The Language of Love

[I wrote this article a few weeks ago, but I've been waiting for the well-timed RwO cartoon to become available before "publishing."]

Liz Augustine, 9 Jan 2005

A few days ago, my friend Tony described a visit from his new boyfriend, Richard. At the end of the visit, Tony had not returned to his house from a long errand, and Richard, concerned that he’d miss his flight, had gone to his cousin’s house to get a ride. Tony and Richard discussed the plans over the phone, so Tony wasn’t surprised when he came home to an empty house. Still, he seemed hurt and confused that Richard hadn’t left a little love note. Did that mean that Richard had a bad time? That something had gone wrong during a visit that Tony described as pleasant and fun? That Richard never wanted to see Tony again? Or possibly that Richard and Tony had grown up speaking different dialects of the language of love?




What is the language of love? It’s those little gestures that we make to let people know we love them. And without thinking about it too hard, we come to expect those same gestures in return. When our other doesn’t reciprocate, we’re disappointed, confused, and feel unloved. “Unloved” is one of the scariest emotions in the world. It often leads to striking out in anger. We also mask it by becoming defensive, or worse, sarcastic (in other words, passive-aggressive, or, as a friend calls it, passhole agresshole).

Phew. Isn’t love supposed to be simple and easy? Boy meets girl (or boy meets boy, or girl meets girl), they fall in love, and live happily ever after, sharing good food, witticisms, and a warm bed for the rest of their lives. Yes? No! Usually the meeting and the falling in love parts go well, but the staying in love part, well, that gets a little rockier. How do things get derailed so easily?

Consider these examples:

Andy and Chris
Andy grows up in a household where his parents hug each other and their children. They kiss each other after just a few hours of separation, and always kiss each other goodnight. The house where Chris grows up is loving, but little affection, especially between the adults, is displayed in public. Chris’ parents seem fond of each other, and share a bedroom, but never hug or kiss each other in front of the children.

When Andy and Chris grow up, they meet, fall in love, and then… Andy is physically affectionate with Chris – he wants to hug Chris all the time. Chris wants physical space – a lot of it. Chris loves Andy, but doesn’t see the point of all that physical affection. The more Chris withdraws, the more Andy pursues. Before they know it, they’re both disappointed – they’re showing love the way they know how to and the other person is not sending back the same signal. In fact, the other person is sending back a very different signal. Life together becomes a struggle, an irritating and frustrating one.

Linda and Jean
As a child, Linda watches her father take care of her mother. She knows her mother is competent and strong, yet her father shows his love and affection by taking care of things, by doing. Jean’s parents have a very different relationship. Jean’s father recognizes that her mom is independent and perfectly capable of doing things for herself, so he stands back. Jean’s mom takes care of many of the household duties that Linda’s father always did. Jean’s dad contributes to the household in other ways, and is supportive and available to help when asked.

When Jean and Linda fall in love, Linda sits back and waits for Jean to take over many of the household duties. Jean knows that Linda is quite capable and waits for Linda to identify what she will take on and ask for help when she needs it. For a while, little gets done. Then the two explode at each other in frustration.


There are so many other examples – one person learns to express love by buying frequent small presents for their partner, while the partner learns to send the same message by initiating several phone calls a day. (And the first person thinks, “Can’t they leave me alone? I’ll be seeing them in a few hours.” The second person thinks, “What’s with all this little stuff – don’t we have enough things?”) Or one partner thinks it’s a sign of intimacy to eat from each others’ plates in restaurants, while the other feels disgusted by that habit and will grudgingly place a small sharing portion on a salad plate.


The common thread
What do these stories all have in common? In each case, a person grew up learning to speak the language of love – they learned how to express love for another being – and decided that there must be just one universal language. The person busily sends their loving message, and hopes that their partner will talk to them in the same language. The hope turns into a longing and a hunger.

So when a partner makes a loving gesture in a different dialect, the intent gets missed. Sometimes we don’t even notice it. Sometimes, sadly, we’re even irritated by another’s expressions. Our longing questions are answered, but we don’t even realize it because we’re so busy looking for an answer we recognize.


So how do we avoid this dilemma?
One way is to become aware that we don’t all speak the same dialect of this loving language. So we can simply look for indications that another person might be sending a love-signal in a dialect we don’t recognize. In other words, trust the intentions. Assume goodness unless you get clear signals otherwise.

Another way is to talk about it with each other early in your relationship. How did you each come to feel loved? How was love shown early in your life? What examples of lovingkindness are you aware of today?

And finally, if you feel unloved, just say something, even as simple as “I’m feeling unloved – should I?” It’s surprising what an ice breaker that question can be, and it’s gratifying to discover the fruitful conversations it can lead to.

the party's over...

It was my birthday yesterday. Robert and I were under the weather with a fast-moving, fairly harmless bug that left us both feeling tired. So we were home. RP brought in wood so that we could have a fire, and made dinner out of two dishes that I really really love, and gave me some fun presents.

One present was a documentary about meerkats that a friend had recorded, so we went upstairs, huddled under our sleigh blanket with the cat, and watched it. Much as I love meerkats, they were eclipsed by footage of the babies which are round and furry and fall over when they try to stand on their hind legs. And also -- there were pictures of an odd mammal, a pangolin, which looks a bit like an anteater, has a foot-long straw-tongue for scooping out anthills, runs around on its hind legs like a kangaroo, and is covered with huge scales. Here are some more pictures of pangolins if that one taste wasn't enough. And in case you haven't seen enough of 'em, here are some pictures of meerkats.

I have a few birthday mates and I checked in with them.

DC had a rough upbringing and seems to have found a lot of peace and happiness with her husband. She wrote to tell me of the latest antics of her father, recently widowed, who quickly remarried; the marriage ended after eight weeks. She tells the story better than I do, but I wish she'd write some of these stories down. Anyways, she seems to be in a good place.

Sue's husband died rather tragically a few months ago (he was recovering from being sick, they gave him one more treatment as "insurance" and he had a bad reaction, prompting deep feelings in me of life not being fair). She had retired to take care of him and also to join him in his retirement after a life of hard work. Yesterday, she sounded to be in fairly high spirits, rather amazingly, though she did not gloss over the fact that the last few months have been devastating. She's thinking of going back to work part-time and delights in the company of her foofy (but sweet) little dogs.

GrandMarvin is Robert's step-grandfather. He and R's grandmother lived in a retirement community for more than a quarter century, steps from downtown Santa Fe. He's now in the medical care wing amidst folks who don't really know who or where they are. He's quite aware, though, and somewhat mobile, enough so that his walker has an alarm to signal his caretakers when he's wandered out of bounds (again). He's the darling of the staff there and has been elected President (no one has ever said of what), which makes him very proud; he mentions that he's President nearly every time we speak.

When we called, we woke him up from a nap, and he didn't quite catch who I was. So he was being his usual polite, charming self and invited me to his 97th birthday party yesterday afternoon. I said that it would be a little hard to get there because I was in Massachusetts, at which point he said "Is this Liz? I thought you were one of my girlfriends! How's Robert?" He really perked up then and we had a good chat. He wished me a happy birthday too.

A good day all around. And now back to "real life" which is also pretty darned good.

Plans are to see a concert performed by the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra tonight. Tomorrow, I go off on a two-day trip with my company. They're taking us on a little vacation to a ski resort; nor sure if I'll end up skiing or just swimming and hanging out. Despite my long tenure in high tech, this is my first company non-work trip. Should be fun.

Primal thinking

It's my sister's birthday today. She just turned a prime number. And in a few days, I shall turn a prime number also. I was quite surprised a few years ago to discover that my sister thinks in these terms too. Somehow, I thought I was the only one who noticed.

I've just been reading (perhaps inhaling would be a better term) Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs. I've been laughing a lot and reading random bits to Robert, that is, when I can breathe long enough to get words out. It's poignant and disturbing and deeply funny. I love the way the author announces -out of the blue- that he was raised in a cult by a psychiatrist to whom his mother gave him, and that he befriended a pedophile who lived in the back yard (and yes, I've already ordered that book too). Or that when he's confronted by a reader/fan who wants to confess her ugliest secrets, he wishes she'd be run over by a bus or slip under the wheels of a garbage truck. But he's also touching, especially when he talks about his brother, who has Asperger's, or his dogs, or especially about his partner. I'm inspired by the good life that AB has formed out of early tragedy, confusion, and abandonment.

Today, I had lunch with a friend who's on the edge of something great in her life. She's woken up after a long, painful sleep, and has prepared herself for something. She's in that oh-so-familiar place, knowing that change is coming, that it's unstoppable, but not knowing what will happen when she takes the next step, nor what the next step will be. I am inspired by her, though I think she'd be surprised to hear me say that. (Funny moment -- I had bought a roundish loaf of bread, which was sitting on our table. I started to tell her that in the next few months, I imagined her blossoming in unimaginable ways. Suddenly, she moved the bread right in front of me and asked me to look deep inside and tell her what was in her future. I said "I see raisins.")

Because I was not here during the winter of 1978, I've rarely seen a snow like we had this weekend. It's so cold that the snow has packed onto the roadways rather than disappearing and drying up. It's sloppy, but not wet and sloppy, just slippery at surprising moments. The roadways are narrowed, so that it's sometimes hard for two opposing lanes to get past each other. A neighboring town had signs up today saying "No parking after 7pm tonight -- snow removal"; I assume that the big trucks will come in and cart away all the snow. And we're getting more, starting RSN (real soon now) -- only 3-6 inches, but I imagine that on top of the last storm, things will be difficult tomorrow.

In January of 1977, I arrived in Grenoble to spend a semester there. It was stunning. It's the flattest city in Europe, and it has two rivers running through it and is surrounded by three stunning Alpen mountain ranges (one of those mountains was an Olympic site a while back). I couldn't believe how pretty it was, nor could I understand the quote I heard from Victor Hugo that Grenoble was like a prison -- how could it be? It was invigorating, filled with beauty. By the end of February, when we hadn't seen the sun or even the mountains for 30 days, I got it.

Perhaps that's why I am so delighted by New England weather -- it's unpredictable and weird and it's always beautiful here. It's hard for me to be depressed by the cold, the wind, the rain, the heat, the snow, the dark, the light, though I will admit to being mildly annoyed by people who complain about same.

our little ol' blizzard

I awoke this morning like a kid on Christmas morning -- I love waking up to snow. I heard the roar of an army of snow blowers and thought it odd that anyone would be out that early. And when I opened my eyes, I realized that what I was hearing was the wind. I ran to the windows and realized that our clearing of the driveway last night, mid-storm, had little effect, even though we'd taken away about eight inches of snow. And I also realized that the snow plowers had probably just gone to bed, or gone to some more important street (they've since been by -- the barrier at the end of the driveway looks formidable). The snow is at least as high as the seats on our outdoor furniture, and the outdoor table has a huge snow-wedding-cake on top. The snow continues to come down, or go sideways, depending on which way the wind is gusting. The governor has declared a state of emergency, asking that no one travel unless it's for essential purposes. We're socked in.

And we're lucky -- we have electricity, running water, plenty of gas for my pitiful "lady" snow blower, enough food to last a week, and cross-country skis if we really need to get out. Good thing we like each others' company , too.

memorial service; more weather

My friend Franco says that after you hear someone's life story, you can't help but love them. Perhaps that's why I like memorial services so much -- you hear the best, the most sparkly part, of a person's life. And you're amidst loving admirers and those who love them, in a heart-wide-open setting. Yes, memorial services are sad, and yes, there's often laughter mixed in (what was that long-forgotten movie where someone said "laughter and tears -- my favorite emotion"?).

Yesterday, I attended a service for a 90-year old woman -- one who had lived life with her throttle stuck on Yes. She was the mother of a former boss, a man who's full of life himself. She was a southerner, a democrat, and a Christian -- as her son pointed out, these days, those three words are not often used in the same sentence. She was an accomplished cook, well-read, well-traveled, and well-loved. She'd been to 57 countries and had once made a list of the 80-90 forms of transportation she had ridden on, including camel and hot-air balloon. The Ku Klux Klan had burned a cross on her lawn, she was at the protest in Florida when Ted Bundy was put to death, and when living in Pakistan, she was shown great honor by being offered a bowl of warm (meaning fresh) pig's blood to drink (which of course she drank). She was always well-dressed and stylish, including on the lovely afternoon that Robert and I spent with her several years ago.

For her last ten years, she lived next door to her oldest son, and eventually, another son moved in with her. She died after a long, slow decline, made ever so much more gracious by her devoted family, and she went in her sleep. It's a style of death we don't see much of anymore, what with high-tech medical care and far-flung families.

The service itself was held in a huge old New England church, very dignified, itself. We were in a small side chapel, fewer than 50 of us. We sang "Morning is Broken" (to the tune I'm familiar with, thanks to the-folk-singer-formerly-known-as-Cat-Stevens, not to the jarringly unfamiliar tune sung by the Episcopalians), listened to passages of the Bible, and said the Lord's Prayer (but again, not the Episcopalian version, and not the Catholic version either). And we heard from people who loved her -- her minister, her sons, her caretaker, two daughters-in-law, two grandsons, a friend. Cookies and punch followed downstairs, which facilitated good conversations, including with Mrs. P's son, Tom, his son, David, and my friend Karl.

****
And it's a good thing the service was held yesterday, under fairly pleasant skies. Today we're all stocked up and socked in, waiting for a major blizzard to move in. We considered going into town for an afternoon dance, but realized that even though the journey in would be easy, the journey home would be in the range of difficult-to-impossible. We ran out this morning for some fabric and encountered untold amounts of traffic (everyone's doing last-minute errands before the 20-30 inches fall), brought in four loads of wood, and settled in. Now the skies are heavy, and we're just waiting, Robert and the cat by the fire, and me upstairs in the glow of my comptuer monitor. We've figured out how to cope (eat, stay warm, keep the pipes from freezing) should we lose power, but we probably won't need to carry out our plans. And fortunately, we're on town water, so a loss of power means we can still brush and flush. It's still quite cold, with temps just barely in double digits. Snow should warm things a little more, though.

lonely earless man

Our sports fans in Boston are devoted to say the least. Football in January might make sense in San Diego, but it's asking a lot of fans to hold games here in January when the temperatures might plunge into the negative numbers. Fans will stand outside watching the game in the cold, in raging snowstorms, whatever it takes.

There's one fan who loves to shave his head and paint his whole head with the Patriots team logo. Last year, his wife was appalled that he was planning to go to a game in the cold and stand around for a few hours bare-headed (well, except for a layer of paint). She told him that if he didn't wear a hat, certain parts of his exposed body parts would fall off and she'd leave him, and he'd be a "lonely earless man."

I wore my hat today.

From our recent trip to Provincetown -- Liz in the snow on the beach, a study in black and white. (Robert took this picture with his brand new digital camera.) 

evening out

Last night, we attended a rehearsal for a Boston Symphony concert. We had a subscription to four rehearsals last year and thought we'd try it again this year. It's a bit of a schlep because of the funny hours -- it's best to be there 1.5 hours ahead of the 7:30 start to get good seats. And there's a lecture an hour before curtain time.

One delightful aspect is that it's different every time. Sometimes the conductor wants to go over the same passage repeatedly or concentrate on just one out of several pieces. Sometimes, because of union rules, the musicians are instructed to stop playing in the middle of a piece, sometimes mid-note. And at other times, you get a full concert performed in casual clothes. On top of that, when you sign up for a series, you sometimes hear music you would never never elect if you were just buying individual tickets.

And of course the audience reaction is often amusing -- much complaining (didn't like a piece, didn't like having to listen to one passage repeatedly, mad about not hearing the entire piece played through, and on and on) and lots of buzzing chatter so that at times the conductor asks the audience for quiet so that he (always he so far) can work. I actually like the rehearsal environment, perhaps because of years working in the theater.

Last night was fabulous. Few people came in the beginning so that we got great seats (tenth row, in the perfect location to see the pianist). The lecture beforehand was great -- a few musical snippets, with hints about some of the highlights, along with a lot of social context thrown in. And we got to hear two pieces that I thought would be overly challenging -- both mid-twentieth century (not my favorite era), and both responses to World War II (not my favorite musical subject).

The first piece was by Ullman, and though I don't remember it well after one hearing, it was a piece I'd like to listen to a few more times because there was definitely something interesting going on there. The second was by Shostakovitch and had a gorgeous Bolero-like passage in the first movement that depicted the invasion of Leningrad. The passage started out as an innocuous curiosity and, after twelve variations, had built into a terrifying clamor.

And then, for our encore, we strolled back to the car in the light snow. There's something magical about the city at night in the snow, with people walking quietly, a few umbrellas, flakes drifting down, cars a little more cautious. Our path took us back through the Christian Science complex. Although I think the individual buildings are close to hideous, I've come to appreciate the ensemble -- two long buildings, one on its side and its twin standing guard, the ghost of another sibling in the form of a long, low reflecting pool (emptied in winter, so just a shallow pit), and the oddball round building, still clearly a member of the same family.

Ride home was fine, though after we picked up my car, I was glad Robert gave me lots of space because it was slippery in a few spots.

funny but true

So there's an Indian restaurant in Maynard. We're regulars; we even held our (tiny) wedding dinner there. We know most of the waiters by their first names and we enjoy talking to the staff. The restaurant is owned by a family that owns several other area restaurants. One person we particularly enjoy holds down a "day job" (in software, natch) and also seems to play the role of vice president for the restaurants. Param has been a bit scarce lately, but when the general manager is away, Param comes back to Maynard to manage things.

Friday night, we ate at a new-to-us Indian restaurant in Cambridge; the food was exquisite -- both familiar and different at the same time. My former boss had been yearning for a restaurant like this -- fresh, inventive food with over the top taste (I got a menu for him and sent it off later this weekend). Just as we were getting ready to leave, in walked Param. He came over to our table and shook our hands as always. I asked if he had eaten there before, and he said "many times." Finally, I admitted that I felt like I'd been caught having an affair with someone else. And he reminded me that he'd been caught too. I suppose it'll be our little secret.

*********

The cold is on everyone's minds right now, perhaps because earlier this week, the temps reached the 60s; when I woke up this morning, it was 3. Ah, January. At least it's too cold for the snow and ice to be slippery. And I do acclimate after a little bit. The trick is to go outside and take a deep, deep breath before setting out.

party game?

ooh. cool idea for a party game. Find a collection of well-known passages (examples -- "When in the course of human events;" "Four score and seven years ago;" lyrics to well-known songs). extract about a paragraph of text from each, but the most familiar paragraph (so don't go taking the *end* of the Gettysburg address). Now put each through the babelizer. At the party, make people guess where the passages come from. Or better yet, make each contestant read the passage aloud and give prizes to the first person who guesses the origin.

quiet day, productive day, silly games

Yesterday, it snowed all day, but there was only a tiny amount of accumulation. I went to work, as did many other people. Today, the real snow storm blew in, and it was a doozy. We didn't get a lot of snow (maybe 6-8 inches here), but it started out very cold and yet very slippery. We woke up to a few inches of snow and a lot of school closings.

I stayed home and set up my remote office at the dining room table. Got a lot done, too. You know how religious dyslexics believe in the existence of dog? And when people's dogs ride shotgun in cars, you say that "Dog is their co-pilot?" (At least we do.) Well, today, TAC was my co-pilot. She kept a careful eye on me, and kept me company for several hours.

I shoveled the driveway around noon, just as the freezing rain started (yuck!). Now it's raining, but it's so close to freezing that if we're lucky, we'll wake up to a sodden mess tomorrow, and otherwise we'll wake up to a massive skating rink.

A marvelous amusement -- my friend K pointed out the Lost in Translation site, which translates an English phrase back and forth between five languages with hilarious results. Two of my favorites:

All things shall perish from under the sun. Music alone shall live, never to die.
eventually becomes
All the dice of the things of the piece most of inferior the sun. Alive music never ordered not to only die.

and
Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.
is translated as
Offer, old the new friends nevertheless keeps l'uomo. One is moneies and gold of l'autre.

I shudder to think what would happen to
In a cabin in the woods, a little old man by the window stood, saw a rabbit hopping by, knocking at his door. "Help me! Help me! Help me!," he said "before the farmer shoots me dead" "Little rabbit come inside, safely you will hide."
ok ... I couldn't stop myself... actually, not too bad:
At first of a session the wood, old small mountain extends dell'uomo of luppolo arrested, of the window of the extremity of the rabbit and the blow with the relative lobby in "Help!Aiutilo! Aiutilo, " he said that the cosechador of "before projects dead" the rabbit of "Little you come hide." the l interior, without the risk of the danger;

Anyways, highly entertaining and very addictive.

time away...

Our time away in Provincetown was lovely. Our trip down was a little exciting because the cape in particular had just been hit by a big storm. Power was out on nearly the entire cape, and from town line to town line, we didn't know whether the roads would be plowed, or whether we'd be driving on bumpy icey roads, or in snow ruts. (Turns out that most public employees had use-it-or-lose-it vacation time, so were taking the last days of the year off. Plowing was handled by "amateurs," and no one was prepared for the storm.)

We stayed at a B&B where we've stayed before, so we just pulled into town and checked in. The power wasn't on yet, but our place had a generator. We were so tired that we crashed for a while.

That evening, we decided to go to an old favorite place for dinner, the Martin House, which is in an old house. (It's so old that its front door faces the beach, which at that time served as the main road.) We knocked on the side door because we saw people inside. When someone came to the door, we asked if they were open. They looked a little befuddled, and after some consultation, they decided they were open. We felt pulled inside as if by a giant vacuum.

Once in, we realized that they were barely open. Turns out that the power had just come back on. So they sat us in front of their one gas fireplace while they lit the other three (wood) fireplaces on the first floor. It was kind of chilly for a while. But we eventually sat in one of their small downstairs rooms in front of the fire and had a delicious dinner and excellent service and of course will go back at our next opportunity.

We spent the next couple of days eating great food, having fun conversations, walking, walking, walking, both in town and on the beach (Mark's beach -- I think of it as where Mark lives, but it's really where we put some of his ashes), visiting art galleries, and doing a little shopping.

There's an art gallery in town, Julie Heller's, that's been around for 25 years and represents a lot of artists. It's in an old shack on the beach, and the people we've met there (Katherine, Julie, Julie's father) all know a lot about the artists, and in some cases actually know the artists. They understand the techniques the artists used, and the connections between the artists and the art itself. There are a few paintings on the wall, but most are in stacks on the floor. You basically choose a stack and leaf through it, then move on to the next. And they'll put anything on the wall that you want to look at in more detail. I actually bought a piece there a few years ago, and this visit, Katherine remembered the piece and the artist and was delighted to know where the piece was.

We also went to a dance performance, Nutcracked, by David Parker's Bang Group. It's a take-off on the Nutcracker for (mostly) grownups, featuring modern jazz interpretations of the music as well as serious (as intended in the original) renditions of other parts of the music. And it features bubble wrap, pas de trois, men on pointe, a silly scene with a tiny tree that rises rather than grows, and thumb-sucking (of other people's thumbs) and it was terrific. It makes me want to see a serious Nutcracker and then see Nutcracked again to pick up all the nuances I missed the first time around. Bravo. And congratulations to the new Provincetown theater which presented the Bangsters as a benefit.

As always, it was a little hard to leave. I love the quiet and the light in Ptown, the friendly people, the quirky architecture. We'll be back, I'm sure.