"I just called to say I love you...."

"I just called to say, "I love you."
I just called to say how much I care.
I just called to say, "I love you."
And I mean it from the bottom of my heart..."

I remember the first time I heard Stevie Wonder's"I Just Called to Say I Love You," and thought, "yes, this is the kind of relationship I want to be in..."  That was a long, long time ago.  I've since learned, at least for me, that saying "I love you" is not always the best way to say what is in our hearts.

There was a time in my life when I wasn't calling just to say, "I love you," but to hear it back.  I needed to hear that the love I felt for the special "someone" I was in love with, was reciprocated.  And it wasn't enough to know it...I needed to hear it, over, and over, and over again.

Now don't get me wrong, I have no problem with the sweet interchange of "I love you," and "I love you, too."  It is played out in millions of conversations, phone calls, text messages, emails, airport goodbyes, and school drop-offs...every day.  It is not the words that I found myself struggling with, but my reason for saying them.

I wish I could say that I'd learned this lesson a long time ago...and I did, on one level...but it's a lesson I've had to be reminded of a number of times in my life.  And I now realize how insidiously the ego tries to misuse something so pure, to feed it own hunger for self-confirmation.

My journey towards a more thoughtful use of "I love you" started decades ago.  I was in a relationship that was on pretty shaky footing, and completely out of balance.  The man I loved was wrestling with the rightness of our partnership and I just wanted him to "get over it" and get back to where we'd once been. 

I found myself saying "I love you," constantly...every phone call, at the end of every lunch date, each time he walked out of the room....I would say, "I love you," and the expectation was that he would say, "I love you too."  And he did.  And I know he cared deeply about me, but was he "in love" with me the way I was with him, and the way I wanted him to be with me...hmmm....I don't think either one of us was so sure about that.  Somehow, though, I thought if I reminded him often enough that I loved him, he would remember that he once loved me. 

  So, in deference to my needs, he would say, "I love you too."   And as much as this was a nice affirmation in the moment, on a deeper level it made me feel needy and even more hungry for confirmation.  It was like taking a bite of chocolate...the more I got, the more I needed.

Then one day the thought occurred to me, "Why are you saying 'I love you?' Do you really think he doesn't know that you love him?  And if you really loved him, wouldn't you give him what he needed, rather than what you need?"

This was not what I wanted to hear from my Inner Teacher.  But I knew exactly what She  was trying to get me to see.  I was saying "I love you," not for him, but for me.  I had no doubt, whatsoever, that he knew that I loved him.  But I also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that what he most needed, at that moment, was the space to think, and pray, and listen deeply for his own angels.  He needed to sort through his own feelings.  Somehow I'd convinced myself that if I said, "I love you," often enough, and he responded in kind, he would be convinced that it was his truth. 

I realized, in horror, that I was hoping for some kind of emotional self-hypnosis.  And it was clear, that this was the opposite of true love.  True love wants what is best, what is most true, what is divinely inspired for the people we love.  Love wants "the loved one" to be at peace, to live, and laugh, and love with spiritual integrity.   Love doesn't want to...or need to...possess another person's affections, but gives those we love a trusting, open field to leap, and dance, and sing their truth...the truth that comes from a deeper listening for God's guidance and direction...in.

With that realization, I stopped saying "I love you" to my friend if, and when, I detected in myself, an aching hunger for hearing those words in return.  And step-by-step I began to  take it a little further, refraining from saying "I love you" if I already knew that it was not what he needed to hear.

If saying "I love you" was just what I wanted to say, to affirm for myself that I was in a relationship where I could say those words, then I tried to hold my tongue.  Instead I asked myself what, instead of words, might those affections look like if I were to really support his dreams, hopes, vision for his life?   Did I really trust that God, in the quiet space of my friend's prayers, was leading him in a divinely inspired direction?  And, if that guidance took him in a different direction than  a more committed relationship with me, did I really want to interfere with those angels?  Would I want what I was left with...a man who was tolerating his life because he was not being true to his own heart?  

Why would I really even want to be in a relationship with someone whose heart wasn't genuinely longing to be in a relationship with me?  And even if I were to get my way, was that really even "a relationship"...or was it just having an emotional leash on someone. 

This not only led to creating the space that my loved one needed for learning what was his truth, but it also gave me the space to hear God...rather than my own needy "I love yous" over and over again, throughout the days, weeks, and months that followed.

Love doesn't create in us an emptiness that is filled by another, person.  Love isn't a hole we stuff with "I love you" or "I miss you."  Love is an infinite fullness that overflows its cup and pours out of us with such affluence that we are awash in the peace that comes with knowing that we are whole in this loving...not by being the object of someone else's affections...but by being the very objectification of God as Love.

Eventually this space gave birth to more honest relationships for both of us.  Ones that, I think, have allowed each of  us to live, laugh, and love with, what I know for myself is, a greater trust in God's hand in my life, and with a joyful abandon...to be at play in the field of the Lord. 

I am now learning that this same truth is essential in having a lasting relationship with my family, friends, and most assuredly, my children.   Yes, I still say "I love you," but more and more, I am listening for "why".  If my motives are pure, and there are no strings attached, it might just be exactly what is needed.   But if it is just "filler," or if it is said with a question mark at the end...it probably isn't the right thing for me to say at that moment.

There is a hymn in the Christian Science Hymnal that includes this verse:

"Is the heart a well left empty?
None but God its void can fill.
Nothing but a ceaseless fountain,
can its ceaseless longings still."
- C. H. H. Perry

This ceaseless longing, for me, has become the longing to love like God loves.  It is the fullness of knowing that nothing will ever satisfy my thirst but the water that flows from the purest of wells...a divine wellspring, one that has its source in the kingdom of heaven -- within me.   This is living water.  This is water that flows with such pure and ceaseless affluence that there is no stagnation, no backwash, no spurts and sputters of self-doubt and uncertainty.

Love isn't about words.  Love is about putting someone else's needs ahead of your own.  And sometimes, it's about listening for what another person needs to hear, rather than what you want to say.  I am learning that what I want most for the people I love, is that they hear their own angels, their Inner Teacher, God's voice whispering, "this is my beloved son/daughter...this is the way, walk ye in it..."

with Love...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"...you are the apple of my eye..."

"You are the sunshine of my life,
That's why I'll always stay around,
You are the apple of my eye,
Forever you'll stay in my heart

You must have known that I was lonely,
Because you came to my rescue,
And I know that this must be heaven,
How could so much love be inside of you?"
-     Stevie Wonder

My grandmother used to tell me that I was, as Stevie Wonder sings, "the apple of my eye" to her.  I can't remember when it started, but it always made me feel special.  And in a family of eight children, feeling special was...special.

I remember a birthday card I received from her the year I turned ten, it was a big red apple with some kind of fuzzy red flocking, a green stem, little green leaves, and a worm sitting on the top holding a sign that said "Happy Birthday" and inside it said, "to the apple of my eye." And,  "Love, Dee Dee." My mom found it among some special cards and letters she had been saving all these years and gave it to me last year. For a moment, I was ten again, and felt...special.  

She was never Grandma, Grandmother, Granny, Nana, or Oma...she was DeeDee.  She had bright red hair, wore stilettos at 70, and her lipstick always matched her nails.  She couldn't have been any more unlike my mother if she'd had purple skin...and that fascinated me. 

My mother was the quintessential "earth mother."  She was warm, cozy, funny, childlike, and loved the outdoors.   My grandmother was sharp, smart, crisp, intellectual, and European.  Along with the apple-themed birthday card that year, she sent me a leather poodle, with mink ear and tail puffs, and a small bottle of Chanel No. 5 between his paws.  I was  smitten with her, and the sheer impracticality of that gift.  Like the pointy toes on her 3-1/2 inch red patent leather pumps, it made no sense.  To anyone...except the two of us.  She somehow knew that I needed to feel grown up and extravagant that year.  And I did.

No, she was not very grandmotherly in a traditional way, but she was my grandmother.  She would send me Margaret Tsuda art reviews she'd clipped from the Home Forum section of The Christian Science Monitor, long after I'd decided my spiritual journey was going to take a few side trips through other religious practices and spiritual philosophies...and I read them.  There was something about receiving them from her that made me feel connected to something wonderful and magical (our mutual love for art, history, and NYC). And I somehow knew it made her happy to think of me reading them.  It never occurred to me...at the time...that by sending those clippings, she was building bridges that connected me to something that was just as critical to my sense of who I was, and where I came from.  By sending those articles, she'd found a way to keep those words, "Christian Science" in my vocabulary, not in a religious way (since she knew I was exploring many different faiths and philosophies at the time), but in a way that was more comfortable for me to engage with, and appreciate on. And to be honest, one that I was proud to be associated with.  It's reputation for journalistic excellence was unparalleled...and I knew it.

When those thickly stuffed envelopes would arrive with her very uniquely vertical handwriting on the front, I would save each packet...sometimes just sitting propped up on my desk at school all day...until I had a moment to savor the beauty of what I knew would be inside.  An article about a beautiful painting, drawing, sculpture, or photograph written by someone she knew I admired and felt a connection to. 

Tsuda had hosted my cousins and I one autumn afternoon for tea at her apartment, and then given us a guided tour of the Guggenheim at my grandmother's request.  I was 15 years old and I can still remember how grown up and sophisticated I felt in my pleated skirt and Bass loafers with navy blue knee socks, as we felt our way along the spiraled walls to the sound of Margaret's hushed guidance and snippets of history about each piece of art we were experiencing. 

Today I realize what a gift that day was to me.  It honored my life-long love for art and gave my grandmother and I a point of reference for a special connection that would endure over the ensuing three decades.  It was a thread that extended from her heart to mine and it never let me get too far from who she knew me to be...a young woman who loved beauty, history, and being treated as a vigorous spiritual  thinker.

Those hand-clipped art reviews from the Home Forum page always seemed to include the nearby "Monitor Religious article" and today I can admit to having read everyone of them.  Articles about what it meant to be spiritual and how to make that spirituality practical in our lives.

Although she often spoke of her love for God, my grandmother never mentioned religion, or that daily religious article, in her accompanying note.  But as a Christian Science practitioner herself,  I have no doubt that she sent it with the hopes that if, perchance, I was ever hungry for an inspiring spiritual idea...one that would be familiar and healing in a dark hour...I would have something at hand.

In this way she and my mother (her daughter) were very, very much alike.  They were both practical and loving in ways that really mattered.  My mother always made sure I knew how close she was if, and when, I ever needed her...even when she lived thousands of miles away and had six other children to care for.  And my grandmother never let me forget that the most important things in the world were already within me.

I once asked my grandmother why she called me the apple of her eye, and although I thought her answer was pretty "hokey" at the time, I never forgot it.  She said, "because you ripen into something more beautiful and sweet each time time I see you."  I knew she meant it.

My mother and my grandmother were like the angels Gabriel and Michael on either side of me.  My grandmother fought the war for holiness in my life.  My mother was the constant, gentle presence of ministering love.  Together, one on each side, they held my hands as I navigated my spiritual journey from sense to soul.   I needed both of them in order to become the woman I am today.  Their example helped me remember what really matters...modesty, beauty, family, generosity, honesty, faith, temperance, and hope...lots of hope.

They still do.  My mother's example reminds me that it is good to be soft, that nothing could deprive me of my right to be generous and charitable, that it is important to take time and play with my children, that a woman is most beautiful when she laughs hard, and to forgive myself, and others quickly...and to love God with my whole heart.  My grandmother's voice..singing through my heart...never, ever, lets me forget that I can do anything through Christ, that intelligence is truly beautiful, and that Love is not just a good feeling, but a law to rest one's case on.

With women like this on my side...either side...I have been supported, blessed, and loved into womanhood. 

I am so thankful to be the apple of one's eye, and the other's first (of many) cherished baby, beloved child, precious girl, adored daughter.
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit:  Hollister Thomas 2009]

"One little Christmas tree..."

"One little Christmas tree was standing alone
Waiting for someone to come by
One little Christmas tree that never had grown
Cried as he looked up to the sky

Oh please Mr Father tree, the tallest of all
I'm so afraid and alone
Could one little Christmas tree so tiny and small
Light up someone's home…"
- Stevie Wonder

By the time my daughter was in seventh grade, finding a Christmas tree was something we did without question on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving at our favorite tree lot filled with tall, elegant evergreens.  We liked Frasier pines…they stay fresh the longest…and weren't averse to spending whatever the going rate was for the perfect specimen. 

We bought new strings of tiny white lights each year to replace those that had burned out or had missing bulbs, and added to our store of hand-made and carefully chosen ornaments each season.  There was never a question about having the perfect tree in the corner…or by the window…it was a non-negotiable. 

And this Christmas was no different.  By Thanksgiving morning our tree was sparkling… dressed in twinkling lights and years of memories symbolically captured in glass, fabric, paper and porcelain hung delicately from her branches.  We all loved sitting in the front room with the fireplace crackling, something baking in the oven and the Christmas tree in the corner.  The sparkle of hundreds of little lights danced to the sounds of Bing Crosby, Karen and Richard Carpenter, or Jewel, and all was well with the world. 

I hadn't forgotten my own Christmas tree roots…years, as a child, and then again after my dad passed on, when just "getting a tree" was a miracle of grace…much less putting presents under it.  But I didn't want my own daughters to ever have to worry about whether or not they would have a tree.  That was our responsibility as their parents…wasn't it…to make sure they never had to worry about those things.  Or at least that was what I thought until that one cold December night just a few days before Christmas.

Our daughter had plans to spend the afternoon with her best friends, a brother and sister she did everything with throughout the school year.  The Christmas break had included many trips between our home and theirs.  Since, if they were awake, they wanted to be together.  I dropped her off that morning with plans to pick her up in the afternoon, but later in the day she called breathless with excitement.  They were in the middle of a big secret project, she told me, and could she please stay until later in the evening.  Our plans were flexible and so I asked her to call me when she was ready to come home.

When she finally called much later than I had expected, but not unreasonably so, I drove over immediately.  She bounded out the door as soon as I pulled into the driveway and the minute I saw her face I knew something extraordinary had happened.  She was fairly glowing from within. 

As she buckled herself into the passenger seat and I eased our car down the driveway, it all started to tumble out of her.  They had had the BEST day ever.  It was clear that the Christmas spirit had found its way straight to the deepest regions of her heart.  And once I heard her story, I understood why.

She explained that she and her friends had been hanging out at their house when she discovered  that the reason her friends didn't have a Christmas tree was that their mom, a single parent raising four children on her own, couldn't afford one. As they talked about it,  it occurred to them that a man sold Christmas trees in the parking lot of a department store about a quarter of a mile away.  Perhaps if they pooled their money, they could find a little one that would work.  So off they trotted, bundled in every bit of winter wear they could find - loose change and crumpled bills in their pockets - to the Christmas tree lot. 

The man was willing to sell them a full size tree, but then they needed to get it back to the house.  Their only option was to drag it all the way back…a route that was uphill all the way.  It took them "forever" and it was bitterly cold that day, but they had done it!   After they got it home, into the house, and in the Christmas tree stand (Oh how I wish I could have seen those three kids, 12 and 13 years old, wrestling a tree into a stand) they found the lights and decorations that had been left in boxes that year, and proceeded to turn it into the perfect gift for my friend, the children's mom.   As my friend recounted, just a week ago, "It was the best Christmas gift ever!"  Our daughter had stayed late enough to be there for her friend's mom to come through the door and be surprised.  This was the reason for the joy and happiness I had seen glowing from within her as she hopped into the car that night. My friend and her children had given my daughter a gift greater than gold.

She had been given the gift of giving of herself…in pooling whatever modest amount of money she had with her, in braving the cold, and in struggling with her friends to wrestle an unwieldy Christmas tree across the snow and ice in the last light of dusk, she had been so deeply blessed. They had given her the Christmas gift that I had failed to realize she needed most…the right to sacrifice something of herself…for others.

I had tried, over the years, to make it all so beautiful and easy.  To never let her worry about finances, logistics, wrestling with things that were difficult…to never feel the cold or be deprived.  But that night I realized that some of the greatest moments of my own childhood were forged under the stress of circumstances.  When things were hard and we had to pull together, when we were far from family and had to huddle closer to keep warm, when the winds of sorrow or lack left us clinging to one another for a reminder that we were not alone, and when wanting to give to one another led us to finding creative ways to be generous.

So this year I am thankful for that evening.  I am grateful for that brilliant glimpse my daughter had...of her best self.  And I am so grateful for the reminder that the best gift we can give our children (or ourselves) is the gift of giving...really giving. Not just giving my children money so that they can go out and purchase a gift for a teacher or a friend, but opportunities to get outside of themselves and experience, truly experience the gift of giving something so exquisitely beautiful and treasured…their own heart's rich overflow of love, and hope and goodness.  With this kind of giving, everyone is blessed…in ways that echo through time and eternity. And we just might find that we are not only lighting up someone's else's home, but our own heart...with love.

Have a blessed Christmas,
Kate