Reflecting on reflections

Growing up, my mom read to me many great books. This isn't news to anyone that knows me. It's a deeply cherished and nostalgic treasure of my life and I have made sure to recreate this magic with my own children. I haven't read many of the same books, but equally wonderful ones--Harry Potter, Ralph Moody, and The Great Brain standing out as favorites, but lots of others too. This is also not news. I will always hold this ritual close to my heart as reading to my kids is basically one of three things I'm good at when it comes to parenting. I'm not sure what the other two are, but I'm sure there's something else. *crosses fingers*

I hadn't read the Little House series since my mom read it to me, so there was a touch of extra special in opening the exact same copy with my girl. And just like when I was little, nearly every night we cuddle up close and read in my bed. At Christmastime, sometimes we read under the spell of the tree. But usually, my weighted blanket, and shutting the door to my loud, loud boys, is magic in and of itself. 

We started last December and it began with little Laura Ingalls, holding her first doll, a wrapped-up corn cob. And now, in these Happy Golden Years, seven books later, she is a grown woman at the mature age of fifteen! I typed that with some sarcasm. But I instantly take it back! She IS so mature. Right now, she's teaching school away from home---something she has no personal interest in doing, but is determined to do, so that she can help pay for her older sister, Mary, to finish all seven years of blind school. Did I even know other people existed when I was 15?? 

So then! She moves into this new town, lives with a cold, bitter wife who neglects her son daily, and verbally abuses her husband nightly. She complains about Laura, while Laura of course can hear because interior walls weren't invented yet in the West. So Laura has every right and reason to feel sorry for herself but instead thinks, "She doesn't hate me, she just doesn't want anyone to live with her." (and also hates her life and possibly husband) Thought work! A booming business now where life coaches take poor sucker's money (mine) and teach them how to twist their thought three degrees to the right so it doesn't pain them so much. But who did Laura hire? She never mentioned her life coach anywhere! I mean it is semi-fictionalized...

But back to romance, while teaching school on Friday, and dreading the thought of spending the weekend with this dismal family--oh phew she is human- lo and behold she hears the sleigh bells of none other than Almanzo! He drove all the below-zero way to rescue her! He didn't even know she was miserable and needed rescuing! The West also had terrible cell service. Phoebe and I both swooned simultaneously while our hearts skipped simultaneous beats.

 

Phoebe is only nine, but she gets romance, as well as me. It's in our bones. Everyone's bones? How is not the beginnings of love not the most addictive feeling on the planet?  Who can resist it? No one. (I hope.)

😍

So hopefully, me admitting my hopelessly romantic heart will help me avoid any pointing fingers accusing cynicism when I ask, but is romance even related to love? We Moderns group them together and pride ourselves on finding the one, and cannot even imagine any other acceptable way to marriage except through falling in love romance. 

But what does love have to do with romance? It seems we play fast and loose with the word love. Real love is putting someone else's needs either ahead, or equal with your own. Sure that sounds lovely, but have you done it? It doesn't feel all that lovely. Love is keeping your mouth shut when you really don't want to. Love is speaking the truth when you really don't want to. Love is getting the times you should shut up and speak up mixed up and apologizing and competing in humble pie contests. Who can resist that? Everyone.

Marriage is like one of those 5x mirrors that I'm too afraid to buy (ooh that explains a lot actually) and seeing all the ways you are deeply human (i.e. possibly unbearable) and then courageously trying to kill the unbearable parts of yourself--the unbearable parts you cling to and aren't totally sure are so horrible. And then it's seeing all the horrible parts of your spouse and forgiving, and suffering, and enduring over and over and over again until you die. And if you're of my faith tradition, not even then. God be with you.

Could there be anything less like romance? Nine out of 10 songs are romantic, (a cultural obsession, you might say) and sing some variation of "I love youuuu,"  But a better rendering might be, "I love Meeeee!" 

Romance is looking in your partner's eyes and seeing your own utterly beguiling reflection. You are pretty! And witty! And wise! It's alarming how charming you feel! This mirror is way more fun. In romance, you can hardly believe you're real. Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!🎜 Sondheim truly nailed it. Romance isn't love, it's self-absorption! The very thing that will kill real love, if you don't kill it first. Not only do romance and love seem unrelated, now they seem polar opposites. And the fact that the one leads to the alter of the other?! Is it not ironic?

Maybe real life, real love, despite what the radio tells us, is only 10% romance. Man can not live by romance alone. It's chocolate. It's long eyelashes and a quickening heart. It belongs. I will always love romance. My eyebrows will always slightly tilt upwards at a good romantic moment. I can also not worship it, at the same time. I can always work on real love. Until I die. And not even then. God be with me. 

And also maybe, with our 5x mirrors that show our mustaches creepin in, we can be the pretty, witty, charming reflection for our loved ones too. Because is not a mustached woman choosing, seeing, loving a man with his drooping..well..everything really, the most romantic and most real love of all?! 

I stand corrected.