Monday, September 10, 2012

"Unspeakable love," a thought

I've been developing a set of related essays these last few weeks, none of which I am prepared to share -- it all requires considerable work to even become presentable. Here, however, is a complete thought that came out of me all at once today -- poured out in a matter of moments without much thought. Most of my other writings are jazzlike connections of chaotic elements, and cross-pollinations from disparate fields. They require more attention and editing to bring to light.





Unspeakable Love


                What is thinkable is communicable, but what is communicable before it is understood and comprehended may expose us to vulnerability. Thus the truths we are most able to think about are those most within our control. The mind knows much more than the I thinks, however, and for the sake of pride, or the ego's faith in itself, lacking which the system is thrown into discouragement -- loss of courage or ego self-trust -- and hence despair and depression, or the pulling of energy from where its use could be dangerous. We are unconsciously omniscient, but consciously nascent in our education.

                What a person means to us -- how the idea of them and the interactions of them function in our experience, self-balance, and growth -- is not known, though it is always felt, at least in part, so that when that person is unexpectedly taken from us, by their choice or by death or some other surprise, we are shocked at what they really mean to us -- as in the melancholy saying "You never know what you got till it's gone." To explore this lead in terms of love and romance, a man may surprise himself when the girl he fancied he was just patronizing, though he in fact secretly thought poorly of her, upon her absence exposes herself to be somebody he not only respected, but feared her rejection. We often admire our enemies much more than we are able to know at the time, and not a few artists blossomed only after the death of his father, though this connection passed unnoticed to all save a later biographer.

                In this last case, the artist never knew what his father meant to him, and this is partly the case for every person in our lives. We don't know, we can't know, we'll never know. We know a bit, and that's enough. When the scholar kept in contact with a simple-minded student of profound and credulous religious convictions, he always laughed to himself at her good-natured folly. The day he discovered that she had lost faith in herself and in the world ruined the professor, who didn't know how much he needed her to believe for him. The destruction of the beautiful ones destroys the courage of us all.

                Along these lines, we can't know how deathly important we ourselves are to an array of people, to the world itself. Our sense of proportion and modesty blind us to what eternal verities and divinities of love we've become for onlookers. Even if they knew what you meant to them, they couldn't say it, because you couldn't accept it or even comprehend their claims. The self-deception involved in such assessments can't count as an objection, being necessary, and only a psychotherapist would want to destroy the defenses our mind evolved and developed for the best of reasons. The mind sees what it is ready to see, and has neither ears nor eyes what it is not ripe to receive. We never know how much we are loved, and for the sensitive among us, it seems as if we are never loved enough.



\ ~@M@~ /