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I sit with my morning coffee, ensconced at a wooden table in an apartment on the beach of Aguada in Puerto Rico on the Atlantic in the western hemisphere of Planet Earth, and I marvel at our amazing world. Waves are crashing on the reef outside our open glass doors, and there are actually birds here. Tons of them: oyster catchers, pelicans, terns, and even night birds that sing us to sleep (or keep us awake, as the case may be).
My son Ross moved here six years ago, and this is my second visit. We see little of each other, and we’re terrible communicators, but my love for this intense, driven, athletic young man has never waned. Oh, he has his flaws, as we all do, but it fills my heart to have this time with him, to experience his world.
I guess it’s about being a mom.
One cool Friday evening I stood on the sidelines with Collette, watching our younger sons play football. She mentioned that her older son’s girlfriend was frustrated with him and had come to Collette for sympathy. Instead of commiserating, Collette had looked at her and said, “Jesse’s my son, and I love him. That’s my job.”
That’s my job, too, and it comes easy. Before Ross was born, I was petrified that I could never love another child as much as I loved my first son, Dustin. Though I desperately wanted a girl, once Ross was born a miracle transpired. He was exactly what I wanted, and I loved him more than life. Amazing. I still do.
What is this thing, love? Where does it come from? How do we manage it?
I spent some time devouring The Art of Loving, by Erich Fromm, during my senior year at Hopkins High. My math teacher teased me about it, probably assuming it was a sex manual. (Unbeknownst to him, I would be a virgin for years to come.) It was actually a psychoanalyst’s exploration of the many facets of love, from brotherly to romantic to spiritual and beyond. Fromm coined the phrase “unconditional love,” the kind of love we have for others in spite of who or what they are.
When my niece Laura came from Australia to live with me for a year, she was astounded at the love my father had for her, though he’d only seen her as an infant. Yup. Unconditional love, and Dad did it well. Mom said it was because he’d been raised as a Christian Scientist, but I think it was more about who he was and his capacity for love. Unconditional love is when we love people no matter what they do or say. No strings, no rules, no limits. Could such a thing possibly ever be universal?
Dr. Elisabeth Kubler Ross said, “If we make our goal to live a life of compassion and unconditional love, then the world will indeed become a garden where all kinds of flowers can bloom and grow.”
Victor Hugo expressed a similar sentiment: “The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.”
Of course, there are those who disagree that unconditional love could be a reality. Maybe it’s a goal to seek, or maybe it’s just another type of love. In any case, it might behoove us all to care more about each other. Maybe tolerance and acceptance is enough.
Henry Miller said, ”The only thing we never get enough of is love; and the only thing we never give enough of is love.”
So, I fly to Puerto Rico.
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