What is love?
Might it be delineated in the throes of passion, or a keen understanding of an event, covetousness for an inanimate object, a déjà vu experience, ambition, redemption, or simply a developed form of comfort called
Whatever it is, Love is huge. Or can it possess very little and still exist?
Perhaps love is indefinable. Nonetheless, isn’t it attractive and all-consuming to explore its meaning…from the latent to colorful ways…
And how human are we to describe something that largely beggars description.
Lightning struck the house. Well, the bolt actually hit a tree next to the house, but it went to ground and fried all electronics not surge protected (use those surge suppressors, they work!). As the week progressed, more items lengthened the “all-lost” list—including heating/air-conditioning units. Let me tell you, it added up fast.
Without much rehashing, I’m just going to vouch that it’s been a stormy season for this family, and I wonder when, when will things stabilize again. . . . In a very human moment I whined, “God, why are you knocking us down at every turn?” As I asked this while outside, surmising the strike zone, something dawned on me. The second highest level to that towering tree was the peak to my son’s bedroom. Suddenly, I had a different outlook - one of protection and gratitude.
It’s all about perspective, because no matter how bad things get it could always be worse. You know what they say . . . “When down in the mouth, remember Jonah. He came out all right!”
Remarkable is the work of Brazilian-born German author, Lya Luft. By grasping the concept of death, she bestows greater appreciation for life. In aging, she compels us to embrace every season of our span. At 40, 60, 80, she urges us to defy the pressures of society, which suggest that happiness, love, passion, joy, fulfillment belong only to the young.
The depth of perspective and wisdom is mindboggling in her Losses and Gains volume subtitled, “Reflections on a life.” Her novel, The Island of the
Dead, proves painfully introspective as does The Red House.
Inspiring are the author’s inflections to progress through life’s throes; allow not our psyches get swept this way or that, cracking, shifting, folding to the superficial forces in which we don’t wish to bow. It’s our perspective that counts (for me, with God’s help), the stabilizer of any event—tragic or blessed.
We cannot predict nor control life. Whether we like it or not it ever changes, circumstances alter. We age. Our days are filled with losses and gains. That’s a haunting yet reaching truth. That is the profound work of Lya Luft.