On relative and absolute love

We can love people absolutely or relatively.

Relative love has preferences. I would rather be with x than y. As a basis for this preference, we list a person’s objective traits – personality, intelligence, fame, beauty – and make a decision who to spend our time with on this basis. There is something repellent about it.

With absolute love, the person appears  in complete independence. The relationship is unique, neither better nor worse than any other, but a world of its own. That love is not tied to characteristics which, were they to change, would lead you to drop in the rankings. Absolute love therefore, whether from God or a fellow human, is always a gift of absolute freedom.

 

On dailiness

Since the beginning of this year, I have made a shift in my writing practice. I used to believe that I should block off moments to execute a piece – short story, novel, essay. Ideas would bubble up under pressure, a form emerge, and the writing come together. External deadlines would help, and I should set up a calendar based on competitions and calls for stories.

Now, I write a page every day, and publish it myself. I have no further goal. This is not ‘a project’. Projects involve a tension, an anxiety. I imagine a future state where the piece is complete. I sense the future piece. I draft it in my head. I make a plan. I know where I’m going before I even start. In this new daily practice, I am not tensing towards a future. I am present.

Projects entail scarcity. I set a goal. Reaching it requires something I miss. I establish what that is, and I labour to get it. Daily practice engenders abundance. From hollow spaces in my day, I breed new thoughts, new sentences, new writing. Over time, they grow, fall, mingle, form a rich humus, where new flowers bloom, fast, rare, beautiful.

This requires trust. Trust in the process. Something will come. Not if I simply stand still and wait. I have to move, even without a clear end point. I listen to my internal rhythm, I follow my inner compass. Then I look back, and I understand.

This requires flexibility. Halfway through journey, I can change, take a turn, step aside, or jump. It is acceptable. Over time, through this daily repetition, I change.