I have heard researchers describe love as a state similar to insanity, makes sense to me. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
This and that I had thought that pertained to being "in love", or, essentially, becoming possessed by lust. • • • I squeezed and slipped my wet way out Into a world that was too damn cold. My pushing mother had no doubt That the child would be something to behold. And all the church bells rang. And all the angels sang. And I thought I should feel safe, But I was always watching, always— Yeah, and I can't slow down; Watch the seasons roll. Yeah, angels, Why don't you save us— Devils why don't you take us— Save us from ourselves? Take us from ourselves? Save us from ourselves? I know that I should feel safe. (I'm always watching.) I know that I should feel safe. (I'm always watching.) I know that I should feel safe. (I'm always watching.) I know that I should feel safe. (Floater, "The Watching Song") Love itself is an acute state of trust. We might watch some rude pornography; rot our brains for a couple weeks watching crime dramas on television; join the women for a suspenseful chick flick (Julia Roberts in Sleeping With the Enemy, maybe). And then, when we curl up in bed at night beside our partners, we might realize how lucky we are that they aren't lying there, stiff with fear, wondering when we're going to cut their throat, or rape their ass into bloody mush, or otherwise cause them harm. And yes, it's primal. And yes, it's Freudian. Which means yes, it has to do with mothers, or something like that. Try this: When I was six, I came down with this horrible croup. I don't remember much of it, but I do remember one late night when my mother came to get me out of bed, poured some cough syrup down my throat, and then sat in the old rocker and held me until I fell asleep. What I remember is warmth, enclosure, moonlight through the plate glass window, and the sound of the old rocker creaking with the motion. And it was the ... safest ... I have ever felt in all my life. Almost everyone, save the most neglected and abused among us, has a memory either conscious or subconscious, of feeling that safe. And that's all any of us really want. It is the only real escape, the only genuine refuge we have from the conflict between our primal organism and the demands of society. We find scraps of this feeling everywhere, and invest much in them. The varying degrees of love we give our friends, mothers, and partners all reflect the contribution we perceive them offering toward that refuge. My mother remembers that long-ago night. Strangely, my father has some recollection of it, too. And when my daughter was maybe two years old, my dad and I had an occasion to talk about parenting. He told me I was doing just fine as a father, and all that encouraging stuff. And as we talked about parenthood, I recalled that night, and the power of that sensation that persists through the years. My father said the most amazing thing: He envied me. Watching me with my daughter, he thought I somehow understood something he failed to grasp when I was young. But what that something was? I want my daughter to feel that safe. Always. It's an impossible mission, of course, but there is little, if anything, as powerful in the human experience as knowing, understanding, and truly feeling that you are loved. In the presence of that overwhelming trust, the Universe isn't so frightening and taxing. Everyone deserves to feel that safe. And for that relief, we would give anything, including our sanity. By now I have learned There's only hope for me if she says so. And when all my bridges burn, She'll finally be the only road I know. Oh, she understands The little ways I twist and cough; That's the way she learned the price Of living with the safety off. By now the whole of her life Has been traded like a pawn; That's why she knows the price Of living with the safety on. So we tumble through the night. We know we just might Make it to the day— Make it through the day In safety, in safety, in safety, in safety. Don't cry. No don't cry. There's always something new for us to try. And come the night, by firelight, We'll tear away the cobwebs from our eyes. (Floater, "Safety")
