What is Love?
There I was, innocently scrolling through my Facebook feed,
when a black and white meme
I’m slightly embarrassed to admit my academic brain jumped
in before my romantic nature could yawn itself into coherence. I started pondering
chemicals that produce a flush of affection and mimic addiction. Something a little like this head-over-heels-romantic ditty.
Yeah, nerds got game.
I actually kind of tackled this topic in my Sociology of
Family class a few weeks ago, when we discussed the social nature of intimacy. According
to sociologists Hammond, Cheney, and Pearsey, a truly reciprocal love emerges
from mutual
vulnerability. Only when a couple (romantic or not) develops trust through
mutual disclosure, vulnerability, and support, our sociologists say, can love blossom.
And everyone’s favorite psychologist, Maslow, posits we love
others according to how much they fill the psychological gaps left from our
childhood. In other words, our love partners are the concrete that smooths over
our emotional potholes. This gives the classic line from Jerry Maguire – “You complete me” – a whole new meaning.
By then, of course, my romantic self had awakened with its
trademark dewy sigh. Surely I should write something about the brush of fingers
through hair, about the comfort and safety of burying your face in your partner’s
shoulder, about the feel of their breath in your mouth, about how meeting
someone you love allows not for a merger of two into one but an expansion of each
into a bigger, better, more rounded version of self.
But, you know, I am me, both nerdy academic and starry-eyed romantic. In the end, I wrote
something true to who I am:
For me, love is valuing the well-being of the other, feeling affectionately for them, and being willing to act in their best interest. Love to me is the abstract term for the concrete enactment of compassion, empathy, and kindness. I love my students, my family, my spouse, my furkids, my coworkers. Loving almost seems to flow naturally from social interaction. Liking, though? Liking is way tougher.
In my latest, as yet unnamed, novel, my two love interests,
Marin and Jack, have a conversation that perfectly reflects this philosophy:
“Marin, you love everyone,” Jack pointed out.
Marin nodded. Once she’d swallowed, she said, “I love
humanity. I love people. But if you’re asking me if I’d have sex or build a
relationship with just anyone, no, I wouldn’t. I love everyone, no matter their
actions. I hurt for them and celebrate them. But I don’t want a romantic
relationship with everyone, or just anyone. I have to like them, too. Love is
easy; liking takes work and time.”
Jack glanced across the room at Kaitlyn before meeting
Marin’s eyes. “I like you,” Jack said quietly.
Marin’s smile outshone the brightest Arizona afternoon.
“I like you, too, Jack.”
How do you define love?
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