The Lover's Paradox

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​Love is big and small at the same time.

I read that in a book once, though the name is far from my memory. The words placed roots in my mind immediately. I have not shaken them since.

There are many things we encounter in life that we do not understand. Some with a specificity, so specific, that it leaves the mind reeling. You are left with an incurable begging to know. Yet, almost involuntarily, you carry these disorienting, or maybe misunderstood, meanings with you. You hold them tight until, one day, you realize why your body has been holding them, all along.

Predictions or prophecies, maybe an intuition guided by pre-written fates- it does not make much of a difference. We hold onto these incomprehensibly sticky things with an iron grip, all the same. Their touch on your being remains nearly unnoticeable as they attach to your insides. They are soft in stature but unbreakable in body. They are paradoxical, and they do not ask for recognition- they demand it. These unclear artifacts sit within and wait to burst out in the moments divinely made just for them. The nagging grows greater as their birthday comes closer. Their cling to your consciousness becomes tighter, minute by minute. Next, this inevitable understanding- your impending moment of epiphany- begins to make itself known. It starts slow, but once the impatience kicks in, there is no stopping its rapid racing to the front of your mind. Finally, their feet make the final step up the self-built staircase, and thus, the moment you were meant to understand, is born. The thing once anticipated has arrived. It now resides in your memory. The wait has ended, and there are no returns on its impacts- wanted or unwanted.

I have had these moments often, and as I grow up, their frequency seems to grow, as well. Sometimes they come out with a raging cry, and other times with a deafening silence that feels endless- but whether it is booming or faint, these first seconds of life instantly stop me in my tracks, all the same. These moments used to bother me, but now they come with a trail of intrigue. As I have aged, I have learned to take these things I cannot seem to put down, despite my little knowledge of their meaning, and assess any hints that might be hidden. They still annoy me, don’t get me wrong, but they no longer drive me mad. I recognize them as the tiny easter eggs they are, placed ever-so-meticulously in your path. Small gifts to give you a glimpse into your future, I would surmise.

To know that love is big and small at the same time is a phrase that my body refuses to release. It is living out its initial stages of codependency and indescribable confusion. I wonder, once its moment has come to pass, what new clue will come to fill its void- but I also wonder if, perhaps, it will never leave. Maybe these hints always remain in their original place- maybe they live inside us forever. Perhaps they become scar tissue, or a newfound freckle on your wrist. Maybe they are made to teach us how to live with a greater aim. Maybe the confusion they once caused becomes an exchange for long-term clarity.

Many of the things I have found history with before such history has occurred are related to love. This leads me to believe that love is an avenue of mine that appears to be a bit more treacherous than others. I suppose love may be one of my life’s greatest confusions. Love may be the thing I will forever need the most help figuring out. Maybe it is love that we all need the most help understanding. Perhaps love is our greatest, universal confusion. To open ourselves up to all of its nuances and facets is both overwhelmingly intuitive and unfairly frustrating. It is an abyss of a feeling. Love is a vortex filled with ideas, beliefs, creations, thoughts and fears- love is all, and it is nothing. It is an umbrella term for so much more- for the vastness that is experiencing existence, and for the immenseness that is experiencing others.

I vividly remember the first set of loving lines that mercilessly meddled with my mind. They live in the book known as Night and Day, by Virginia Woolf. I was seventeen and sad beyond comprehension- at least far beyond the comprehension of a young girl. A loneliness, that I could not name at the time, had me convinced that a life alone was the only life capable of peace. It taught me how to find solace in solitary, but it forced me to believe that it was solitary, alone, that could grant solace. To include others in this small world of mine was unfathomable. I was not raised with hugs to remind me that one could share space with another and remain safe. I was unaware of the beautiful fact that connection could be comforting, and not solely distressing. I did not know that togetherness could be built on a vow of kindness, or a promise of respect. I was not raised to believe that there was both risk and reward, but rather only risk made mistakes. So, for a while, this was my favorite book. Two characters with dichotomous personalities finding connection through solitude. It was a personified paradox. It breathed life into the idea that you can continue to find peace- somehow even greater so- among an other. Though the central theme begins with a belief that being alone is much better than being with others, the pages eventually dissolve into a realization that, with the right people, comfort can continue to be found outside of yourself. This brought me a sense of hope. Maybe I could keep the solace of solitary with another person in the room. My mind wandered into daydreams about this, seemingly untouchable, loving world for years. I found myself answering with, “Definitely Virginia Woolf” when asked who my favorite author was, yet I had never read any other book written by her hand. This particular piece left a stain so great that it was second nature to give her name in the face of this inquiry- and for a long time, staring at those pages felt like staring in a mirror.

“Believe me, Katharine, you'll look back on these days afterwards; you'll remember all the silly things you've said; and you'll find that your life has been built on them. The best of life is built on what we say when we're in love. It isn't nonsense Katherine,' she urged, 'it's the truth, it's the only truth.”

In my freshman year of college, I printed this page and stuck it in a frame. I highlighted the words in pink and put them on the wall right in front of my pillow. These were the lines that involuntarily stitched her book into my heart. Three sentences that hit me in a way far beyond the already impactful depths of the major theme itself. I ached for the reminder daily. I had no real concept of love in these years, or the years before- but, more than anything, I wanted to. I had sorted out, subconsciously, that it was romantic love, and romantic love only, that could fill this void- that could quell this desperate and unbearable desire to sink into the soul of another and find peace. However, my tormented and torn body remained convinced that I could not share my life with another and experience such warmth. I could not let go of the safety that came with believing I was completely content and satisfied by my loneliness. It is comforting, it is familiar, it is secure- but the violent tug-of-war that this contradicting hope and my deeply rooted beliefs played was brutal. The vehement disagreements taking place between monstrous desire and soft-spoken fear was vicious. To this day, I am still not entirely sure what caused every muscle in my body to insatiably crave this sentiment, these lines. It is unbearable at times, the frustration of wanting to understand what love must mean, and how it is you can attain it. It hides behind a locked door that, at times, I am convinced has no key.

The answer remains, and maybe always will, lost on me. I do know, however, that there is a sense of consumption in these lines. A life consumed by love. An existence where all of your best moments are tied up with in this one mysterious, abstract concept. I like to believe that it is love that brings us truth. That it is the things said while we are in love that leaves us in a puddle of honesty- that brings us the cleanest kind of messy salvation there is. When I recall the silliest things I have said, with a wholehearted genuineness, it is only this, often misunderstood feeling, that has been capable of pulling them out.

But love is a weapon just as much as it is a saving-grace.

It is love, and love only, that can make you hear things about your sensitive, most tender points, that you otherwise never would. It is only love that can grant access to the vaults where these vulnerabilities lay. With this power, it is love that has shattered, with ease, a guard in me that I cannot name- that I do not know. In every blissful moment you spend in love, whether with a person or a passion, suddenly there is little standing between your safety and all of its threats. There is no longer a wall that can protect you. All of the silliest, bizarre, beautiful, and wonderful parts you hide will come tumbling out. They emerge in the world unmarked and pure. Their eyes are filled with the innocence of naivety. They will wait to be received. They will hope to be appreciated- and they will wait to be loved. Whether it comes from yourself, or through the understanding of another- they will wait. They will not understand if it does not come. They will not know that some parts of us spend their entire lives waiting. Abandonment does not make sense to them. They will wait, they will hope, they will love- and if it is not returned to them, it is out of love, still, that their hearts will break. The beautiful thing, however, is that you will always have what is needed to give these parts the love they wait for. Let them fall out, and be the one to catch them. Carry them with the care they deserve, and let them love you in return.

When you hide parts of yourself and refuse to let them out, they will hurl themselves with a fury unmatched at the imprisoning walls. They will leave you bruised and battered. Rejection is the fear which keeps you okay with being bruised by these blows, because it is easy to think that there is no pain as unbearable as abandonment- as rejection.

We reject ourselves. We reject others. We reject pursuits, and we reject the choices that could pull us from the pits where we hide our hearts. Rejection is love's greatest foe. It is the mountain that love climbs in an attempt to find freedom.

To love, and to be loved, is to heal.

To express love, and to accept love, is rehabilitating. It is to live. Self-imposed loneliness is no more than rejection personified. One day, I hope to find myself shamelessly, and maybe even recklessly, embracing every awkward, wonderful, and sad moment that comes with indulging in love. There is an overwhelming meaning and purpose that only love can grant us- and I hope to, one day, let that truth consume me entirely.

There is neither a person nor thing that is truly, and completely devoid of love. It is eternally stitched into every crevice, and every being in the world.

Love is freedom, and we would be fools to spend our lives fighting it.

© 2023 Niki Christine. All Rights Reserved.