What is love?  It’s an emotion we each define for ourselves, but I especially like the definition I discovered years ago from the German philosopher Rainer Maria Rilke in his “Letters to a Young Poet,” which I’ve interpreted to mean:

“Love consists in this — it is when two solitudes know, and touch, and protect each other.”

“Two solitudes.”  That’s not the whale swallowing up Jonah. It’s about maintaining our individuality, and keeping respectful boundaries, without the need to possess one another.  We love our children. Perhaps our greatest gift to them is when we recognize them as solitudes (adults), bestow upon them our trust, and wish them well. I still remember my tears when my eldest, waving goodbye, boarded an airplane taking her across the country to college.

“know” — that means to know and trust on a deep, meaningful level. When one of my sons, an outdoorsman, asked me to help him select a sports jacket for an interview, he admitted, “Dad, I don’t know anything about business attire.”  Of course, if I were stranded in the wilderness, there is no one I would trust more than my son to help me survive.

“touch” — physically?  Of course. From the time we are infants we crave physical touch, the desire to be held close to another human. And then, there is the intimate touch between lovers that connects us physically across the abyss of our solitude. There’s also the caring touch between friends, a warm hug shared in greeting, or in saying goodbye, or to provide comfort.

“and protect” — that’s fairly easy to define, if not to do. To me, Daveen and I have protected each other, looking out for one another’s best interest, for almost half a century. That does not imply that we don’t have many differing points of view, or that the road has been as smooth as an Interstate highway.  There have been many bumps and detours, primarily mine, and, as for every one of us, our future is shrouded in mist. But each of us has been there “to protect” the other and, in the words of Robert Frost (misapplied but pertinent), “that has made all the difference.”

Love. Worth thinking about. Worth searching for. Well worth nurturing.

Alan

When my daughter Jill, now over 60, was four, she asked, “Why are we here?”

Then, without missing a beat, she answered her own question, “To use the earth.”

Hmmmm. “To use the earth.” A four-year-old says it, and suddenly philosophers should all just go home.

It’s funny, of course—but it’s also oddly profound. Children sometimes answer with a kind of brutal simplicity that adults spend decades complicating.

Depending on how you hear it, her answer can mean at least three different things:

1. The innocent version

We’re here to make use of what’s been given:

the world,

our abilities,

our time,

our relationships,

our opportunities.

Not waste them. Not drift past them. Use them.

2. The practical version

A four-year-old may simply have meant: “We’re here to do things.”

To build, play, grow, try, fall, learn, help, make dinner, plant a garden, tell a joke, fix a leak, hug somebody, write a book, run a business, raise a child.

In that sense, purpose is not abstract at all.  It’s participation.

3. The cautionary version

Of course, adults hear a shadow in it too.

If we are here merely to use the earth, we may end up using it up.

So maybe the grown-up revision is:

We are here to use the earth well—gratefully, creatively, and responsibly.

Or even:

Not to exploit the earth, but to steward it.

What I especially love is that her answer skips all the grandiosity.

No thunderbolts. No cosmic manifesto.  Just: Here’s a world. Do something with it.

That may be closer to the truth than many solemn speeches.

It reminds me of a broader possibility:

We are here not only to ask what life means, but to put life to use.

To use our:

minds for thought,

hearts for love,

hands for service,

voice for truth,

time for what matters.

That’s a pretty sturdy philosophy.

And there’s something else charming about it:
children often confuse “purpose” with “function,” and maybe adults should do that a little more often.

A chair is for sitting.
A spoon is for soup.
A person is for… what?

Maybe:

for noticing,

for loving,

for making,

for helping,

for delighting,

for lifting some tiny corner of existence.

In other words: to use the earth and not waste your turn on it.

That’s a line worth remembering

I have, for more than fifty years.

Alan

What possible connection could there be between blood and the iconic story of the three bears?

Thanks for asking.

As everyone probably already knows, in the tale of the three bears (according to Goldilocks), one bowl of porridge was too hot, one too cold, and the third “just right.” By analogy, that is like what I’m currently dealing with in my life. Just substitute the word “blood” for “porridge”.

Fewer than two months ago I had a TIA — that’s quick speak for a minor stroke, caused by a blood clot. If you want the full scientific name, a TIA is a Transient Ischemic Attack – a stroke that resolves on its own without any lasting damage. But it serves as an early warning for a more serious stroke, and preventative measures should be taken.

So, both immediately and long-term:

If my blood is too thick — another, possibly more serious, stroke.

If my blood is too thin — lots of nose or other bleeds.

So, like Goldilocks, I need the porridge of my blood to be “just right” every single day for the rest of my (long) life.

To achieve that result, my attentive doctors have prescribed two different blood thinners. Why take chances? I’m told that each medication works differently. Sometimes, I wish I were a doctor myself. My parents pushed for that, often, and I declined just as often. I told them — repeatedly — that I faint at the sight of blood. Especially my own.

But I’m older now, so I probably won’t faint, provided my veins and arteries are coursing with sufficient blood.

Fortunately, today when I have a medical question I can call one of my sons, or his wife, who are both doctors. Although their usual advice is to “check with my own doctor.” (When I say that I would like a second opinion. They respond, “And you’re handsome too.”)

I’m not complaining, just stating the facts.

There must be wisdom hidden in the above. I’ll try to sum it up.

1. Don’t get old. It’s a mistake.
2. I’m still glad I’m not a doctor. They deal with other people’s blood.
3. The life of a bear is much simpler than that of an 86-year-old man who is plans to remain active for many, many years.

Growl.

Alan