On love and separation (Rupture and Repair)?

I have been thinking again, about the particular shock one feels when one finds out that the relationship of a friend or friends has ruptured.

To live long at all in life is to see friends fall in love, perhaps get married, perhaps have children, and then, at times, to find their hopes and promises dashed against the rocks of life's complications.

A still from iFidantazi (the Fiances)(1963) an Italian film from one of my favourite directors Ermanno Olmi that follows the separation, longing and love of a couple as they are separated for a season of work on the far coasts of Itay.

(I'm writing here, not about anyone in particular, if you are reading this and feeling judged, please, forgive, knowing that I too have my complex histories and my endings have fallen quite shy of being happy.)

Love is a four-letter word, and as trite as that sounds, as playfully punchy, I think it is worth toying with the idea that we have traditionally used that phrase to mean profanity. And is not profanity just one extreme on the spectrum of the sacred? Also, the notion that profane is also a cousin to profound. Someone here can write in the margins about the Greek and the Latin, but I'll leave it there.

Suffice it to say we're playing with powerful stuff.

To pair oneself up in any kind of long-term relationship is to bring to light a terrific amount of one's own personal darkness. We exist (if we're the thoughtful type) aware of only the uppermost mountains of the icebergs of the self. Y'know the old chart. A little white mound that juts out of the ocean, where deep beneath lies a great expanse of mysterious dark and ethereal blue. Perhaps we could say that to our friends, to our acquaintances and neighbours, perhaps they interact with just the slope that makes out the surface of that mound. A visit with me is a brief wheee down the snowiest slopes of my mountain.

A scene from Maurice Pialat's 1972 film "We Won't Grow Old Together", an aptly titled exploration of disillusion in love.

But to commit to a relationship with another is to engage our fullest selves with another. In that complex interaction comes forth a whole mess of trip-wires we perhaps did not realize we'd set. Things that infuriate us, things that aggravate us. Maybe we didn't realize we were subconsciously hoping you'd be like all the most nurturing parts of our mothers but can't stand how much you embody all of our father's strict unspoken expectations.

To attempt to love me, my dear, will be tricky stuff. This heart's a minefield of unmet hopes and dreams, and I'm trying my best to own up to it.

So why is it that we're so surprised when we find out some other's relationships have failed? So often, even while trying to temper ourselves, there is a disappointment. "Why they seemed to get along so well!" "I thought they were a perfect match!"... While we acknowledge that we mostly projected our hope for happiness onto theirs. Saw those sweet wedding day photos (looking so good, I might add) and saw the possibility of our own happiness in theirs. (One must always be smiling when one is being photographed).

From Nuri Bilge Ceylan's Climates (2006) in which the director cast himself and his actual wife as the leads, exploring literal and emotional seasonal shifts.

This all sounds cynical, and I don't want to be cynical. I want to be a realist. I want to focus my energies where they might best serve myself and my relational other (applications are currently open). Pulling away the pining of my hopes on that "other". A dream so many of us bouncing around the single world are apt to fall for: that we must keep up the search until we find some other that aligns most with our happiness. Some unmet stranger that somehow already holds the map in their heart to direct their steps over our traps. A compass that will guide them safely (or we imagine, happily) through our mazes.

Love is difficult stuff.

The iconic closing image from Mike Nichol's 1967 film "The Graduate". According to legend, he achieved this shot by refusing to tell the actors when his camera would cut, instead allowing their smiles to settle and fade with an eerie naturalness.

I officiated a wedding recently. One of two really lovely, beautiful and companionate friends. (Though it too mired the sweet into the bitter, as the Bride's beloved older brother passed away only weeks after having journeyed through a long, brutal, battle uphill with illness). I was doing some digging around for inspiration for my "talk about love"... Most of which I didn't even use, but it's a thing I muse on, muddle on, and wrestle with.

One thing that struck me was the etymological origin of the term "marriage" with the concept of a wager. It is, to use another term, a gamble. It is an investment, it is a risk. With terrific luck and commitment to vulnerability and "the work" it can be a beautiful life-giving thing. To love another is a wonderful opportunity, to share joy, laughter even tears, seems to feel close to what we might be intended for. Community is in our DNA, or as I said at the wedding: we are all born out of the union of others, created within a community. The clumsy act of love (even at its most clumsiest) can bring forth new life. It seems to be an insistent fundamental meaning built into the human experience.

But love is difficult, and life is complicated. I'm sure some others heard the collapse of my marriage some years back with a similar shock. I, like so many others, put on a good show in public. Not to mention that our relationship was at its best when we were laughing with friends. But in private a whole host of darkness simmered underneath.

From David Gordon Green's indie, All the Real Girls (2003) follows from the sweetness of first love to its feverish complications.

Anyways. If you are out there in that wilderness of love, I bet it's not easy. I hope it has moments of delight and unexpected wonder. But I also know it has disappointment and frustrations, and maybe there are times when you feel more alone than ever.

Be kind to yourself! Let us be kind to one another. As we navigate the chemical combustion of romantic union. From it comes such light! Such heat! But also the power to devastate and destroy.

It is no simple task. But it is noble, it is expansive, it is enriching.

Like seeds in to the soil, death is the beginning of life. The doctor recommends regular sunlight and occasional watering.

In the meantime, let me know if you need cinematic recommendations on explorations of love in all its complexities. Or send me some of your own. My heart still has many lessons to learn.