Pop 89: Love & Dust
By Madonna Hamel
I am writing this on St. Valentine's Day. It is also the first day of Lent. Most folks might consider the two days to be polar opposites, but both focus on relinquishing one's ego to the service and love of others.
Granted, the first involves chocolates, flowers and a night on the town, while the other requires us to fast from over-indulging in substances and hopelessness. But, whether renewing vows or refreshing spirits - both are actions intent on making ourselves fully available to others.
I see the two days serving as bookends because, despite how earnestly we may search for the right person to walk alongside us through life, when it comes to the end of life, we do it alone.
As a child, Valentine's Day filled me with giddy anticipation. I would spend Valentine's eve addressing hearts to everyone in my class - aware that mine might be the only card some child ever received - saving the best for boys to whom I normally expressed my deepest regard through punches and shoves.
For some reason, the inscriptions on Valentine's cards of the 60s were always puns: A little Dutch boy begging a little Dutch girl, "Wooden shoe be mine?" or a great horned in a tree pledging, "Owl always love you." I don't recall writing anything besides the name of the recipient on those cards. My romantic fervour remained anonymous, for fear of rejection, or worse, acceptance. How would I be expected to respond to the overtures of an eleven-year-old boy? I was not prepared, as some girls were purported to be, to escape the glare of the nuns and slip into the woods behind St. Mary's school for a snog.
Still, as a child, I sensed the tragedy inherent in not accruing enough valentines, as if the accumulation of cardboard hearts reflected the measure of my worth. And I recall reading into every generic playful Valentine card pun a deep and undying love, setting a precedent for emails and texts down the road.
By the time I reached my fifties, I was exhausted by recurring obsessions with romantic intrigue, which in many ways resembled a mysterious recurring rash. I don't suppose my condition was rare; the pursuit of love is a common trait in humans. Just when you think you've got your life on the right trajectory, a love interest enters your sphere, and you find yourself packing and moving to Michigan or Memphis or Quebec City. But some of us mix "love" with "desire," and "desire" is less likely to hang around for the long haul.
By the time I moved back home to live with my dad after my mom died, the only desire left in me was a desire to be relieved of the whole idea of coupledom. Love had to become something more stable, a constant that would have my back and forever be by my side, ready to catch me when I stumbled and comfort me when I woke terrified in the middle of the night.
At that same time, I was willing to accompany my father to mass every morning. It was something we could do together, I decided, without having to converse. At first, I saw myself as the noble daughter, willing to suffer through - as I recalled from my childhood - an hour of poetic ritual peppered with reminders of my unworthiness and droning admonishments to behave or suffer God's disappointment.
What I found, thanks mostly to the open-heartedness of the priest whose sermons revolved around belonging and being open to mystery, was love. The kind of love I'd been looking for - one that promised none of us would be rejected because we weren't pretty enough, or pious enough, or pure enough. A perfect love that didn't require perfection of us.
How did I experience this love? Partly, I felt it through the company of congregants, breaking bread at coffee. Partly through allowing myself to focus on the language of the mass in a whole new way. I began contemplating the phrase God is Love. Until God, synonymous with The Maker, Creator, The Great Reality also became a synonym for love. I began rejecting all erroneous versions of the stingy, pouty, elite God presented to us as children through the catechism. I began reading the mystics, including Meister Eckhart, who said: It's a lie, any talk of God that does not bring comfort.
As a Catholic kid, I learned that martyrdom was one of the requirements for sainthood. But as an adult recovering from codependency, I was warned not to slip into the three M's: Martyring, managing and mothering. And yet, I know love requires sacrifice.
St. Valentine sacrificed his life by protecting souls tormented by Emperor Claudius II. For his pains, he is considered the patron saint of greetings. My childhood book of saints hastens to inform me that he was awarded his feast day to replace the ancient pagan day of celebration when boys engage in "the heathen practice of honouring the goddess Juno by drawing the names of girls on love letters."
In her Valentine's Day column entitled "It's all about love," Julie Ferraro looks to St. Francis and St. Benedict for guidance on the subject of love and sacrifice. She writes of parental love: "When a teenager makes mistakes and gets in trouble, love is standing by his side in front of the judge in a courtroom and supporting the offender as he takes responsibility." Love drops "whatever task is at hand and drives miles through heavy snow to help when the wannabe mechanic's car breaks down."
Ideally, every Lenten practice is a return to love. On Ash Wednesday, the priest rubs ashes into our foreheads and recites: "We are made from dust and unto dust we shall return." He could just as well be saying: We are made from love, and into love, we shall return. In the end, my friend, it's all just love and dust.