Love = Effective Willing

I don’t know about you, but St. Thomas Aquinas isn’t the first historical figure (or saint, for that matter) who comes to mind on Valentine’s Day. Or he wasn’t. But he may well be in future years.  And all because my niece, Myka, posted the video (below) by an oddly compelling priest and professor, Father Michael Himes, which elucidates the great Scholastic’s definition of love.

So, in case you skipped the video, or didn’t watch the whole thing, here’s a brief recap: Aquinas defined love as the “effective willing of the good of the other.” Therefore, love is not an emotion or feeling, something that happens to us. Instead, it is a choice, an act of will – something we do. I’ve heard this much before, but Fr. Himes goes on to say that love is not simply a choice, or mere benevolence. Love is more than wanting the best for the beloved and hoping they get it. “Love is no less than acting to make that ‘best’ real for the beloved.”

Wow, talk about setting the bar high! Thanks, Aquinas. After watching the video, I spent a great deal of time thinking about the people in my life I say I love…and wondering if what they receive from me is the effective willing of their good.

The sticky wicket I kept rubbing up against was the word “effective”.

I think I can “will” the good of those I love with the best of them. I will for my friends to discover and achieve their heart’s desire. I will my family to achieve and maintain their optimal health. These are good things that I will for my loved ones. But how am I to effectively bring them about?

And that’s when it occurred to me that Thomas Aquinas was a theologian and philosopher. He dealt with the realm of ideas and lofty concepts. This doesn’t mean that what he says, such as his definition of love, can be ignored as too high-brow for the more pedestrian among us. It just means that we need to translate it down into language and experience that is human-sized. Fr. Himes waxes eloquent as he “unpacks” Aquinas for us. But even he is a college professor, a man at home in the cerebral realm. On the daily-living-of-our-puny-human-lives level, both are kind of silent.

So, here are three ideas, guaranteed to be “unlofty”. They might be effective if practiced with intent. (I don’t really know, for sure. They are based on things my loved ones do for me that have worked. My practice of them has been spotty.)

Tell those you love the truth..

…but with loving kindness. We need to have people in our lives who tell us the truth. However, it isn’t very effective when shared in a brutal manner. When I haven’t taken the time to think about the fact I love the other person, my attempts at honesty are brutal – and then I justify the harshness by calling it “the truth”. Folks, brutal is brutal. Honesty can be approached with generosity of spirit. My friend, Molly, has a gift for this. She’s a straight-shooter, but she is also incredibly kind. She can tell me that my thinking is completely screwed up, yet I leave the conversation feeling supported and loved.

Actually think about the other person…

…instead of thinking about yourself. This sounds easy, and I’m the first one to justify thoughtlessness with, “I was only thinking about you”. In reality, most times throughout my hectic days, I am busy thinking about myself. The people I love come in second to that. Not because I don’t care, but because I am wrapped up in what I need to get done, what my deadlines (self-imposed or otherwise) are, etc. I fail to carve out moments to stop, focus on the other, and allow my brain to shift gears. My friend, Colette does this really well. She’s incredibly busy, yet when you are with her, her attention is laser-focused on you. I’m not going to lie, it can be disconcerting because it is so not the norm in my experience. But I always leave time with Colette feeling more sharply focused myself.

Offer both words and tokens of love…

…and don’t be stingy with them. I’ve learned over the past three years just how important this one is. I’ve learned this from my family (my Dad’s messages of “Way to go, Jen!”, my cousin Stephanie cheering me on daily). I’ve learned this from the amazing women with whom I work who check in with me, who don’t just go through the motions of polite interaction, but who have been there for me on good days and bad. And I’ve learned it from my closest friends – from the guys at coffee reassuring me that the colonoscopy I’m scheduled for will be easy-peasy to Wendy showing up with tea roses on Valentine’s Day; from Sara always remembering my minor life events and calling to ask to Sue who has stuck with me for nearly 30 years. Be profligate with these words and tokens: most of us don’t hear them enough. When we do, we grow and we shine with it. And we take courage from it to step a little outside our comfort zone, because we know we have people who believe in us.

In the end, I believe that effective willing of the good of the other involves helping them to be effective on their own behalf, in their own lives. My experience has been that I am best able to act in my own life with the honesty, loving focus, and generous support of the people who love me. If I can provide those gifts in return, then I think its possible we will all experience what St. Thomas Aquinas was defining: deep, true, love.

Valentine Roses

A few rose-related snapshots, leading you down the meandering path I’ve been following this week:

1. My mother and sister grow roses in their gardens, and over the years have picked up quite a bit of knowledge about them. I, on the other hand, love roses without understanding them at all. The wilder and more old-fashioned, the better. (Unless you plan to send me a bouquet of cut roses – then make them yellow tea roses, if possible – a preference I developed in college which I no longer remember the reason for.)

2. One year, a student organization on our campus was selling singing telegrams for Valentine’s Day. For a dollar, one could select from a group of four or five “love” songs, and the students would go to your friend’s room or office and sing it – along with a spoken message from you, the sender. My friend, Al, sent a telegram to my office: he picked “The Rose” for them to sing. He thought it was the cheesiest option and that I would laugh at it. Instead, I cried. In case you missed it, THEY SANG “THE ROSE” to me ON VALENTINE’S DAY. In my office. Duh. Any self-respecting woman of my generation would have done the same.

3. My maternal grandmother’s name was Rose. And while there aren’t many in my generation named after her, the next generation is a garden of Roses: Atalie Rose, Abi Rose, Aubrey Rose, Zoe Rose. All of them named after a grandmother beloved, but unknown, to them.

So, what led to these meandering thoughts about roses and my grandmother, Rose? One of the “joys” of having what appears to be a genetic predisposition to certain cancers, is the extensive family history taken, then distributed among family  members (in our case, mothers, sisters, cousins – women related via the maternal line). I received a copy of this family history in the mail the other day, from my sister Chris. And I’ve been thinking about all these Roses ever since.

My grandmother, Rose Postel, died in 1965, days after the birth of my sister, Gwen. Gwen, our blue-eyed, blonde-haired beauty – the only one in a family sea of brunettes with dark eyes. Family lore is that Grandma always wanted a blonde grandchild, and that this was the final wish granted in her too-short life. I was four when Grandma died, she was 50.

Maybe there are those among you who think fifty years isn’t that short, as lifetimes go. Rose lived to see her children grown, married, starting families of their own. On the other hand, she only met half of her grandchildren, and the oldest was only five when she passed away. I don’t know what my sister remembers, but I only have one memory of Rose that I am sure is authentic (she is stirring up a batch of peanut butter cookies in her kitchen; they’re my favorite). But I do remember my mom, overwhelmed by her life with six kids, living with her widower father, being alternately sad and angry that her mother wasn’t there. I think I would have liked Rose, my dad says she had a keen eye and a sharp wit. Is it strange to say I miss her, when I barely knew her so long ago?

As I’m sure you’ve deduced, the fact that I turned 50 this year myself impacts my own perspective. I think of all the things I still hope to achieve and experience in my life – no longer the youthful yearning to have a meteoric impact on the planet – rather, the desire to live my own life as fully, as deeply, as possible. And I think of  this garden of young roses – Atalie, Abi, Aubrey, Zoe…and their sisters and cousins. And I want to say to them: “Don’t hold back.” “Don’t let anyone (especially yourself) make you be smaller than you are.” Do. Be. Love. Live. So that at any age, you can say, “I’ve really lived my life.”

Because there are no guarantees. 30, 50, 60 – even if we hit the jackpot and live to 100 – we never know how many years we will have. But we do know we have today. Cancer sucks. But the only way to truly beat it – and/or all the other life-sucking things we might encounter –  is to fully inhabit our lives, each day we are graced enough to wake up to them.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

This photo was sent to me by my friend, Kate G. I thought I would share it with you, as you all know how I have been struggling lately with the attempt to drop below 200 on my own scale. I love this, and know it to be true. So, without further ado, this week’s weigh-in for me is below. Just know, I’m not freaking out!

Reframing

When my sister and I spoke for the first time about her second breast cancer diagnosis, she told me that considering her husband’s cancer, and  hers, there had been just too many times when they had to put their lives – all their plans – on hold in order to deal with a pressing health issue. She said, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be learning from this, but I clearly haven’t learned it. Whatever it is, I need to get it this time, because I’m tired.” I heard her discouragement, couched though it was in self-deprecating sarcasm. My response to her was, “Perhaps you need to turn that around. Maybe you and Dave have learned to do it with such grace that you are asked to do it again to show others how. Maybe you’re not learning, maybe you’re teaching.”

Why is it so much easier to see different possibilities when we look at the lives, issues, concerns of those we love than it is when we look at our own? Reframing is an awesome tool I first learned while a graduate student, and I’ve used it in my work or when assisting friends and family who find themselves stuck. Often, as in the conversation with my sister, the shift in perspective immediately feels “right” – I know I’ve learned so much from watching her and, more important, others have told me they have too. Learning or teaching: I suspect she is doing both. It’s just that it’s easy to lose sight of the active/positive side of the equation when we’re staring straight into the reactive/negative side.

As you all know, I have been fighting to get my weight under 200 pounds. It is both a goal and a deep desire. But for two months now, I’ve been pushing and pushing and my body has been holding on tightly to each pound. The more tightly I grip my resolve (and track every calorie eaten, every calorie burned, turn down evenings out with friends, refuse a beer with my buddies at karaoke) the more tightly my body holds on to the weight. Today, I woke up after a restless night, thinking “It’s Thursday. God, I hope the scale is kind to me this morning.” It wasn’t until I was finished with the obligatory morning trip to the bathroom that I realized something was bothering me. The rings I wear all the time, and which in recent weeks have floated loosely on my fingers in danger of falling off, were cutting into my flesh. I could pry the one off my left hand, but the ring on my right hand wouldn’t budge. Severely. Bloated.

Clearly, I was not going to see a number on the scale that would make me happy.

What am I supposed to learn from this? More to the point, how can I reframe this to see an active/positive side to this frustrating situation? It wasn’t until this morning that I finally understood what my wiser friends have been telling me for weeks – I need to relax. I need to let my body do its thing and stop trying to manhandle it into submission. I need to stop seeing 200 pounds as the fulcrum point – above 200 and I am lacking, failing, still a fat girl; below 200 and I am replete, successful, thin. I need to let it go. (Which, by the way, I need to remember is not the same as letting myself go.)

As I often do in these moments of internal crisis, I looked for comfort from a favorite poet. So, I will end this post by sharing a poem – after nearly 350 posts, I can’t remember if I’ve shared this one before (sorry!). It reminds me that all I really need to do today is…be.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

–Mary Oliver

Flashback Friday – Party Time!

Today we have the much-criticized “hipster” culture. Back then, preceding the “hippie” culture, were the Beatniks. February 1961 my parents and their friends decided to mock Beatnik culture – a creative way to have fun in Iowa in the middle of the most depressing month! My dad is at the left, with the bongos. My mother is looking cool center stage in black beret with cigarette.

Saturday Night in Palo, Iowa

So, I am standing in a small bar in small town Iowa, watching the small crowd rock out to a local guy singing the karaoke version of Snoop Dog’s “Gin and Juice”. Standing next to me is a woman I’ll call Beth (because that’s her name) who is pretty much the exact opposite of me in most ways:

Beth                                                  Me_________________________________

Young                                               Not

Tall                                                    Not

Beautiful                                           Not

Married                                             Not

New Parent                                      Not

Pretty sure we are at opposite ends of other spectrums (spectra?) as well, but these examples will suffice to point out our differences. Despite these differences, though, we are in complete agreement on two things: the men in our group (one of whom is her husband) are among the best guys around and neither of us could ever do what the women on the “dance floor” are doing. And what, exactly, are they doing you ask?

Dancing. Dirty, uninhibited, take no prisoners, body-punishing drunken dancing. While screaming out the words to every song at the top of their lungs. Hugging and high-fiving each other. Challenging each other to shout a duet of “Love Shack” or “Baby Got Back” as soon as they can get their hands on the karaoke mic.

And while Beth and I are in agreement we could never behave that way, it isn’t because we are judging the other women harshly. Rather, we are judging ourselves and finding that we lack the ability to set aside self-judgement long enough to cut loose and just enjoy ourselves. Without regard to what the tall and short women standing by the bar watching us are thinking.

The atmosphere in the bar isn’t conducive to deep conversation, so Beth and I stand side-by-side, mostly silent. And I realize that it is fine with me that I will likely never be one of the dancing queens. But I do find myself wondering what I would choose to do if I could just silence my inner critic for a few brief hours. If I could just realize that the bystanders, like Beth and I, are probably actually thinking about themselves. Here are a few:

  • Wear sloppy clothes in public. My friends Molly, Colette, Wendy: all of them can head out wearing sweats or scrubs, unshowered, no make-up and they just look “natural”. I look hideous.
  • Rollerblade. This one has the element of personal injury folded in with the fear of looking stupid in public.
  • Ask questions in public forums. Of course, this would reveal that I am not all-knowing, and I’m not sure the rest of the world can handle that truth…
  • Take an art class. Really? Even as I write this I realize how supremely silly it is – the whole point of taking the class is that you don’t already know how to do it!

Well, those are probably enough examples to illustrate my point here. Like many other women – even women as unlike me as Beth – I have spent a lifetime being socialized to keep my behavior within certain parameters, and I have internalized those boundaries. Above all, don’t look stupid/slovenly/slutty: the adjectives vary but they are all cut from the same cloth. This is one reason so many women aren’t able to cut loose and fully enjoy themselves (without massive quantities of alcohol to loosen their inhibitions). We watch our own behavior and apply such tough judgements to ourselves.

I’ve heard people say that women are each other’s harshest critics. That hasn’t been my experience. In fact, quite the opposite. I have found that women tend to be fairly generous with one another. The problem is one of projection: if I look at the women in the bar and project myself into their midst, I judge myself very cruelly. With self-censoriousness as the starting point, it colors how I view others, too. When I sneer at a stranger (0r her behavior) I am really “hating on” myself.

I wonder how our lives would shift if we could extend the same generosity of spirit towards ourselves that we do toward others who are trying new things, cutting loose in public, arriving for morning coffee unkempt? I’m pretty sure one of the first outcomes is that we would feel less judged by others, simply by being less judgmental towards ourselves. Definitely something worth trying!

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Someone sent me a photo of a scale, with a person’s feet standing on it. The readout, instead of showing the weight of the person, had a piece of paper over it which said, “This does not define me”. For the record, I couldn’t agree more. What does define me is the level of commitment and hard work I have put into becoming a healthier, more self-aware woman. This only represents one facet of that journey, one part of the complex person I am (that we ALL are!).