The Meaning of Love

Aren’t you also a bit fed up with the word Love? It’s a bit like one of those things Bukowski famously said: that it’s only important when you don’t have it.

I said it to someone recently and they also said it back. But I couldn’t help questioning (before, during and after!) what I really meant by it...

Let me try and answer my own question first of all, before you (reader) or anyone else gets there first.

Here it goes - I love you actually means (potentially) one, or all, of the following:

I am afraid to lose you

I really like you and don’t like the idea of you liking someone else

I admire you / I adore you / I want to be just like you

I am grateful to have had you in my life so far

I am starting to really understand you

I love the idea of what our relationship might eventually become

I want to have children with you

I want to have sex with you as soon as possible

The list could go on forever, but I’ll save you from the boredom!

My conclusion, however, put simply is that Love probably means something different to each person every time. As reality changes, our use of words, and of our relationships adjusts accordingly. You lose your job – you need your partner more than ever. You get a promotion – other opportunities for love, fame, excitement suddenly emerge. Your girlfriend kisses another man – love becomes jealousy, anger, sadness.

Unconditional Love, however, if such a thing even exists surely has no need for words. It’s the old folks sat silently at the dinner table enjoying their food. It’s the dog in the corner of the room, accepting what she’s given. It’s the way trees, plants, human beings, slowly wither and die.

Acceptance, much like truly unconditional love, is mostly rather neutral. You say the words, they feel great, you smile, but you keep sipping your tea and reading the newspaper. There are no explosions in the realm of true love, only soft sweet silences and the occasional orgasm at Christmas. Okay, that one was a joke, but you get what I mean by now I hope.

What a strange existence that would be, though, to dwell in such a place. To bathe in unconditional love; to hold the hand of your partner not loosely but not too tightly either; to know and appreciate their various smells, habits, emotions, likes and dislikes; to notice their wrinkles, grey hairs, shrinking frame.

I’m not sure if we choose it even. It seems to just happen to most of us, after all. Even those that die apparently alone find their own true loves – technological, imaginary or otherwise.

There are no winners in this Game of Life. We all lose in the end. The joy is in making it comfortable, warm, holy. Or at least in learning how to do so.

I Love You really means I Love myself. So it’s always innocent, actually, deep down. It’s frightening to exist at times, and even more to be recognised and appreciated exactly for who you are. Yet we cannot help but open the windows and let the light inside. Every street corner, every book shop, every forest, every cafe, greets you unconditionally with open arms. It needn’t be a big deal, but somehow it is.

I shed a tear even as I write about it. The magnificence of Love – that most overly used word of all. Then I take a shower and get on with my day; because that’s all she wants from me. Nothing more, nothing less... and not even at Christmas.

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