She loves me Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,
well, maybe,
but does she Know me? The greatest thing about my relationship with my wife, the reason that I know that I love her is that I know that she knows me; she knows me in a deep and fundamental way that extends beyond merely remembering favorite ice cream flavors and sharing musical taste. She understands me in a way that transcends the moment, the thought, the emotion, she understands, who I am, and is no longer bogged down with what I am. This understanding is broader and deeper than simply knowing what angers, scares, frightens, excites, motivates. I know that I love her because I know that she gets ME, even if she doesn’t agree or even care about what I’m saying, reading, or doing. These things are fleeting, but the depth of communication between us has permanence, solidity, strength. And I, in turn, understand her in the same way. While we both maintain the capacity to surprise one another and to grow and change, there is a meeting of our core selves which has bonded irrevocably that remains unaffected by the events of the mundane world. This communication, the unspoken bond, this is love to me.
And so I thought that I had the answer, that love was a depth of communication between two people that ultimately passed deeper than the when, how, and where of everyday existence. I applied this notion to friends, family, even pets, and found that it worked. In each and every case, I can say that the bond of love that I feel stems from an understanding of who a person is rather than a preoccupation with the moment by moment analysis of their actions. I love my Dad not because he drinks Pepsi, but because he understands something about me, and I him, that makes the moment irrelevant to the bond. And so I thought I had something here, until my niece was born.
Let me preface this by saying first and foremost that I don’t particularly like children. I don’t dislike them, usually, but I certainly don’t seek them out or desire one of my own. That being said, I was curious to see how I would respond when my niece was born. Truthfully, I expected to have to fake it, which did not bother me. Not liking children, I have lied my way through enough family and friend gatherings full of rugrats to feel confident in my ability to adequately oooh and ahhh.
Once I held her, the depth and immediacy of my feelings for her startled me. I had not anticipated actually loving this child. Yet here I was, holding this baby, no different than any of the other babies I had held before, and instead of wondering how long was an appropriate time to hold someone’s newborn before it was polite to return it, I felt fiercely protective and totally smitten with the child. I knew then that I was in the grip of something larger and more powerful than I had imagined, my own biology.
Clearly, I was reacting with these feelings of love not out of some fanciful notion that this tiny child and I shared a deep emotional bond borne of some undercurrent of personal connectedness, but because my body was programmed to love this child, and so I did. I had no more choice to love this kid than I did to feel hungry or thirsty. Love, I discovered, is built right in, a drive as primitive and unstoppable as any I had ever encountered. I found myself very thankful.
