WWLD?

I trust my Higher Self. I listen with love to my own inner voice. I release all that is unlike the action of love. 

Before we moved away from San Francisco I wrote myself a letter promising that I would be me wherever I lived. “Interested and interesting” is how my husband likes to describe the culture of San Francisco that we cherished, and those are the values we strived to live by. At the time I didn’t understand the dread I felt about moving away. The sadness made sense to me. I was leaving behind communities I loved and friends whose company I would dearly miss. But along with the loss came an overwhelming sense that I was going to lose myself in this move. Maybe it was my subconscious remembering something about the suburbs from when I lived here as a child. But at the time of the move I didn’t dwell on the dread. I brushed it off as the fear of change I’ve struggled with my whole life. Then we moved here, to this lovely, little town full of good schools, yoga studios, perfectly manicured parks, and happy, comfortable families. I confidently ventured out to create some community connections in our new home, when something strange happened. Despite the fact that we all spoke the same language, the people in my social circles often didn’t seem to understand me, nor I them. It was as though I was participating in a conversation in which I’d missed the context. No one was ever unfriendly, but my ability to make connections became increasingly difficult, as this undercurrent of strangeness made me feel embarrassed, and this increased the awkwardness with which I communicated. My efforts to forge ahead for the sake of my family resulted in me taking on leadership positions in organizations I had been a part of for years, but in which I still felt like an outsider. It was bewildering and inexplicable as no one was ever anything but perfectly cordial and warm; at community events, at the grocery store, at playgroups, at the birthday parties we hosted despite my own children rarely being invited to any themselves. We were surrounded by amiable indifference, and the more I tried, the worse I felt. Nothing worked, though at that point my sheer desperation was probably getting in the way of having a normal interaction. So I stopped trying. I fulfilled my obligations, but in self-defense, I stopped being interested. I stopped being interesting. I lost my sense of self, and my self-love. 

Shortly before my first child was born, I volunteered my time helping a woman with breast cancer start a non-profit that created healing spaces, organized therapeutic events, and nurtured a supportive community, particularly for those with life threatening conditions. I would visit the center (her home) twice a week and log her receipts, design posters and draft copy for facebook. I also contacted people who were involved in various activities at the center, which almost always included frantic fundraising. My friend was a fabulously charismatic, articulate, talented and deeply insightful person, but finances were not her strong suit. As I spoke with people who were trying to raise the necessary donations to avoid her eviction, I would stare at the corkboard that hung above her phone. Mostly it was full of her contacts, schedules, todo and grocery lists, but up in the corner was a post-it that read only “What would love do?”  I would reflect on that idea a lot in the following years. What Would Love Do? I appreciated the ambiguity of the question; how it was unclear if the question was “What could be the impact of a loving mindset?” or if it was meant to be Love with a capital “L”, referencing the more familiar sentiment “What would Jesus Do?” I thought both interpretations had merit, but I liked the second better. Reflecting on what Love would do requires a suspension of ego. I’m not trying to figure out how I could respond to something in a loving way. I’m thinking about how Love would respond. I’m stepping outside of myself, and any concerns I might have about being judged or hurt, or making the wrong choices. Nor am I worrying about how uncomfortable I feel, because all of those considerations have to do with Lela, not Love. I don’t have to care about whether I’m doing this right or whether anyone else thinks I am, because none of it is about me. It’s about Love, and whomever Love is interacting with. 

So let’s step away from this trascendental woowoo for a second and get real. I can’t be Love with a capital “L”, and the parts of my personality that are not love are parts I’m still pretty fond of. But despite not wanting to nor being capable of transcending humanity to become pure, sentient emotion, for years I found this exercise helpful in moments of stress, confusion or sadness; then I forgot about it for a very long time, until the pandemic hit, life slowed down, and I found myself with a lot of time to sit and reflect. How would Love build a community? Love would reach out, but not worry about responses, or lack thereof. It is not a reflection on her, and even if it was, it wouldn’t matter because Love just loves. Love doesn’t worry about being awkward, or tongue tied or saying the wrong thing. Love just loves. Love doesn’t worry about party invitations or fitting in. Love just loves. Love just loves her children, who will experience a different childhood than she did, and will still be loved. Love just loves without concern about acceptance or rejection. 

So what would Love do when someone is having trouble loving herself? When she is wondering if she is as interested or as interesting as she once felt she was. What did that feel like? Was she right back then, or is she right now?  Love reminds us that we are who we were when we did love ourselves. Hurt and judgement can make us doubt who we are, but it doesn’t change it. 

Sadly, my sweet friend from years ago did not survive her diagnosis. When I went to help her family clear the apartment I looked for that post-it note, but the corkboard had already been taken down. I hope the post-it is inspiring another one of her friends, in a place where they can see it every day and remember to ask this question, not just in their interactions with others, but also in their interactions with themselves.