Days 162-164.

How is it that we suddenly know or recognize the love of another human once we have our own shit figured out? Ah. This is a hard one. This might be the hardest bit. And yet, if you might remember, I didn’t hesitate before I told my nephew that I knew, that I know, he loves me. How could I do that?

Well, let’s revisit and rewind a bit. I know what love means to me and for me. This changes but at its core, I get it. I struggle with myself but I love enough of myself to admit that I am lovable. Can be. I am also not scared to do the work to separate out all the other things that look like love. All the things that appear as love, but is just other shit dressing up as it, for a moment.

My adoration for Miles Alexander is not just because he is my nephew and was produced by my sister whom I adore (and struggle with, but mostly adore). My love comes from a place deep within me. I love that he is inquisitive and bright. I love that he makes up terrible knock-knock jokes but is finally able to nail the timing on a joke that someone else wrote. I love that he is a voracious reader and likes to help prepare meals. I love his bright red hair and crystal clear blue eyes. I love that he farts unapologetically and can hit a baseball no matter how terribly I throw it across the yard. I love that he is little like certain members of my family but he doesn’t seem to know it or care (not now, hopefully not ever).

You know what I love the most? My sister called me and told me that Miles was invited to a very small birthday get together at one of his friend’s houses. When she told Miles that this child was having a few friends over for his birthday, Miles expressed that he was disappointed that he was obviously busy that day. Just so I’m clear, Miles thought it was sad that his friend was busy having people over and thus, could not celebrate his birthday with Miles. My sister was giggling and I was too, but then I felt like crying. And then I wanted to drive to Warwick, New York and squeeze the shit out of him. My sister asked me why on earth he would assume straight away that he wasn’t invited to such a thing. I told her that was an easy question for me to answer because, well, he’s just like me.

I would feel that way. I would assume a negative. I would go to that place where I naturally think I am being left out or left behind. I would hope for the best and pre-determine the worst. I do this out of fear and anxiety. I don’t even do this because I’ve had shitty experiences with people, and I certainly have had awful experiences. I do this because I was born this way. Strong but fragile. Untrusting. Wary. Hesitant. It is not assuming the worst in people per se, but the worst in situations. Preparation to grieve before a moment to celebrate.

This probably all sounds nuts to you but that’s likely because you aren’t like US. But he is like me. My nephew. He is delicious but insecure and flawed. I love him so damn much. Not because he is like me. Not because he will experience pain as the world and its people hurt him over and over again. Because he is so precious. Because I get him. Because we are connected in that way. Because a little teeny part of me lives in a teeny part of him.

Someone posted this quote the other day: “There are pieces of you in all the things you have loved. This is how we live forever– Blake Auden.” I nearly fainted when I read this because I thought oh yes. That’s the stuff right there. There are pieces of us that exist in the things we love before we love them, and then during and then after.

I know my nephew loves me. Not because I love him. Because he feels the same connection that I feel to him. It is different. It is young and unknowing. It is mostly unrealized. But it lives there, within him. One sensitive soul knowing another. I know he loves me because he doesn’t know all the things he would need to know to not love me. I know that feels difficult to read, but it’s true. It is easier to know love that is so new because of its newness. Because of its ignorance. I know he loves me because he is too little just yet to cover his feelings, to hide them, to belittle them. Not because there are no children at his age who do so, but just because he is not that child. He is the child that still holds that wonder. Still gives gushy hugs. Still asks me not to leave when I visit. Still doesn’t understand the mechanics of all the things that separate us.

I know all of this. I also know that he will continue to love me. I know that love will be challenged by so many things. Things I do. Things he does. The life he leads. The world around him. Stories from others. Every single thing will change him, but I know it will not destroy that love. It will change it. And because I love him so damn much, I will do the work to ride that wave. I will ride the wave of embarrassment when he is a teenager and separation when he has a significant other. I will struggle through all the things in life that challenge love because I am that sure that he loves me and I am that sure that I will always love him.

That sureness doesn’t come from anything other than the purest, most uninfluenced part of me. That’s just it. Love is what you know. What you feel. How you feel. It is what changes you and inspires you. It is something that you can speak about but not really articulate. When you question whether someone loves you, either you need to fix something broken in you or they don’t love you. I know that feels like shit, me dropping that bit on you, but it’s from a long standing tradition about me wondering if I am loved. How much? Maybe we don’t’ ever truly know this. But just love. As it is. As it stands. We are built to know this. Sometimes we are programmed to not, but the deepest parts of us fight back against that. It is instinct. Like eating and breathing. If you don’t think someone loves you, either you don’t love yourself or they don’t love you. Either way, do something about it.

With love (and wishes for a good weekend).

L.