on feeling loved

I have a dear friend, who tries to teach me Buddhist mindfulness, without much success.  Embracing nothingness and detachment is not my forte, I am too much in love with everything and everyone, an unrecoverable friendship addict.  Last time we met the topic of discussion was “have you ever felt loved?” – of course, I feel loved by God whenever it’s warm and sunny.  I feel loved by my family and friends, whenever they do or say something sweet and special.  "No, I mean have you truly felt loved by a man, romantically loved?" 

Flash back thirty years ago, I am fifteen years old, a plump and pimply teenager, not extremely popular at school.  Female Jewish math wizards didn’t hold much charm in high school where I come from.  It was November 7^th, the Revolution Day, and I was invited to the eighteen year old neighbor’s birthday party, a Cinderella ball, no doubt initiated by his kind mother.  The Prince Charming was his nineteen year old friend, tall and dark, with green eyes and a whimsical smile.  He appeared out of nowhere in a light grey suit and black turtleneck and asked me for a dance.  It’s funny how I remember those small details, down to the pattern of the scarf he wore in winter, but don’t remember much of what he said, except for an advice not to think too much and come back to earth every once in a while, as well as concern that I was getting too emotionally attached and a regret that he was not capable to respond in kind. 

Too bad, I am emotional, passionate, impulsive and obsessed, too real and too intense for some prudish taste, beloved by the King of Peace. 

But coming back to the question of being loved, why did it feel so special when he appeared out of nowhere and asked for the dance, why being picked out of the crowd by a total stranger, unexpectedly and unplanned, felt more valuable that love and kindness of people who know me?  What is it about the momentary interest of a stranger that feels like a validation, an acknowledgement that you matter, that you stand out? 

A friend who called this morning to cry on my shoulder knows me very well.  So did my classmate who came a few hours before the New Year party of 1985 to help me prepare the salads, proudly opening the door to guests wearing an apron (on top of regular clothes!)  So does my son, who still somehow remembers when he fell into a pool in Florida at the age of two and I jumped without thinking to pull him out. 

So what psychological defect made me crave the attention of a stranger more than the love of people who truly know me, who know my heart and mind?  What faulty wired circuitry in my brain is seeking that shortcut soul connection, the intuitive recognition in the crowd, only followed by painful sobriety of withdrawal?  If I am strong enough to jump in water to pull out a drowning child, why do I crave being all weak and vulnerable, a damsel in distress rescued by a strong man?  If I have enough character strength and compassion that people come to me for advise and reassurance, why am I seeking the shoulder to cry upon? 

When the handsome young man asked me for a dance thirty years ago, it felt like this was how it was supposed to be, like long forgotten reality. This was a replay of the fairy tale told and retold by my parents, over and over, represented as a template, the example of the relationship, an innocent, shy and plain maiden meeting her knight in a shiny armor.  That scenario was so ingrained, it was like a seed, always waiting to bloom at the tiny amount of sunshine and water. 

One of the most painful memories of my youth was loosing that boyfriend to a dress design.  That time I was nineteen, thin, blond, and with clear skin, my sights set on the post-graduate school, not too eager to take my place at the stove, and he was twenty three, ready to tie a knot. I was coming home from school on a trolley, with my nose buried in a dress design booklet, sort of a female Bezalel, always thinking of creative ways to make something new, and I kept perusing the booklet as I walked off the trolley, thinking of how I was going to cut the fabric and sew the dress, not noticing him waiting for me at the trolley stop, apparently expecting me to walk the streets looking out for him right and left…

Years after the breakup I completely rejected my parents’ ideals, marrying the friend who helped with the New Year salads, on my initiative.  But the problem with the woman initiating the relationship, no matter how much the man eventually loves her, is the gnawing void of the doubt that if left on his own he would have made a different choice.  Rationally I knew I made the right move, but deep in my heart something was lacking.  We don’t appreciate being loved on our own merits, we want the undeserved, unconditional love, being chosen out of the crowd of b’not Yerushalayim – but that is the love of God, who of course knows us better than anyone else.