It’s a funny little thing, love.
Or so it seems. There’s a poem, you see, floating around the void about Love and Motherhood. How love for one’s children isn’t just about how one talks about their child, or the hugs and kisses they post pictures of on their various accounts. But that it’s also about what others don’t see. The moments they hold the child at night. The kisses that are invisible.
…but it’s not just that it’s not only about that…
…that’s ALL it’s about.
Love is never about what we share to the world. That is a reflection of our love, not the Love itself (assuming, of course, we are not flatly lying). It is not Love. Or at least not what the recipient of our love sees as Love.
Love isn’t that perfect photo at sunset, over the cliff edge. Perfectly poised and coordinated. No, it’s the hours and hours spent planning the trip. The silly little jokes told in the car ride on the way to the destination. The words told that say, Hey you’re okay, when emotions get a bit out of hand. It’s the reassuring glance over your shoulder and the stuck out tongue that makes them laugh. But you never do manage to get a picture of those moments, do you?
God, I can’t tell you how many moments I’ve lost!
Where I could feel the Love spilling over, and of course I never had my camera ready! It wouldn’t have worked, anyway. A camera would have ruined the moment, or distracted the conversation. It would have become about the picture, not them and me.
Which is all well and good sometimes. The other day, I wandered a botanical garden with the oldest, and, yes, I took photos. It wasn’t only about the photos, but we were taking all these pictures of the flowers, and, well, I snapped a few of us. Why not?
I have this selfie the youngest munchkin took of me and her. I swear, I’ve never looked so good in a selfie before or since. It wasn’t very planned, but still– it wasn’t like that moment today where I asked her to please load the dishwasher and she just did it. It wasn’t anything you really could capture in an image, anyway. And she would have thought me weird for doing it, and probably been less likely to help out next time. It would have lessened the Love in that moment.
I talk about my Loved ones, because I can’t help it. And because I like to do so.
But that doesn’t make them feel loved. I do that, because it reminds me that I am loved. What makes them feel loved? Everything that I don’t talk about. Because they, and so many others, are used to people that talk the talk, but don’t walk the walk. That Love them only insofar as it makes the person look good.
Most of us have dealt with that kind of so-called love.
I won’t stop sharing Love.
Stop taking pictures or going on and on about my incredibly awesome people.
But I know that the Love they’ll feel will come from moments that nobody else will ever see or even know about.
And that means more than absolutely anything.