Some things I've learned about love

I’d been loving my wife, Bobbi, for nearly 50 years when I originally wrote this, my daughters a few years less. Add friends, sons-by-marriage, and a few grandchildren, and I’ve been getting lots of practice. And I’ve learned a thing or two.

Love is a choice.

Some people believe that love is something that happens to you. Indeed, that’s true for babies; they are hard-wired to love any human being that they see regularly and who treats them nicely. Also puppies.

But adults have a choice. You may not be able to choose whom you are attracted to or who you lust after; love is a choice only once you grow a rational brain. Since I was in my teens, love has been a conscious choice, and I thought about what love meant.

And love continues to be a choice. And I’ve gotten better at choosing.

I love Bobbi. When I first started to love her, biology gave me a boost. She was a beautiful woman when I first met her, and she is a beautiful woman still. That might have been part of why I chose to love her back then, but it’s not why I continue to choose to love her.

I could say that I love her because she is one of the most thoughtful, considerate people I know. That’s true, but it’s not why. Or because she’s intelligent--which she is. But that’s not why. It’s not because she’s a hard worker, though that’s also true. Or because she takes good care of me--which she does. Or because she is the one person that I am sure will always be there when needed. That is true and highly valued, but that’s not it. Or because she’s reliable--which she is--and I am not. Nope. And not because she’s been a great mom and a fantastic role model for our daughters--which she was and is. Or because she’s an accomplished poet and writer; also true.

These facts influenced my continuing decision, but I realized that I didn’t need those reasons some years ago. I loved her because I chose to love her. So I stopped worrying about reasons and concentrated on loving. Reasons change. Love endures. I’ve decided to love her over and over again. And as far as I can predict, I’ll keep choosing her.

Likewise, my kids. People expect you to love your kids because they’re your kids. And there’s a lot of biology and social approval that pushes you in that direction. But by the time we had our first kid, I knew I would not be one of those parents who loved their kids just because they were their kids; I would choose. Fortunately, my kids made it an easy choice. They are awesome.

Love is a gift.

Love is also a gift. Once you choose to give your love, you don’t expect something in return. Not even love returned. Otherwise, it’s not a gift but a transaction.

That’s important to remember when loving teenagers. You love them, and sometimes you get nothing in return. Sometimes what you get is worse than nothing.

Nonetheless, I decided to love them and learned to keep giving.

Each of our three daughters got an initial birthday gift of love: undeserved, but by choice. I continued to love them as they grew from being cute babies (what’s not to love!) through troublesome teens (loving them was hard sometimes) to hard-working, talented, ethical, and thoroughly admirable women (loving them is now effortless.)

My love is a gift, and I don’t give gifts to people who don’t deserve them. My love is valuable and not because of the law of supply and demand. Market economics don’t work here (and many other places.)

So I don’t love the undeserving. Giving love to the undeserving devalues it.

But in the end, it’s a gift.

Love is a verb.

About twenty years ago, I read a book by Steven Covey (author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People) that stuck with me. Here’s the story he tells of a man, an attendee at one of his seminars, looking for advice on his marriage.

“...my wife and I just don’t have the same feelings for each other that we used to have, [says the man] I guess I don’t love her anymore, and she doesn’t love me. What can I do?”
“The feeling isn’t there?” I [Covey] inquired.
“That’s right, he reaffirmed. “And we have three children we’re really concerned about. What do you suggest?”
“Love her,” I replied.
“I told you, the feeling just isn’t there anymore.”
“Love her.”
“You don’t understand. The feeling of love isn’t there anymore.”
“Then love her. If the feeling isn’t there, that’s a good reason to love her.”
“But how do you love when you don’t love?”
“My friend, love is a verb. Love--the feeling--is the fruit of love the verb. So love her.”

Love is a verb. It’s something you do. It’s something that you can choose to do or not.

More than once, when I didn’t feel the love that I once felt, I remembered Covey’s story. And I did some more loving.

My reward then was that loving feeling. My reward now is the life I’ve got.

Do the work of loving, and you’ll get your reward.

Love takes work.

Because love is something that you do, it takes work. Sometimes it’s easy work. Sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes it’s almost effortless. But sometimes, it’s hard. And sometimes it’s really hard.

But easy or hard, it’s always some amount of work.

Work takes energy. You’ve only got so much energy, and everything you do takes some amount of it. So if you’re burning a lot of energy on your job or a little bit of energy on other activities, even pleasurable ones, you’ve got that much less energy available for loving.

(Hint: if your other activity burns energy but reinforces love, it’s a great two-for-one deal. That’s a good justification for kissing, cuddling, or sex--if you’re both inclined and it’s appropriate.)

Conflicts are energy burners, so loving in the face of conflicts is much harder than loving when things are aligned. Stress is an energy burner, too. It’s harder to love when you’re stressed, even if the stress has nothing to do with the person you love.

Babies make things worse for loving others. Babies are energy sinks and stress factories. They take time and attention. They deny you sleep. You worry about them. And when loving them takes work, it reduces the energy available for loving your partner.

And they promote new conflicts. You have ideas on how to raise a baby. Your partner has different, incompatible ideas. If you both feel strongly, you argue. That takes energy, and there’s that much less available for loving.

I learned that the times when I felt least loving--toward my wife or one of my kids--were the times that I needed to work hardest.

I chose to do the work.

And the life that I have today is my reward.

Loving is a skill.

Because love is something you do, you can do it well or poorly. It’s a skill, And as with any other skill: the more you practice, with deliberate intention, the better you can get.

Casual loving can help, just as mindless practice can help. But deliberate, conscious, knowing practice is the best.

Writing this essay, I realized that loving the same woman for nearly fifty years, and working at it, has made me much better at loving her than I was our love was first blooming.

And love is a transferable skill. So the better you get at loving one person or a group of people, the better you get at loving others.

Deliberate practice is essential. Some people go through the motions. Then they get divorced. Going through the motions won’t get you where you can go if you put your mind and heart to it.

Practice helps you do more and also helps you know more. As a result, you do things better and know better what you’re doing. That can help when you are in unfamiliar territory. And it can help you transfer your knowledge so that others can love better.