What is love?

My usual perspective of Valentines’ Day is that it is a made-up holiday, created by intelligent marketers who needed to come up with another holiday to fill their sales’ quota in the time between Christmas and Easter.  Of course, in the past, I have participated in the traditional Valentines’ festivities; however, for the first time, this year, February 14^th made me think about love.  I am writing this post out of a moment of vulnerability, out of an unusual sense of freedom.  I might regret this decision in the morning, but for now, I ask that you read the following with care.

Don’t get me wrong, love has, in the past, swallowed me up in its strong arms and made me feel like nothing could go wrong.  Love has made anything possible; it has made flowers grow from nothing at all.  Love has encouraged me, it has supported me, it has created me.  However, over the past year, love has torn out my insides.  Love has made me sick with its strength, both literally and figuratively.  Love has made me question my life, forget my identity and discover my weaknesses.  This past year has been littered with situations that have forced me to re-define my definition of love.  Love was once something that could never be wrong, it could never fail, it could never be lost.  However, those conditions that I once placed upon this four-letter word have finally been removed.   Before, I explain the new definition of “love” that I have experienced this week, I want to share a story with you:

On Wednesday morning, I helped out at Queen Street Commons (which is a quaint café that is connected with the Working Centre – http://www.theworkingcentre.org/).  I was clearing some of the empty plates from the café when a woman asked me if I would join her for a few minutes.  I sat down and we began to go through the typical topics of conversation: the weather, the news, our mis-matched socks, thing of that nature.  After a few minutes, I stood up to continue clearing tables when the woman asked me to wrap up the rest of her food.  I, absent-mindedly, wrapped up her meal and said farewell.  A few minutes later, as I was wiping down a table near the window, I saw this same woman kneeling on the wet ground, offering the rest of her meal to her cat.  My initial reaction to this act was bewilderment.  How can this woman choose to give away what little food she has and offer it to an animal?  How can she choose “it” over her own hunger?  However, I have discovered that it is simply not my place to quantify the importance of the object of her affections; rather, the lesson is in the love that this woman has shown.  Her suffering was because of her great love and her un-ending devotion to her best friend.

So…what is love? Love is something that might let me down.  It is something that might make me cry at times.  But I would never give it up.  Love has made my life beautifully amazing.  It has given me friends that I could never live without.  Love has given me strength to move forward and understanding when I move back.  Love has allowed me to communicate without speech; it has given me endless possibilities.  And ultimately, love has given me freedom.  Love has given me freedom from the anger of hate and the danger of bitterness.  I would like to leave you with a line from a powerful song:

Love that will not betray you, dismay or enslave you,

It will set you free

Be more like the man(or woman) you were made to be.

There is a design,

An alignment to cry,

At my heart you see,

The beauty of love as it was made to be – Mumford & Sons

               

"Volun-tourism"

You know when you see your best friend after many months of being apart? Or when you kiss your crush for the first time and butterflies surround you? Or when you are wrapped in the arms of someone you love? That feeling of pure, unexplainable, raw joy was the only way to describe my feelings after I met with my Beyond Borders Professor and fellow India-traveller this past Tuesday morning.  I couldn't think, I couldn't eat, I could barely talk to others without exuding that joy that seemed uncontainable.  I walked into class; mind absent from the subject at hand but ready for the day.  I felt like I could take on any challenge that came my way...until, my professor decided to begin the class talking about his opinions regarding "volun-tourism".

He began to discuss the detrimental effects that urbanization has upon the world (especially the rural culture).  He was discussing the effects of modernity upon our individual lives as well as our communities.  At one point during his lecture, a fellow classmate raised her hand and began to tell of her recent trip she took to New Orleans.  She spoke of the work she had helped with to re-build homes for those who had lost theirs due to Hurricane Katrina.  She explained that she had only spent one week there but had left with a life-changing experience.  I could tell that her time there was truly significant to her and her heart was real and true.  The response from my professor was quite different than what I had expected.  He simply disregarded her adventure and said that it was damaging to the culture in New Orleans for her to go there and then leave.  He then began to discuss the growing popularity of "Volun-tourism".  The definition of this term is when people go to other parts of the world to "volunteer" but have hidden motives of selfish tourism.  My professor not only said that this was negative but he also stated that it damages the cultures in other countries.  He said that this type of travel "taints" the rest of the world with our modern way of life.

My heart sunk.  This trip to India that I had finally been excited about, seemed to be stolen from me.  I was a "volun-tourist".  I was damaging the society that I was going to visit.

   I decided to speak with my professor after class to gain a better understanding of his perspective.  We decided to meet before the next class to discuss the topic. 

     The day came, I barely slept the night before.  I walked into class, waving a white-flag, ready to hand over my resignation from the Beyond Borders program.   My professor was quite ready for me with mountains of evidence to reinforce his claims.  I did not say one word for forty-five minutes (which is hard for me, as many of you know).  He continued to explain his point of view, and his reasoning behind the dislike for western citizens to travel to other parts of the world to “help”.  He believes that there is no such thing as unselfish “help”.  He believes that every action that we, as humans, take is stained with a hidden agenda.  The part of his argument that really made my heart hurt was when he stated that Western travellers not only are selfish in their motives, but they are damaging the communities they visit.  To damage something means to take away an integral component, to disassemble something that is whole.  Is my going to India damaging their culture, their community, their whole?

    At the end of our discussion, my professor asked “Why are you going to India?”.  I truly did not have an answer to this seemingly simple question.  I would hope that I am going to India to learn, to meet people where they are, and in some small way, to help.  But isn’t the goal of learning and seeing selfish? And something that scares me even more than that is: what if I don’t even realize the damage that I have done?

Rachi and Ruthie

     As most of you may know, I gain great energy from being with and around people.  This week, the challenge that I chose was to meet someone new everyday and to have a meaningful conversation with them. This challenge was truly eye-opening because it seemed to embody the purpose of this blog.  The roller coaster that became this challenge showed me that there are incredible people in this world, with hurt and pain but also with joy and hope.  I want to share two stories that touched my heart, I hope that one of them will touch yours as well.  

Rachi’s Story:  I was sitting at the bus-stop on Tuesday evening, trying to wiggle my toes back in forth to ensure frost-bite did not take them over, awaiting the I-Xpress.  An older man walked across the street and peered past me to try to make out when the next bus was coming.  He could not see very well so he asked me how long it would take.  I explained to him that the last bus did not come and the next one was to arrive in 20 minutes.  He gratefully thanked me and sat in the seat next to mine.  He noticed the books I was carrying with the titles “India”/ “Travelling in South India” and he was intrigued.  He asked me why I was carrying the books, and I told him I was planning on travelling to Madurai, India for the summer.  His eyes seemed to catch fire and his lips began to move a million miles a minute.  He was quite excited to share his ancestry as he was originally from India.  After we talked for a while, I learned that his house was quite near mine, so we decided to brave the winter winds together and walk home instead of awaiting the bus.  As we walked, Rachi explained that he was married and had five children who remained in North India.  He had moved to Canada because they simply had no money and he had thought that Canada would provide new opportunities for himself and his family.  I asked him how his family was doing in India; he got very quiet at this point.  He stopped, pointed toward the sky and said “I am not sure. But I do know that that man up there will take care of them”.  As we started walking again, Rachi began telling me that it had been twenty years since he had spoken with his wife and children in India.  He had stopped getting letters and was not sure where they were.  He had heard rumours from other family members in India that his family was forced to move to the slums due to unpaid debts and his wife was working as a labourer for a rich family.  Rachi told me that his worst fear was that he would never see his family again.  He explained that he has saved all of the money that he has made so that one day, his family would have a good life.  The hope that Rachi held on to, after 20 years, was incredibly inspirational.  He continues to believe that his family will make it and one day, they will be together.  Near the end of our time together, I asked him what made him believe; I will never forget the words that came from his lips: “I believe because I love”.  

Ruthie’s Story:  As some of you might know, I work with a boy named Stephen.  Stephen is a wonderful young man with a great sense of humour, a mind that yearns to discover, and an unconditional love for animals of all kinds.  When Stephen laughs, you can’t help but follow because his laugh seems to carry a melody of pure joy.  Stephen was diagnosed with Asperger’s at the age of 7.  He doesn’t always understand social cues and he sometimes can get frustrated when there are too many lights or sounds going on at the same time.  I have worked with Stephen for the past two years and have learned an incredible amount of myself through being with him.  Late Saturday night, his mom called me frantically asking if I would come over in the mid-morning of the next day to be with Stephen while they had a few friends over for a visit.  

     Sunday morning came, I got dressed and headed out to see my friend, Stephen.  When I arrived, there were a lot more cars parked around the house than I had previously assumed.  I rang the doorbell and out came Stephen, arms wide, waiting for a hug.  I was ushered into the big house and soon learned it was actually a family gathering that I had been invited to. Stephen’s mother was worried about how Stephen would react to the large group of people so she wanted me there for support.  Stephen quickly brought me downstairs where the rest of the kids were playing games together.  I sat on the floor next to Stephen and his “favourite cousin of all, Ruthie” (as he described her).  Ruthie pushed away her long, shiny dark hair and peered up at me through emerald, green eyes that were hidden behind her thick-rimmed glasses.  She stuck out her sticky hand that had just been stuck in a bowl of jelly-beans and said, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you”.  Ruthie was only six years old, and still she seemed to understand Stephen better than he understood himself.  I watched as she played with her big cousin without fear or anxiety.  At one point, as we were playing a game of monopoly, Stephen began to get upset because he had to pay a fee for landing on a particular spot.  Ruthie grabbed his face with both her hands, looked into his eyes and blew.  Stephen closed his eyes, felt the air pass his face, and smiled.  He sat back down, began counting his money and handed the amount over.  I was utterly amazed.  This six year old girl seemed to just know Stephen. 

   After a few hours, as I was gathering my things to head off to work, I found Ruthie waiting to say goodbye.  I stooped down and gave her a big hug.  I told her that she was really great with Stephen and that I really enjoyed playing with them.  She grabbed my face much like she did to Stephen and said “He’s my friend…and so are you”; she then blew in my face and gave me a big, wet kiss. 

   From Rachi, I re-discovered the great power of love. From Ruthie, I learned the innocence and beauty not only of children, but of friendship as well.  What did you learn from the friends you met this week?