18 posts tagged “love”
Ben showed me this article today. It is really very interesting. To be honest, this is the kind of love I aspire to be able to show to people. I just hope I am strong enough throughout my life to live up to these goals.
(I copied the text for those who can't get the link to work)
Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear
LET’S say you have what you believe to be a healthy marriage. You’re still friends and lovers after spending more than half of your lives together. The dreams you set out to achieve in your 20s — gazing into each other’s eyes in candlelit city bistros when you were single and skinny — have for the most part come true.
Two decades later you have the 20 acres of land, the farmhouse, the children, the dogs and horses. You’re the parents you said you would be, full of love and guidance. You’ve done it all: Disneyland, camping, Hawaii, Mexico, city living, stargazing.
Sure, you have your marital issues, but on the whole you feel so self-satisfied about how things have worked out that you would never, in your wildest nightmares, think you would hear these words from your husband one fine summer day: “I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did. I’m moving out. The kids will understand. They’ll want me to be happy.”
But wait. This isn’t the divorce story you think it is. Neither is it a begging-him-to-stay story. It’s a story about hearing your husband say “I don’t love you anymore” and deciding not to believe him. And what can happen as a result.
Here’s a visual: Child throws a temper tantrum. Tries to hit his mother. But the mother doesn’t hit back, lecture or punish. Instead, she ducks. Then she tries to go about her business as if the tantrum isn’t happening. She doesn’t “reward” the tantrum. She simply doesn’t take the tantrum personally because, after all, it’s not about her.
Let me be clear: I’m not saying my husband was throwing a child’s tantrum. No. He was in the grip of something else — a profound and far more troubling meltdown that comes not in childhood but in midlife, when we perceive that our personal trajectory is no longer arcing reliably upward as it once did. But I decided to respond the same way I’d responded to my children’s tantrums. And I kept responding to it that way. For four months.
“I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.”
His words came at me like a speeding fist, like a sucker punch, yet somehow in that moment I was able to duck. And once I recovered and composed myself, I managed to say, “I don’t buy it.” Because I didn’t.
He drew back in surprise. Apparently he’d expected me to burst into tears, to rage at him, to threaten him with a custody battle. Or beg him to change his mind.
So he turned mean. “I don’t like what you’ve become.”
Gut-wrenching pause. How could he say such a thing? That’s when I really wanted to fight. To rage. To cry. But I didn’t.
Instead, a shroud of calm enveloped me, and I repeated those words: “I don’t buy it.”
You see, I’d recently committed to a non-negotiable understanding with myself. I’d committed to “The End of Suffering.” I’d finally managed to exile the voices in my head that told me my personal happiness was only as good as my outward success, rooted in things that were often outside my control. I’d seen the insanity of that equation and decided to take responsibility for my own happiness. And I mean all of it.
My husband hadn’t yet come to this understanding with himself. He had enjoyed many years of hard work, and its rewards had supported our family of four all along. But his new endeavor hadn’t been going so well, and his ability to be the breadwinner was in rapid decline. He’d been miserable about this, felt useless, was losing himself emotionally and letting himself go physically. And now he wanted out of our marriage; to be done with our family.
But I wasn’t buying it.
I said: “It’s not age-appropriate to expect children to be concerned with their parents’ happiness. Not unless you want to create co-dependents who’ll spend their lives in bad relationships and therapy. There are times in every relationship when the parties involved need a break. What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”
“Huh?” he said.“Go trekking in Nepal. Build a yurt in the back meadow. Turn the garage studio into a man-cave. Get that drum set you’ve always wanted. Anything but hurting the children and me with a reckless move like the one you’re talking about.”
Then I repeated my line, “What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”
“Huh?”
“How can we have a responsible distance?”
“I don’t want distance,” he said. “I want to move out.”
My mind raced. Was it another woman? Drugs? Unconscionable secrets? But I stopped myself. I would not suffer.
Instead, I went to my desk, Googled “responsible separation” and came up with a list. It included things like: Who’s allowed to use what credit cards? Who are the children allowed to see you with in town? Who’s allowed keys to what?
I looked through the list and passed it on to him.
His response: “Keys? We don’t even have keys to our house.”
I remained stoic. I could see pain in his eyes. Pain I recognized.
“Oh, I see what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re going to make me go into therapy. You’re not going to let me move out. You’re going to use the kids against me.”
“I never said that. I just asked: What can we do to give you the distance you need ... ”
“Stop saying that!”
Well, he didn’t move out.
Instead, he spent the summer being unreliable. He stopped coming home at his usual six o’clock. He would stay out late and not call. He blew off our entire Fourth of July — the parade, the barbecue, the fireworks — to go to someone else’s party. When he was at home, he was distant. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t even wish me “Happy Birthday.”
But I didn’t play into it. I walked my line. I told the kids: “Daddy’s having a hard time as adults often do. But we’re a family, no matter what.” I was not going to suffer. And neither were they.
MY trusted friends were irate on my behalf. “How can you just stand by and accept this behavior? Kick him out! Get a lawyer!”
I walked my line with them, too. This man was hurting, yet his problem wasn’t mine to solve. In fact, I needed to get out of his way so he could solve it.
I know what you’re thinking: I’m a pushover. I’m weak and scared and would put up with anything to keep the family together. I’m probably one of those women who would endure physical abuse. But I can assure you, I’m not. I load 1,500-pound horses into trailers and gallop through the high country of Montana all summer. I went through Pitocin-induced natural childbirth. And a Caesarean section without follow-up drugs. I am handy with a chain saw.
I simply had come to understand that I was not at the root of my husband’s problem. He was. If he could turn his problem into a marital fight, he could make it about us. I needed to get out of the way so that wouldn’t happen.
Privately, I decided to give him time. Six months.
I had good days, and I had bad days. On the good days, I took the high road. I ignored his lashing out, his merciless jabs. On bad days, I would fester in the August sun while the kids ran through sprinklers, raging at him in my mind. But I never wavered. Although it may sound ridiculous to say “Don’t take it personally” when your husband tells you he no longer loves you, sometimes that’s exactly what you have to do.
Instead of issuing ultimatums, yelling, crying or begging, I presented him with options. I created a summer of fun for our family and welcomed him to share in it, or not — it was up to him. If he chose not to come along, we would miss him, but we would be just fine, thank you very much. And we were.
And, yeah, you can bet I wanted to sit him down and persuade him to stay. To love me. To fight for what we’ve created. You can bet I wanted to.
But I didn’t.
I barbecued. Made lemonade. Set the table for four. Loved him from afar.
And one day, there he was, home from work early, mowing the lawn. A man doesn’t mow his lawn if he’s going to leave it. Not this man. Then he fixed a door that had been broken for eight years. He made a comment about our front porch needing paint. Our front porch. He mentioned needing wood for next winter. The future. Little by little, he started talking about the future.
It was Thanksgiving dinner that sealed it. My husband bowed his head humbly and said, “I’m thankful for my family.”
He was back.
And I saw what had been missing: pride. He’d lost pride in himself. Maybe that’s what happens when our egos take a hit in midlife and we realize we’re not as young and golden anymore.
When life’s knocked us around. And our childhood myths reveal themselves to be just that. The truth feels like the biggest sucker-punch of them all: it’s not a spouse or land or a job or money that brings us happiness. Those achievements, those relationships, can enhance our happiness, yes, but happiness has to start from within. Relying on any other equation can be lethal.
My husband had become lost in the myth. But he found his way out. We’ve since had the hard conversations. In fact, he encouraged me to write about our ordeal. To help other couples who arrive at this juncture in life. People who feel scared and stuck. Who believe their temporary feelings are permanent. Who see an easy out, and think they can escape.
My husband tried to strike a deal. Blame me for his pain. Unload his feelings of personal disgrace onto me.
But I ducked. And I waited. And it worked.So, I'm having an interesting discussion with a friend on a message board. He belongs to the Orthodox Church, believes that no one goes to Hell when they die, and thinks that Jesus' message was primarily about *this* life and not the next. So far I agree.
Our discussion is centered around the events in Christ's life, and whether them actually taking place in the time line has any affect on the meaning derived from them. I'm quite enjoying this discussion, so I'm going to paste some parts of it here for remembrance sake...and for anyone who wishes to continue it. :)
*****
I guess I find so much meaning in the story that I'm not sure what affect its historicity would have on its impact?
I mean, say we had the bible, but the names were all changed...would it still have the same power? If it doesn't, is it a meaningful difference, or does it just have less power because it's not what we are used to? Or, say someone came up with undeniable proof that Jesus never existed at all, would that shake your faith?
I see your point here. And I know for a great many people throughout history it has been somewhat of a security blanket that gives them courage and strengthens their faith. But, I guess, that's exactly my point. It's a huge comfort, and since when did Jesus tell us to seek comfort? Again, I'm not arguing that the story *wasn't* historically true, I just think that we tend to be way too attached to that aspect, and it can limit our understanding so that we miss some of the most profound and meaningful things in the story itself.I think it was important to them for a number of reasons, including validation of Jesus' claims, encouragement in their sorrow, hope that they share the same fate, and confidence that they could now risk their lives and do anything they dreamt of.
I guess I am just wary of attachment to particulars.
For me, even thinking that the story may be entirely myth, I still find incredible power in it. My life experience validates Jesus' claims. The concepts in the story give me encouragement in my sorrows and hope for my own resurrection (mainly in my life here, but sure after death too). It doesn't always give me the courage to risk everything and follow my dreams, because often my vision is clouded by fear. But when I am calm and centered, I see clearly and that courage comes to me in waves. I worry that a courage based on a particular historical event is a way to deny that fear. It's a subtle underlying aspect of human life, and it cannot be denied.
The only way to be rid of it is, as through Jesus' example, letting it in and not avoiding it. It's a subtle thing I'm talking about, how someone might push down a feeling of fear because of their unshattering faith in a particular event...versus understanding what that event tries to show us (regardless of whether it happened that way or not) and listening to that advice and being open and receptive...even to fear and suffering.
It did have to happen, in the story, because of what it means. Because of how it teaches us. It would make sense that Jesus would acknowledge that it has to happen, because part of his point is that even seeing something like this looming up ahead in our future, we must not be afraid, for there is nothing to fear. If you imagine Jesus' prediction as a literary device in the story of the resurrection, it makes a lot of sense. Not that it can't be real as well, but it seems that the meaning is there regardless.Let's not forget though that it was important to Jesus too. For some reason, it had to happen, he predicted that it would, and told his followers to look forward to it.
Do you really think the Bible becomes empty and meaningless if these events didn't happen? Acknowledging that the events may not have taken place in real life does not take away from the profundity and the *truth* found in the story. This story puts into beautiful and precise terms what so many other stories try to get at...some with better success than others. It speaks directly to our hearts the way only stories can. And there are echoes of these truths in almost every story we write, in almost every life we live. But here we have it unclouded by the fear in our normal stories. Jesus is a character without fear (or rather, who does not act of fear), without sin, and the huge tragedy in his life puts God's lessons to us practically in neon lights.But as to why it should be important historically, I guess I don't really have an answer right now, but it seems inseparable from the story, to me anyway. Perhaps they are pat Christian answers, but if it's just a story, and never happened, and the Son of God didn't exist, and the Incarnation didn't really happen, I'm forced ask what the point would even be then? Besides just trying to be a better person by modeling your life after a character in a story. And the Gospels, as well as the other NT writings, and the writings of those shortly thereafter, place great importance upon these events really happening.
It's so much more than just trying to be a better person. It's discovering the path to truth, to life. It's trusting in the process, even if it looks like it is leading you toward death...because the path to death is a path to rebirth. It teaches us that there is no need to fear, ever. And that love is a never ending spring; the more you pour out of yourself the more you have. It is about letting go.
Stories are meant to teach eternal truths in such a way that we can resonate with them on the deepest level. Christ's story is one of, if not the, most profound of all. I don't know about you, but when I talk about these things my heart fills with excitement and joy at the sheer *truth* of it all. It's incredible.
Well, I'm not a bible scholar, so I can't tell you what his original meaning was. I can only tell you what I gather from it. Why must Paul be talking about a concrete event? In the same passage he talks about the reflection between Christ and Adam. But you don't believe Adam existed. You have no attachment to the particulars in that story. Yet somehow what Paul says is true, isn't it? That what was introduced with Adam is now overcome by Christ. Is it an event that somehow canceled out a prior event? No, because the prior event never happened in real life. It was a myth. But the meaning of it is still strong...and the eternal aspect of the myth, the truth of it...is now reflected and expanded on in the story of Christ.Question for you, what was Paul meaning when he said if Jesus didn't really die and rise again, our faith is in vain? If it's not important as an event that really happened, why do they all place so much importance upon it?
I don't think he's really talking about Christ being risen on a concrete level (though again, it may be concrete as well), but on a personal and existential level that goes much deeper. If Christ is not risen, if there is no rebirth after death, then your faith and your preaching are worthless. You do not fully believe in the meaning you preach. You do not truly have faith. You are still in sin because you are still in fear of death and suffering. And in your mind, those who are asleep (notice he doesn't say dead, interesting) have no hope of awakening, so why preach? I think he's showing how their point of view is reflective of an inner state of despair and fear, when it should be one of hope and life.
Anyway, just my perspective.
*****
How do you find that place of detached and centered love when you're scared to death? Fear makes you act stupid, controlling, suspicious, and makes you feel worthless. It makes it all worse. But the only thing you can do is work on your self, and your own reactions. Regardless of what others may do, you still control your reactions to them.
It seems so easy, to stop and turn your outlook around. Just quell the fear and act from your center. It will keep you from feeling that intense fear that leaves you grasping and unable to let go. It may be simple, but it's not easy. The fear sneaks up on you. It's not until afterward that you realize it has taken hold of you. You acted petty, and you even tried to hide your motives from yourself. You were completely innocent, not suspicious at all. Lies.
Admit the truth. You're scared. And you're letting the fear turn you into something that isn't you, that you never wanted to be but always felt the potential for somewhere within yourself. Your heart feels twisted, and escape feels impossible. For where is there to go but into more fear and hurt?
But just...stop. Tell all the voices of worry and fear and pain to shut up for one second. Feel yourself fixed, still, present to the moment. Expand your awareness to encompass more than the situation that turns you ugly. Remember. Remember everything else. The sky, the trees, your comfy couch, the people you love, the person you love. Even in this moment there are a million things around you worthy of your attention. Look at them, notice them.
The fear subsides. Now imagine yourself pouring out into everything you see. There. There it is. Your center. You've found it. Now, remembering that big world, look back on the small one. It looks different now. Closer, but more distant at the same time. The pain of it does not go away, but somehow it doesn't penetrate you, because you can let your love expand and fill it.
What happens is no longer of consequence. Let it be. Love it.
Just love it.
Your point about love being the only thing that can create free will...that is an interesting one. Fear creates, ignorance creates, but they do so without free will. Why? Because they are possessive, they create only to benefit themselves. Love creates for the pleasure of letting go. And this marks two ways that we as humans can create, or approach life. If we approach life through fear and ignorance (which we all to often do), what we call love is really an attempt to fortify ourselves and fill an emptiness within our hearts that we are afraid of. We don't want a person to be who they are, we want a person to act in a way that benefits us."The free will we are endowed by our Creator is the very thing that defines our existence-- creation without free will is creation without love; ironically, it is love, and only love, that can create life, for all goodness rests in love. That which is not love is only for tearing down." -Amanda
If we approach life through love, then we are much more relaxed. We do not grasp at things or at people. We love them without wanting to possess them because we do not fear emptiness. We have found that emptiness is a window through which we might view love, truth, and authenticity on the deepest level. Love, it seems, is about letting go. And this letting go does imply a will to let each and every creature or force behave as it is.
"This is what is meant of the Something More when I say it is "the individuality and unity of life."" -Amanda
You seem to be getting at something essential here. Two components of God. Individuality, unity. Others have labeled them immanence and transcendence, or the Sophia and the Logos. It is an ironic view of God, because it holds two seemingly opposite qualities together. For me, this idea is absolutely essential to my concept of God.
I understand your flirting with pantheism, because strict monotheism doesn't seem to give you the same impression of cohesiveness and unity. It emphasizes God being set apart, transcendent. While this feels true to you, it doesn't emphasize how present God feels. How he brings us together and exists in every level of his creation.
I also understand your hesitance to take on pantheism. Christians have long looked down on it. You do not want to lose the transcendent aspect of God. But you don't have to. :)
I suggest you look into panentheism. It's monotheism and pantheism combined. The ironic God. Both immanent and transcendent. And the fun part? You can find traces of it (along with mysticism) in every single religion. I believe it is a more accurate description of how God feels to us.
As far as the art and artist, I think God's presence goes deeper than that. To me, God is the artist, but he is also the canvas, the paint, the will and the life of the art itself. Once he has created, he lets it take on a life of its own, but it is not separate, not on the most fundamental level. For though it does as it wills, it is made of the canvas and paint. It is free and separate on one level, but it is made of God on another. In every living thing exists a spark of God's presence.
And on the topic of free will...I actually think that the more you reveal this spark, the freer you are. The more you let it become buried, the more ignorant you are of your true nature, and the more bound to separation you become.
So, paradoxically, I think that to be free *is* to be one with God. To have your will freely join with his. It is rather ironic that in order to become truly free, we do not start bound and have to separate ourselves, but the reverse. The moment we are born we are introduced to separation, and our lives are a quest to find a way to rebind (re-lig the root of the word religion) ourselves with the essential unity and become free.
There is a certain comfort in letting certain things in and excluding others from our view. The same goes with people. There's people who have God, and people who don't. People who know what's up, and people who are idiots. People who pay attention when they drive, and people who should never be let out on the road. People who have truth, and people who have no grasp of it whatsoever.
This method of looking at others has it's comforts, has it's securities. It is a means by which we can understand the world by translating it into what is approved and what is not. It certainly makes life much more simple. Here's what's on my list of approved things, ideas, and people, and I reject what's not on this list.
We all do this, to a certain extent. And it makes sense. We *are* trying to constantly simplify our experience to make it easier to handle.
But it's interesting what happens when you stop putting people and ideas in categories. You start looking closer, you start seeing more. Because you've stopped filtering things out. The priest at the church Ben and I go to was leading us through a meditation, and she said for us to stop filtering, and to let everything in. Do not exclude any sounds, feelings, thoughts...just let it all flow and observe it. Then, you start to see deeper.
The same is true for people and ideas, I think. When you stop trying to declare something as either bad or good and just witness it, you see deeper. And seeing this way allows you to see the truth hidden in everything, because it frees you from your misconceptions and even your opinions. It humbles you because you *have* to let go of the things that make you comfortable in order to let everything in, and in doing so, brings you closer to truth.
Compassion and love break down barriers. They stop us from doing this categorization and from simplifying the world. Love asks us to look at the whole, to see each person, each idea, each moment as valuable in some way. There is no in group or out group. There is only truth, and what it is buried underneath.
And when you see things this way, you approach conversations, people, ideas with an entirely different perspective. You start to understand the subtle language of the heart, and how it is speaking even through people's so called intellectual ideas. You start to see how someone's pure intuition or pure desires were led astray. And instead of feeling contempt for their ignorance, you can feel nothing but compassion and love. You see their soul buried under so much weight, and you long to free them.
You are no longer distracted by the wrongness of what people say. It seems petty to argue about it, almost tragic. And it gives you patience and strength. When you talk with someone it's more like a jazz improvisation...each of you contributing ideas and playing off one another to build something interesting that may open up both of your understandings. You don't feel attached to (or the need to reject) any one concept or dogma because you sense the truth in all of them. This gives you a freedom, a spontaneity, a creativity that you never had before.
And it is all in ceasing to seek comfort, and treating people and even their ideas and their words with compassion and love. It's not always about simplification; often, it's about inclusion and integration.
In our relationships with others we usually keep some sort of mental tally as to what we owe others and what is owed to us. We know who is in good standing with who, etc. It's the way we work. Black marks and gold stars on each person's record.
And usually, we give more to people with a better record. And this is quite natural. If someone lies to us, it will be much harder to trust them again. But even think about the people close to you. We say there are people who we love unconditionally, but do we really? What would happen if this person betrayed us? Or if they consistently didn't live up to our expectations? Usually, human love is conditional, no matter how it appears and/or feels.
And it all comes down to that system of checks and balances that we keep for each person in our heads.
Does God really work the same way, or are we projecting our worldly system of love onto him? Does he keep a checklist of all of our sins and good deeds, just as we do for others? Does he mentally place people in in-groups and out-groups based on their actions like we do?
To make us ask for forgiveness from one particular sin...doesn't that imply that there is a black mark that we need to erase? Or is that not how it works?
If God's love is truly unconditional, then it is beyond account keeping. It has no conditions. Because of this, I really don't think the idea of each sin being a black mark on our permanent record until we say we're sorry is a very helpful model. It's our system, not God's.
If that is true, what might God's love (unconditional love) look like? What would it look like if we were to have it in our own relationships? Is this even desirable, or do we need to keep accounts? Is it necessary that humans not love unconditionally like God? Why or why not?
I bought four more books.
From Amazon.com:
Though love is a perennial topic for writers of all kinds, much of what is written about love is simplistic and unsatisfying. In Conscious Love, Richard Smoley—an expert on the esoteric traditions of mystical Christianity—incorporates insights and wisdom about love from noted thinkers in literature, art, philosophy, sociology, cultural criticism, and even neurology. This remarkable book offers a blueprint for infusing conscious love into human relationships.
This book, What is Called Thinking? is supposedly one of his later books that sort of attempts to revist a lot of the material he wrote in the beginning of his philosophical career, mainly Being and Time. It seemed like a good place to start, because thought I really want to own a copy of Being and Time and I want to read it....it's a little intimidating to be honest.
From an Amazon.com review:
The question is this: Can quantum mechanics tell us anything useful about the nature of reality in the observable day-to-day world? .... how do Einstein's theories of Relativity tie in with our day-to-day experiences and with quantum theory?
He proposes that three fundamental problems are all related: first, the problem of measurement in quantum mechanics; second the problem of time in quantum cosmology and third the so-called "hard problem" in brain science that tries to explain how consciousness can arise form apparently inanimate matter.
....
He comes to the conclusion, rightly, I believe, that consciousness does not emerge from the brain but is conditioned by it. Furthermore, that the entire Universe of mind and matter arises from a fundamental non-dual reality.
From Amazon.com:
"Working from existing translations, Thomas Merton composed a series of personal versions from his favorites among the classic sayings of Chuang Tzu, the most spiritual of the Chinese philosophers. Chuang Tzu, who wrote in the fourth and third centuries B.C., is the chief authentic historical spokesman for Taoism and its founder Lao Tzu (a legendary character known largely through Chuang Tzu's writings). Indeed it was because of Chuang Tzu and the other Taoist sages that Indian Buddhism was transformed, in China, into the unique vehicle we now call by its Japanese name — Zen. The Chinese sage abounds in wit, paradox, satire, and shattering insight into the true ground of being. Father Merton, no stranger to Asian thought, brings a vivid, modern idiom to the timeless wisdom of Tao. Illustrated with early Chinese drawings."
Finally, all my videos have been uploaded to youtube, so now you can go through the whole talk in order, so that everything makes sense. :)
"I was filled full of everlasting assurance, powerfully secured without any pain or fear. This experience was so happy spiritually that I felt completely at peace and relaxed; there was nothing on earth that could have disturbed me. But this lasted only for a short time, and then I was changed and I began to act with a sense of loneliness and depression and the futility of life itself, so that I hardly had the patience to continue living. No comfort or relaxation now, just 'faith, hope and love', and truly I felt very little of this. And yet soon after this our blessed Lord gave me once again that comfort, so pleasant and sure, so delightful and powerful, that there was no fear, no sorrow, no pain, physical and spiritual that could bother me. And then again I felt the pain; then the joy and pleasure; now the one and now the other, again and again, I suppose about 20 times. In the time of joy I could have said with S. Paul: Nothing shall separate me from the love of Christ; and in my pain I could have said with S. Peter: Save me Lord, I am perishing. This vision was shown to teach me to understand that some souls profit by experiencing this, to be comforted at one time, and at another to be left to themselves. God wishes us to know however that he keeps us safe at all times, in sorrow and in joy."
There is chastity only when there is love. When there is love, the problem of sex ceases; and without love, to pursue the ideal of Brahmacharya is an absurdity, because the ideal is unreal. The real is that which you are; and if you don't understand your own mind, the workings of your own mind, you will not understand sex, because sex is a thing of the mind. The problem is not simple. It needs, not mere habit-forming practices, but tremendous thought and enquiry into your relationship with people, with property and with ideas. Sir, it means you have to undergo strenuous searching of your heart and mind, thereby bringing a transformation within yourself. Love is chaste; and when there is love, and not the mere idea of chastity created by the mind, then sex has lost its problem and has quite a different meaning.
-J. Krishnamurti
