Part Two: The Story of My Long and Complicated Relationship with Romance.
In this blog, I pick up where I left off in "The Story of My Long and Complicated Relationship with Romance: Part One." If you haven't read part one, I encourage you to do so before continuing.
The human Self is made of many parts, not just one dimension that comprises identity. Through hardship, criticism, oppression, traumatic events, and moments of rejection, we subconsciously exile certain parts of ourselves to clear out the "bad" or "unlikeable" and just keep the "good parts." On paper, this seems reasonable: throw out the bad apples so they don't create rot in the whole bunch. But when it comes to the human sense of Self, this method doesn’t work, because we don't actually have good and bad parts—just different parts, with no positive or negative value.
A whole, healthy sense of Self is made up of all our parts, and if we take away any one aspect, we will struggle in one way or another. When we start to cull out the unwanted parts in an attempt to create a "better version of the whole," we only end up with a fractured Self. There are no surprises here: when we decide certain parts of ourselves are unloveable or unlikeable and send those parts away, we feel lost and confused and make choices that don't align with our true longings. In short, we feel bad and lost, unable to name the moment we strayed from our truth.
Part One is about how I abandoned my romantic tendencies because they embarrassed me; I didn't understand how to be taken seriously as a woman if I was also considered a romantic. According to current cultural norms, a feminine quality has been assigned to romanticism. In that way, it is also considered silly, unnecessary, and dispensable. In my early twenties, I was one of two saleswomen on a regional team of 30 people—that's right, the other 28 team members were buttoned-up men. I already had a lot to prove just to keep my seat at the table in this ultra-competitive arena. I didn't dare take any risks to show my tender side.
The cultural definitions and notions of romanticism influenced me, and I felt shame when I took in the negative connotation of being a “hopeless romantic.” One or two boyfriends along the way also made negative comments about my romantic ways, and eventually, I sent my most tender parts into exile. Now, more than 20 years later, I see that as an emerging adult, I didn't have the skills to evaluate whether or not I agreed with the widely-held definition of Romanticism. Culturally, it is defined as frivolous and decidedly feminine. Urg! Have you heard of Shakespeare, people? The man who wrote the most romantic love story of all time?! Do you know about Romanticism's late 18th and early 19th century literary and artistic movement, based on emotional experience, solitude as a means of spiritual growth and enlightenment, and connection to nature as a teacher and source of infinite beauty? Though the followers of Romanticism knew it in their era, we need reminders today that romantic living is not just about love and infatuation. It is not something you do; it is a way of experiencing the world, a way of being.
As part of reclaiming my romantic side, I had to get clear on what romantic living really means to me—and the definition is about as far away from a Jennifer Aniston rom-com as you can get. Romantic living is about noticing the sublime beauty among the hardships and sharp edges of everyday life. It involves a reverence for simplicity and the connective moments available when embracing beauty delivered even—maybe particularly—in raw and unadorned states. It arrives through ordinary moments like the scent of the tomato vine left on your skin after gardening. Lighting a candle for a winter meal of hearty soup—earthy and humble yet deeply nourishing and satisfying. A knowing glance exchanged with a stranger, somehow communicating that nothing and everything is understood about what it means to be human—the secrets of the universe revealed in a fleeting moment. Romantic living is about intimacy that transcends physical contact and brings emotional and spiritual understanding to any relationship—whether it be with a hummingbird or a human.
Living romantically is not about what you see but how you see.
Even when my most beloved part, the romantic, was in exile, I savored the simple, humble moments of everyday life. I didn't talk about it and certainly didn't publish anything about these seemingly wistful notions for public consumption. The journals from those years are filled with anguish about how to live more authentically. For long stretches I wrote about the same struggle: how to integrate my pragmatic side with my creative side—and how much I wanted to lead with the part of me that seeks deep intimacy with the natural world and the humans in it. My writing is also filled with grumblings and sadness about living in a capitalist, consumption-based society that seems only to value the flashy and obvious. I felt like an outsider with my old-fashioned ways and interest in slower pace of life.
A romantic view, by my definition, means living in the belief that no matter the situation, beauty can be uncovered.
"Should we look at the spring blossoms only in full flower, or the moon only when cloudless and clear?" —Kenko, 16th century Buddhist priest
After several years of reflection, I now have a solid understanding that Romanticism is not as much about loving someone or the crashing and enthralling fall of love as it is about finding love in all the small ways it can be experienced in life.
Love is about belonging.
Love is about being known.
Love is about sharing.
There are so many ways in which I feel love and its abundance. I feel belonging and part of something larger than myself whenever I walk along a stream in winter, bubbling and gurgling under thin, sculptured ice. Or when I’m gardening and an enormous bumble bee bumps into me in its heaving and clumsy flight. I light candles every night for our family dinners because they bring reverence to our communing and the nourishment we share. I feel love when I notice there is always beauty and a moment to stop, cherish, and express gratitude. This is romantic living. And it is decidedly not weak, silly, or superfluous. Living in this romantic way does not mean I can't be organized, predictable, determined, or successful in my life and career. It is finally, finally, clear to me that my pragmatic and creative sides, though offering very different qualities and strengths, are not mutually exclusive. I can be both. And without both, I am simply not me.
The self-acceptance and re-integration of my romantic tender side has grounded me. I no longer feel lost; in fact, I feel the strongest sense of identity, meaning, and purpose I have felt in adulthood. To live in integrity with all the different aspects of our complex identities is to live deeply in alignment with our values and the reasons we were brought into being. This, dear friends, makes for a more fulfilling, contented life.
Now that I have embraced and reclaimed the once-exiled part of me, I share my journey and decades-long struggle with you. I share myself openly, hoping you feel encouraged to find and nurture your exiled parts back into your heart. It is a rocky terrain to welcome back parts you have sent away—a journey filled with regret, pain, relief, and finally, peace.
At this moment, transparency about how shaky it feels to share my story is important. Shaky, but necessary—a last step in welcoming my banished part back into my inner home, my heart. It will always be vulnerable for humans to share with others about who they really are.
In February, the month when we are meant to focus on and celebrate love and romance, I invite you to consider, even on hard days—especially on hard days—all the ways you can live in love through the beauty of ordinary moments. And since we have a special day to do so this month, be sure to tell the people you love why you love them, and how you love them. Then enjoy a slow meal together by the soft glow of candlelight.
Enjoy the slow- Heather