Love is

One of the hardest things about being a writer is writing about things that matter. Hope, courage, honor, truth--I know what they mean, but language fails. Some things must be tacitly understood, yet poets, bards and everyday dreamers struggle to express the power of grand concepts, the most ethereal of which is love. Love is not easily discussed. Neither is it easily felt or shared, let alone defined, but it is as consuming and essential a notion as existence itself. So when the higher-ups proposed a Valentine story, I jumped at the chance. Not for the smarmy rhetoric or heaving bosoms of romantic fiction, but the essence of attachment, the science of love broken down brilliantly and compactly in order to answer the question that has fueled industries, toppled kingdoms and lent purpose to life beyond success or survival--what is love?

Within the first five minutes of brain-storming, I panicked. Where was the flow? Where was the insightful poetry threaded with anecdotes, references and captivating wit? I stared down at that one word surrounded by empty page. Suddenly it didn't make sense, and it was attached to the most dreaded punctuation known to over-ambitious thinkers--the colon. Those dots burned into my head like Tabasco. Love is, well, love, I thought. I have loved men and women, stuffed unicorns, tap shoes, Volkswagens, burnt toast, dill pickles, Jeff Buckley's voice, Paul Newman's eyes, my Dad's BBQ sauce, crooked smiles, deep sleep, good lemonade, good prose, striped socks, thunderstorms, catching fish, driving fast and swimming at night. But how did I love and why, and is there an ultimate love that trumps all others?

The hunt was on, and I went where I always go to think--the grocery store. At 11 p.m. on a Tuesday, the aisles were warm and kitchen-y. I drifted through rows of neatly stacked everything, stopping at the "seasonal" section and all the tinfoil-studded goodies I should be buying. This month, what I should be buying is flowers, cards and dice that light up, smell like chocolate and command other people to (rolling die one) nibble on my (rolling die two) hem--well you get the idea. It was all very pink and fantastic, but where was the sentiment? How do heart-shaped sugar, limp carnations and Hallmark poetry communicate one of the most important parts of the human experience? I may not know exactly how to describe love, but I do know that glitter-encrusted doves and tasteless cartoons don't cut it.

Now even more discouraged, I turned to my computer and a bag of dark chocolate hearts (I may be cynical, but chocolate is chocolate). Surely, the Internet would provide some clue to the meaning of love. Trying various addresses, I found several dating services, a few blank screens and some unspeakable images that required ID and a tough stomach. Next I tried a search engine, and the first listing under "love" was the "love calculator." Upon opening the page, I was blasted with bubbly hearts and the dubious writings of Doctor Love. Using numerology and straight BS, Doctor Love designed this "great invention" especially for the "lonely me" in order to test my compatibility with a selection of "dream partners." I proceeded to enter in the names of past boyfriends, secret crushes and friends, and the percentages were somewhat historically accurate. Each one had an accompanying message of encouragement that explained the importance of communication and trust. Very tricky, Doctor Love. However, his revolutionary device also predicted a 51 percent chance of success with my mother's dog, 47 percent with my favorite snack food, 72 percent with a garden hose and only 26 percent with myself. So much for narcissism...

I moved on to various love tests and surveys, all of which played on coincidence and suggestion rather than science (apparently, I am destined for blissful happiness with my high school chemistry teacher). I began to think the answers were not in databases or books. Maybe they were on the tongues of regular people who had lived through the hardships, hankerings and hopes of real passion. So I asked them--parents, colleagues, unwitting telemarketers--what is love?

--Uh, can I think about it?

--Caring, safety and appreciation.

--Giving a shit, not taking one.

--It's like a deep breath. It starts with anticipation, turns to light-headedness and ends with relief and deep restoration.

--Is this a trick question?

--I'm not really sure ma'am, but I can offer you a great deal on windshield replacement.

--Naked bodies, heat, sweat--ecstasy.

--Losing yourself in someone else's eyes.

--Watching football with my buddies.

--Love is pain. It's like craving cheese when you're lactose intolerant. You eat it anyway, knowing it's gonna suck, and it does.

--God is love.

--It's a chemical process/evolutionary function designed to promote procreation.

--Am I on the radio? Did I win something?

No two answers were the same, but there were common themes and similar terms in the majority. Most people expressed feelings of affectionate devotion, sexual attraction or both. Considering my own experiences and relationships, this association made sense. Caring for someone else is a mixture of chemistry and emotional development, and you rarely experience one without the other.

So love involves the mind, body and imagination (not to mention a good assortment of chips and dip on game day), but I still lacked a working definition. This lead me back to the computer and www.hyperdictionary.com, a Web site that offers comprehensive information from up to five sources. The first yield was from the online, WordNet Dictionary, which listed "sexual activities between two people" as the primary meaning of love. The second was more romantic and traditional, i.e. "any object of warm affection or devotion." Seven more options included a score of zero-zero in tennis and the intense enjoyment of objects, activities and principles based on personal preference. The second source, Webster's 1913 edition, was much more quaint. Definition one read: "A feeling of strong attachment induced by that which delights or commands admiration; preeminent kindness or devotion to another; affection; tenderness." Both confirmed my prior conclusions, but the most interesting find came from one of my favorite books--Roget's Thesaurus.

Bold and alphabetized, the love synonyms numbered in the many hundreds and ranged from sentimental to startlingly gross. The variation spoke to the different ways people define and experience love. Some prefer adoration, oneness and understanding to banging, bonking and "hiding the weasel," but solid relationships seem to be about a balance (perhaps in slightly different language). Scanning the list, I underlined words that immediately stood out. Most of them were graceful and vague, indicating my tendency to interpret love like one of the few, good love poems I've been lucky enough to read. I have my favorites (e.e. cummings, Pablo Neruda and Elizabeth Barret Browning), most of which contend, like Rumi, "love cannot be said." It is impossibly complex yet infinitely simple, uncontrollable and decisive, depressing and sweet. But words are fluff, and I felt no closer to knowing what love actually is, let alone how it works.

Assuming my most scholarly voice, I called up Barnes and Noble in search of harder evidence. The receptionist was amused and helpful, and his quick scan of the card catalog provided the following titles: For Love of Insects, Eat Chocolate Naked and Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love--jackpot. From the moment I read the dust jacket, I knew I had found the Holy Grail. Why We Love is an in-depth look at the results of a love-defining study written by the wise anthropologist/professor, Helen Fisher. Her work began in 1996 (also the inception year of the "love calculator," comically enough) with a multipart investigation of "being in love." Subtitles included why we love, why we choose who we choose, how men and women diverge in their feelings and desires, love at first sight, kinds of love, the development of romance, the evolutionary necessity of attraction and the mapping of brain activity in regard to romantic stimuli. No longer would I have to wander the Valentine aisle for inspiration, now I had love intellectualized--or so I thought.

After studying the literature of cultures spanning many continents and centuries, Fisher theorized that romantic love is deeply embedded in the architecture and chemistry of the human brain and dubbed it a "fundamental human drive." She designed a survey that was to test the attitudes of men and women who admitted to being newly, madly in love and administered it to a host of Japanese and American students at the University of Tokyo and Rutgers University. Her findings were astonishing. Age, gender, sexuality, faith and ethnicity seemed obsolete. The majority of subjects responded similarly to the majority of questions regardless of personal background. From this, Fisher inferred that being in love was part of human nature and that people of all kinds experienced it in much the same way.

The more I read, the more I wanted to call up all the other "love scholars" and set them straight. Fisher's conclusions were not surprising, but she framed things in a way that simplified the mess. From the torture of infatuation to the seesaw of new passion to the comfortable warmth of enduring friendship, Fisher explained human behavior chemically, behaviorally and, dare I say it, romantically. Even in proving love a function of survival with roots in animal instinct, she also declared it a gorgeous phenomenon woven of things both concrete and inconceivable. "Of one thing I am convinced," she said, "no matter how well scientists map the brain and uncover the biology of romantic love, they will never destroy the mystery or ecstasy of this passion."

Inspired by Fisher's illuminating work, I turned my search inward. Her insights had outlined what love is in general, but I longed to know what love is to me. So I popped a mix of old love songs in the stereo, arranged the pillows on the couch just so and snuggled down in front of a fire with a glass of good wine. Letting my head fill with Nina Simone's throaty velvet, I thought back to all the people I've loved in my life.

Romantically, it all began with a sandy-haired, freckle-faced boy named Eric Willis. We shared a cubby in second grade, and our relationship consisted of him pushing me off the jungle gym at recess and me stealing his tater-tots at lunchtime. As Fisher says, such "puppy love" is all about learning the rules of the game and trying to make sense of being drawn to someone else (however overrun with cooties). Then came a series of junior high crushes, brief yet obsessive longings that qualified as run-of-the-mill infatuations, according to Fisher.

After several bouts with unrequited love (some of which still sting), I got my first kiss. It was in Glacier Park on the stairs of my summer home with a boy named Jimmy Sherwood. We were both 14. I will never forget how that felt--like being punched in the stomach and then melting into a warm, all-consuming shudder. Then came my first love letter, first heartbreak, first boyfriend and so on, events filled with silliness, excitement and pain. Every time my heart broke I thought it was hopeless to try again, but gradually, clumsily I learned that time does heal and that the world is filled with eligible somebodys.

Then there are the bonds of family and friendship, less passionate but also less conditional and dangerous. I take comfort in my father's understated almost awkward gestures and my mother's unparalleled thrill in absolutely everything I do. I love my best friend, Leigh Stewart, whose beauty and intricacy still give me goose bumps. And I love the sight of a certain brown dog curled at the feet of a certain blonde boy when neither of them know I'm watching. Maybe I'm in love with being in love, or maybe I know the secret.

As I finished the last of my wine and musings, my mother appeared. She held out her left hand, extending the ring finger. Instead of a ring, a Chiquita Banana sticker curled between her knuckles.

"You want to know what love is," she said, "it's knowing how much this means coming from someone who can't afford to buy diamonds." She smiled and walked away, and I suddenly understood. Up to now, if someone asked me if I'd ever been in love, I would have answered: "once." After being obligated to consider the question more deeply, my answer has changed. I have loved almost every day of my life. The affairs have varied in length, intensity and value, but all of them have mattered, and I still hope for that one, mind blowing fairytale. All of the books and studies and songs in the world can't describe what it means to love like that. The idea is universal, but the experience is made up of small gestures, inside jokes and quiet moments unique to every pair of lovers. Love can be hugging a friend, eating ice cream from the carton, slow-dancing at prom or memorizing the lines of a loved one's face. It is chemical, psychological and highly irrational, but most of all, it's magic. It is as present and essential as the air we breathe, and no matter how much we know about its inner-workings, it will still be one of the most maddening, intoxicating mysteries there is.

Article copyright Bar Bar Inc.

Illustration (A heart)