It’s a funny little thing, love.
Or so it seems. There’s a poem, I saw once, floating in 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. Is it lovely? Often. Is it the love itself? If it is, it probably isn’t one that looks perfect. The picture perfect photos we share? That is a reflection of our love, not the Love itself (assuming, of course, we are not flatly lying). Or at least not what the recipient of our love sees as Love.
Love isn’t the perfectly arranged photo at sunset, over the cliff edge. 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. It’s the reassuring glance over your shoulder and the stuck out tongue that makes them laugh. All the moments you think, yeesh, why didn’t I have a camera now?
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 doesn’t mean I never take the photos. 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?
Or the selfie I took of the youngest munchkin took of me and her. She helped. I swear, I’ve never looked so good in a selfie before or since. It wasn’t terribly planned, but it wasn’t close to that moment today where I asked her to please load the dishwasher and she just did it. Those moments are always missed. Plus she would have thought me weird for snapping a picture right then. It would have lessened the Love in that moment. Worse, she might have been less willing to help next time.
I talk about my Loved ones, because I can’t help it. And because I like to do so.
But as much as I love how it makes me feel; it doesn’t make them feel loved. I do that for me, not them. Which is okay, just…something different. 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 is the kind they’ve seen before. It’s all Instagram worthy photos and Facebook statuses. It looks great, but it doesn’t feel very good.
Most of us have dealt with that kind of so-called love.
I won’t stop sharing Love.
Nor stop taking pictures or going on and on about my incredibly awesome people. I’ll happily share the best moments of my life and theirs (okay, when I remember).
I’ll forgive myself when I forgot to post The picture. I know that the Love they’ll feel will come from moments that nobody else will ever see or even know about.
That means more than absolutely anything.