissance mindset has changed
radically -- it embraces the notion of Platonic love because it seeks change
and transformation. However, it wants
change to be more than a philosophical ideal.
It wants material change. But,
how is "love" different in the Renaissance than before?
In Shakespeare, love
springs up in the most unexpected places.
People who are not supposed to love, fall in love. Romeo and Juliet are prohibited by family
feuding to be in love. Titania falls in
love with Bottom, but only after he has large donkey ears, and, one must add,
after she is enchanted by pansy juice applied by Puck. Olivia falls in love with Viola (but she
thinks Viola is a man). What does the
weird coupling allow? It certainly
allows people to love outside their predetermined levels. It also allows friendship to emerge, when
before there was only the objectifying Platonic love. For all its virtues, Platonic love is highly limited in that it
treats people as objects -- as rungs on a ladder. It does not admit their humanity, and it does not account for the
capriciousness and contrariness of human nature.
Love, in Shakespeare, lies
always on the verge of disintegration.
It is one step away from utter chaos.
And yet, such love is vital, alive, and not rarified to the point that
when one hears troubadour poetry, one wonders about the woman who is placed on
such a high pedestal. Is the poem about
her, or is it about the singer himself, and his desire to achieve unity with an
intellectual concept? This is
unmistakably narcissistic, unmistakably within a closed, hierarchical system
where "love" means perfection.
In Shakespeare, love does not mean perfection -- love means
understanding human frailty, and -- perhaps most importantly -- it is about how
the audience begins to understand that reality is never as things appear. People are in disguise. People fall in love
based on mistakes and miscommunications.
People fall under the spell of dreams and enchantments and incantations. The imperfection of the world is what
engenders true love - the audience sees that imperfection and the chaos are the
catalysts for life and love. So, we
laugh and are emboldened to fall into our own little irrational love.
At this point in my life,
somewhat saddened and definitely gun-shy regarding love, I find myself
hesitating before I embrace the mad world of double meanings and dissembling
appearances that is the breeding ground of love. I want to proceed with caution, and I do not want to be hurt (or
make a fool of myself).
And yet, a few weeks ago,
something very puzzling happened.
Despite my calm demeanor, my self-control (my self-repression, perhaps)
I found myself in a weird situation as I killed time in the dusty-floored, crumbling
Soviet-era departure lounge of Kazakhstan Airways, waiting for a flight from
Atyrau (the north tip of the Caspian Sea) to Budapest.
On the other side of the
waiting area, I noticed that there was a crew of construction workers --
probably Hungarian -- sitting together.
They were drinking vodka (it was 8 in the morning) and laughing. I was imagining that they were eager to get
out of Atyrau, which is a rather bleak place, of wind, saline grit, industrial
pollution, and crumbling infrastructure.
I was sure they were ready to get back to a place that didn't have water
rationing (water 3 hrs/day) and latrine-type toilets. I noticed a guy seated with them, and I felt my heart skip a beat
and my stomach turn to butterflies.
There was nothing particularly
remarkable about the guy -- I did like his sense of style, though -- overalls,
t-shirt, interesting shoes, dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Of course, we had absolutely nothing in
common -- I was sitting there in a black blazer, black&white striped shirt,
black skirt -- madam American, wearing her business travel gear to minimize
hassles. He was either Russian or
Hungarian. He looked Russian.
My heart was
pounding. It was all I could do to keep
from trembling. I couldn't even look at
him. What was it? I have no idea. Was it mutual? I'm sure
it was not. (I'm only saying that so it
won't look like I have some sort of form of delusional disorder -- some kind of
erotomania -- like the stalker who believes the stalkee is in love with
him!) I didn't sit near him in the
plane. Later, I didn't see him in
Customs. I still think about him.
Now that I'm back home, I
regret my common sense. I wish I had
run up to him and pledged to him my undying love, and begged him to marry me
and come with me to the U.S. I hate it
that I did nothing. I wanted to tell
him -- in extended and wordy refrains -- all about how much I loved him -- all
in English, which would have been rather useless. I didn't. I couldn't even
look at him. But -- now I wish I had
said something. The chance was lost
forever. He was so gentle-looking and
mild-demeanored. He had the sweetest,
most forgiving & comprehending face I've ever seen. He was honest and good and kind (or at least
he seemed that way). And I blew
it. I'll never know.
On the other hand, my
family might have been a bit dismayed if I had dragged home a non-English
speaking husband. That's assuming he
accepted my bizarre proposal.
But still -- was that the
last time I'll ever feel that emotion?
Maybe. I'm not sure why I even
felt it at all. Perhaps it would bear
looking into. Maybe it happened because
I wasn't glued to the Internet like I usually am here, while I was in
Kazakhstan. Maybe it was because I had
just spent 6 days actually living life and interacting with people… perhaps the
life I lead here is dehumanizing and has turned me into an unfeeling
automaton.
What is love in the 21st
century, in the age of Internet?
Perhaps that's what I
should really be asking, instead of pining for a man I only glimpsed in the
airport of Atyrau, Kazakhstan, plunging myself into my own absurd re-enactment
of Dante's Vita Nuova -- written as a
tribute and love-testimony to Beatrice -- a female he saw only once, having
glimpsed her in passing on a street in Italy.
If only I had that morning
in Kazakhstan to live over….