Real Love?

10.07.06

Someone once wrote, or said, a true friend is one who sings to you the song in your heart when you've forgotten the words.

I read more and more in preparation for teaching my first class and came across this passage from the wonderful childrens' story, "The Velveteen Rabbit" by Mergery Williams.

"What is real?" asked the Rabbit one day... "Real isn't how you are made. It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you. Then you become real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse for he was always thruthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, adn you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things doen't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who doen't understand."

I sat in the back yard, on a sunny, wonderful fall day, with the California Pepper tree swaying her long green haired limbs over me and read these words and then put down the book. And thought. Why is this passage so relevant to obese patients? Why does it resonate with me, the opposite of obese? How does such a wonderfully simple children's story tell us what years of therapy might attempt?

We are born these perfectly "real" human beings, with all of our needs and desires programmed and our skills honed for fulfillment. Many of us are lucky to continue on that path of self-actualization along a fairly painless, not too destructive path. We meet people along the way who we can nurture and who nuture in return. We give and take from this world and leave it a better place, or at least a place not to harmed by our footsteps. We propagate and pass on our skills and talents and fears and loves, weaving carpets of social nets and networking along the way.

But when we dont' feel real, when we can't find those friends who sing back the song in our hearts, where do we go for integrity? Some say it used to be teh church, community, our social institutions that helped support and define us. The breakdown of the family, the commute, the internet, Madison Avenue, ADHD all have been blamed for our fraying personalities. Others say we must find in ourselves our own strength and authenticity, independent of others, through our work, our hobbies, our spirituality, our creativity. We are advised not to need others too much but at the same time we are supposed to be loyal, til death to us part, through thick and thin, come hell and high water, with the people we love and who supposedly love us; our friends, siblings, mates, family. Our social, community and familial ties are supposed to provide those validating mirrors that let us know we're doing okay in this world.

Yet, what happens when we grow out of a friendship, a kinship, a love, a job when we no longer feel real? And in order to find ourselves, we create waves that douse a fragile bond, that crash against tall walls and undermine crumbling foundation?
Do we then toss out the old favorite toy, our precious Velveteen Rabbit because it's lost its sheen? Do we try to mend it and make it look pretty and new? Do we put it on a shelf with the old toys, make busy with the new and then discover the old favorite after years of dust and mites have weakened its fabric and then acknowledge, that it is the memory, rather than the reality that we now hold dear? Or do we look at it and see its value and our own inability to treasure it at the time?

If we don't feel real, do we start looking for others who validate that new person we feel we truly are, say after losing 150 lbs or discovering one's inner belly dancer or deciding to become a a chef after years of litigating for the car industry? This little story seems to say that it's only when you are truly loved that you feel truly real. This is wonderfully romantic, yet brings up the question of guilt. If someone you love doesn't self-actualize is it then your fault that you didn't love them truly, completely, reallyl enough? If you don't feel truly yourself is it because your loved ones don't recognize you or can't love you realistically due to their own limits and edges? Or if you don't feel real is it really because you've been lying to yourself and need to take a good look in the mirror and start loving yourself better? I think what the author is saying, is absolutely relevant to those formative years when a parent's love is the most important determinant of self-hood, of a baby-infant-toddler-child's reality. But as we get older, we need to find balance between accepting and loving ourselves and finding those whom we can truly love and be loved truly by in return.

Can we become our own best friend by finding the words to our song, tucked away in some forgotten corner, and sing it to ourselves when no one else can? Does that work for us social animals who seem to crave mirrors, validation, acceptance? We are driven to mate, to congregate, fornicate and obligate. We no longer live in caves, yet many of us create portable ones to escape to when life gets a little too "brutish, nasty and short." The Skin Horse, who was always truthful, reminds us that becoming real is painful; we must bump up against the brittle, sharp edges in life. We must dare to get shabby, loose in the joints and have our eyes fall out. Those who are too careful, who break easily risk never becoming real. Perhaps, that is their own truth, though, to hold on tight, to sing their song to themselve rather than risk harmonizing with another, making dischords, missed cues, cacaphony. Perhaps there are Rabbits in this world, soft and flexible, and the tough Tin Soldiers, all sharp and pointy and neither is right or wrong; both find themselves in the toy box hoping the Child chooses them to play with. Both are loveable in their own way, their own time and their own place.