Love

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Currently, my PEP Lab is pushing to learn even more about the biological pathways that account for the various health benefits of loving connections by investigating how love changes you at the cellular level. We now periodically draw blood from all our study volunteers and, in collaboration with UCLA genomics expert Steve Cole, we’re tracking how random assignment to the “love” condition changes the ways people’s DNA gets expressed within their cells. Past work discovered that chronic loneliness—a persistent yearning for more positivity resonance—compromises the ways a person’s genes are expressed, particularly in aspects of the white blood cells of the immune system that govern inflammation. We’re testing the hypothesis that learning to increase the frequency of loving connections alters gene expression in ways that fortify disease resistance and in turn keep people in good health. Insight into how everyday moments of love register and resonate within the human body helps make sense of the groundswell of evidence that links experiences of positive social connections to health and longevity. Mountains of research have documented that people who have diverse and rewarding relationships with others are healthier and live longer. A more recent wave of longitudinal studies specifically ties positive emotions to healthy longevity. These studies suggest that a lack of positivity resonance is in fact more damaging to your health than smoking cigarettes, drinking alcohol excessively, or being obese. Specifically, these studies tell us that people who experience more warm and caring connections with others have fewer colds, lower blood pressure, and less often succumb to heart disease and stroke, diabetes, Alzheimer’s disease, and some cancers. Many of the key conditions that threaten to set you back or shorten your life can thus be staved off by upgrading how and how frequently you connect with others. Love 2.0: The View from Here Love, as we’ve seen here, ripples out through space and time. In a moment of positivity resonance, studies show, your awareness automatically expands, allowing you to appreciate more than you typically do. Also quite automatically, your body leans in toward and affirms the other person, and begins a subtle synchronized dance that further reinforces your connection. Over time, these powerful moments change who you are. They help expand your network of relationships and grow your resilience, wisdom, and physical health. These ripples don’t just affect you. They also affect the people with whom you share your moments of positivity resonance. So as you upgrade your view of love and learn to cultivate more micro-moments of it, you not only get benefits, you give benefits. This repeated back-and-forth sharing, however small or subtle, helps establish and strengthen healthy communities and cultures.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Durante diecinueve años, siempre fue él. Sacrificándome para construir mi negocio para poder darle un buen hogar y educación, y tener miedo de las relaciones después de lo que pasé con Lindsay o perder las relaciones, porque otras mujeres no querían tener que lidiar con la madre de mi niño por el resto de nuestras vidas. Mi vida giraba en torno a él, pero sin importar lo que hiciera todo se fue a la mierda. Ella lo retorció y lo usó en mi contra, y él no sabe en quién confiar. Ser feliz con una mujer no está mal, pero que esa mujer sea Jordan es lo que podría romper la fe que le queda en sus padres. ¿Por qué no puedo detenerme? ¿Por qué me duele tanto el corazón cada vez que sonríe? ¿O se muerde la uña del pulgar o se pone de puntillas para alcanzar algo en la cocina o parpadear, por el amor de Dios? Entro en la cocina y sirvo café en mi taza de viaje. Aprieto la tapa y saco mi almuerzo del refrigerador, arrojando algunas papas extra, ya que no tengo tiempo para el desayuno. De repente suena el timbre, y me vuelvo, frunciendo el ceño. ¿Quién aparece a esta hora de la mañana? Dejando todo en el mostrador, camino hacia la puerta principal y me inclino, mirando por la ventana delantera. Y hablando del diablo... Mi ex está parada en pantalones de nylon y una camiseta sin mangas a juego. Su cabello está recogido en un moño marrón desordenado, pero tiene el rostro lleno de maquillaje. Es la única persona que conozco que se maquilla para ir al gimnasio. Por supuesto, probablemente solo va a conocer chicos. Abro la puerta, tratando de estar en silencio, para que Jordan no se despierte. —¿Qué es lo que quieres? —le digo, abriendo la puerta. —Bueno, qué amable —se burla, manteniendo los brazos cruzados sobre su pecho—. Siempre eres tan imbécil, ¿eh? Y sin esperar una invitación, entra, empujando más allá de mi brazo. —Si te presentas en mi puerta a las cinco de la mañana, no puede ser amable —le digo, cerrando la puerta—. ¿Estás borracha? Entra a la cocina, arrojando sus llaves en mi mostrador y da media vuelta, mirándome. —¿Por qué mi hijo está viviendo en la casa de alguna chica y no contigo? Lucho contra el impulso de poner los ojos en blanco ante su falsa preocupación, que es solo una excusa para ser invasiva. —Es bienvenido a volver a casa en cualquier momento —le explico, dirigiéndome al taburete y agarrando mi camiseta—. Él es quien se fue. —Porque estás permitiendo que Jordan se quede. ¿Por qué? Me paso la prenda por la cabeza. —Si quieres saber qué está pasando con Cole, pregúntale a él. En cuanto a quién le alquilo una habitación, no es asunto tuyo.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —No podía robar tu vida y tenerte solo para mí, ¿sabes? —explica—. Pero entonces, me di cuenta que no eras feliz y llena de esperanzas, o me hacías sentir bien porque eres joven. Tú eres esas cosas y eres capaz de esas cosas porque eres una buena persona. Es quien eres tú. Una lágrima cae, deslizándose por mi mejilla. —Nena —susurra, sus manos temblando—. Espero que me ames, porque te amo como loco, y voy a quererte por el resto de mi vida. Intenté mantenerme alejado porque pensé que era lo correcto, pero no puedo. Te necesito, y te amo. Esto no va a suceder dos veces, y no volveré a ser estúpido. Lo prometo. Mi barbilla tiembla, y algo se atora en mi garganta, e intento contenerme pero no puedo. Mi rosto se quiebra, y me derrumbo, dándole la espalda. Las lágrimas llegan como una maldita cascada, y lo odio. Lo odio. Sus brazos me envuelven en un segundo y me abraza desde atrás, enterrando su rostro en mi cuello. —Lamento que me tomara tanto tiempo —susurra en mi oreja. —Así fue. —Lloro—. Te tomó demasiado tiempo. —Te compensaré. —Me gira y toma mi rostro, presionando sus labios en mi oreja—. Lo prometo. Me sostiene por un momento, y mi orgullo me dice que no me deje llevar. Que no lo deje entrar y no más segundas oportunidades. Pero no estoy completamente segura de que no haría lo mismo si estuviera en sus zapatos. Cole, Lindsay, Shel, mi hermana, Dutch, todo el vecindario… ellos hablarán. Algunos lo juzgarán por esto. Su temor es justificado. Pero ellos no saben. No saben lo afortunados que somos y lo bueno que es esto. Lo amo. Me aparto y limpio mis lágrimas en su camiseta. —Y no coloqué los marcos en el lugar incorrecto —le digo—. Ahí es donde siempre pertenecían. Se ríe, secando las lágrimas de mi rostro, y acercándome para besarme. Todo regresa a mi memoria —su boca, suave pero fuerte, y su sabor—, y le devuelvo el beso, levantándome de puntillas para profundizarlo. —¿Necesitan una habitación? —interrumpe alguien—. Vinieron al lugar correcto. Me vuelvo a apartar, y Pike se aclara la garganta mientras Danni entra y se sienta en su banco. —Pike, esta es Danni —digo—. Danni, Pike. —Encantada de conocerte —contesta. —Sí, igualmente. —Levanta su mano y la sacuden. —Entonces, ¿quieren una habitación? —pregunta nuevamente—. ¿La casa invita? Saca la última llave del cubículo y la levanta. Pike se mueve hacia adelante, tomándola. —Gracias. De verdad. Eso sería genial. Ella desvía su mirada a mí, y puedo ver que está buscando confirmación de que todo está bien. Asiento, tranquilizándola. —Bueno, tengan una buena noche —nos dice—. Los veré en la mañana. Pike toma mi mano, y caminamos afuera. El húmedo aire de agosto comienza a humedecer mis brazos. Él me toma como si fuera a perderme mientras caminamos a su camioneta y toma su bolsa y un pequeño paquete. Me río, viendo todavía lodo en la puerta y llantas.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  GRANDMA SMITH’S BIG white house had green shutters and was surrounded by eucalyptus trees. Inside were tall French doors and Persian carpets and a huge grand piano that would practically dance when Grandma played her honky-tonk music. Whenever we stayed with Grandma Smith, she brought me into her bedroom and sat me down at the vanity table, which was covered with little pastel-colored bottles of perfumes and powders. While I opened the bottles and sniffed them, she’d try to run her long metal comb through my hair, cursing out of the corner of her mouth because it was so tangled. “Doesn’t that goddamn lazy-ass mother of yours ever comb your hair?” she once said. I explained that Mom believed children should be responsible for their own grooming. Grandma told me my hair was too long anyway. She put a bowl on my head, cut off all the hair beneath it, and told me I looked like a flapper. That was what Grandma used to be. But after she had her two children, Mom and our uncle Jim, she became a teacher because she didn’t trust anyone else to educate them. She taught in a one-room schoolhouse in a town called Yampi. Mom hated being the teacher’s daughter. She also hated the way her mother constantly corrected her both at home and at school. Grandma Smith had strong opinions about the way things ought to be done—how to dress, how to talk, how to organize your time, how to cook and keep house, how to manage your finances—and she and Mom fought each other from the beginning. Mom felt that Grandma Smith nagged and badgered, setting rules and punishments for breaking the rules. It drove Mom crazy, and it was the reason she never set rules for us. But I loved Grandma Smith. She was a tall, leathery, broad-shouldered woman with green eyes and a strong jaw. She told me I was her favorite grandchild and that I was going to grow up to be something special. I even liked all of her rules. I liked how she woke us up every morning at dawn, shouting, “Rise and shine, everybody!” and insisted we wash our hands and comb our hair before eating breakfast. She made us hot Cream of Wheat with real butter, then oversaw us while we cleared the table and washed the dishes. Afterward, she took us all to buy new clothes, and we’d go to a movie like Mary Poppins.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  I do not know whether it was chance or destiny. I am not sure if it was the work of grace or the work of nature. But it happened that, at this time, the pattern of the constellations worked in favour of lovers. This was the moment to submit a petition, a billet-doux, to Venus. The scholars tell us that all things have their season. This was the season for young women to find - who knows what? God alone knows all the causes within human affairs. I can tell you nothing about them. I do know this, however. May had taken such a liking to Damian that she could not stop thinking about him. His image was lodged in her heart. ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks about me,’ she said. ‘I love him. I love him more than anyone else in the world. If he had only his shirt to his name, I would still love him.’ Do you see how pity soon suffuses a gentle heart? You may perhaps now understand how generosity of spirit comes naturally to women. Consideration makes them bountiful. Of course certain women are as hard as adamant. They would rather starve a man to death than show him favour. They would not consider themselves murderers, oh no, they would congratulate themselves on their cruel virtue. Not so for May. She was full of pity for Damian. She wrote him a letter, in which she pledged to him her heart. All they needed to find was the time and place. Then she would be happy to satisfy all of his desires. Could he come up with a plan? This was the gist of her message. When she found the opportunity she went to Damian’s chamber, and surreptitiously slipped her note beneath his pillow. Would he find it? She squeezed his hand, without anyone else seeing, and begged him to get well soon. Then she returned to her husband, who was calling out for her. Up rises Damian on the following morning. He had forgotten all about his sickness and his sorrow. There was a spring in his step. He combed his hair, cleaned himself and brushed down his clothes. He did everything to please a certain lady. Then he presented himself to January as humbly as a dog trained to hunt. He was so pleasant to everyone, in fact, that the household was full of praise for him. Craft is easy, for those who are crafty. Above all else he stood high in the favour of May. So I will leave Damian going about his business, and carry on with my story.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  If I had more time, I would tell you more about the continual strife and enmity between them. But let me be brief and to the point. It happened one day that the worthy duke Perotheus, king of the Lapiths, arrived in Athens. He had been the intimate of Theseus since earliest childhood, and had come to the city to resume their happy companionship; he loved no one in the world so much as his friend, and Theseus returned that love. Anyone who reads the old books will learn of it. The story is that when Theseus died, Perotheus went down to hell in order to rescue him. What was Theseus doing in hell? I do not know that part of the story. To resume my own tale, if I may, I should inform you that Perotheus had been the lover of Arcite. So at his friend’s earnest desire and entreaty, Theseus decreed that Arcite should be released from prison without any ransom. Arcite would be free to go wherever he wished, but there was one condition to his liberty. It was agreed that, if Arcite were ever found and caught in Athenian territory, he would be instantly beheaded. Whatever the pretext and whatever the time of his incursion, he would die. What did Arcite do? What else but leave Athens at once and return to Thebes? There was no safer course. But he had best beware. He had left his head as his pledge.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  He had put her to the test before, and she had never disappointed him. She was always loyal, and always patient. What was the point of tempting her again and again? Some men might say that the marquis was a subtle fellow, but I say that it is evil to submit a wife to scrutiny without reason. It simply causes needless grief and anxiety. This is what the marquis did. He came one night to her bedside with a serious face and a disturbed manner. They were alone. ‘Griselda, do you remember that day when I lifted you out of poverty and placed you in an exalted rank? You haven’t forgotten that, I hope? ‘I hope you still recall the days when you lived with your father in that little cottage. I hope your present glory has not made you forgetful. You were in so wretched a position that you could scarcely have dreamed of your good fortune. So listen to every word that I am about to tell you. There is no one here but you and me. ‘You know well enough the circumstances that led you here less than a year ago. Although I am of course mild and loving towards you, my noble courtiers are not so respectful. They tell me that it is shameful and humiliating for them to serve one of such humble estate as yourself. They do not wish to stoop so low. ‘Ever since the birth of your daughter they have been complaining more and more. She shares your blood, after all. My fervent will and wish is to live at peace with them. I must listen to what they say, and dispose of your daughter as I think best. It is not what I would, but what I must, do. ‘God knows all this is distasteful to me. But believe me. I will do nothing without your knowledge. You must assent to all of my decisions. Show me your patience and your constancy. Be faithful to your promise to me on our wedding day.’ When she heard her husband she seemed to remain unmoved. She showed no fear, or alarm, or anger. She was calm and composed. ‘Lord,’ she said, ‘you must do as you please. My daughter and I are your faithful servants. We will obey your commands, for better or for worse. We are wholly yours. Do as you wish. ‘There is nothing in the world that will please me if it displeases you. I desire nothing. I dread nothing. I fear only to lose you, my husband. This is the truth rooted in my heart. It will remain there for ever, and will never fade. I will always be faithful to you.’

• From City of Night (1963)

  The poet stands in awe of life, and the philosopher penetrates it—and I do both. And life, my dear, dear young angel, is a long series of Interviews. And so: On With The Terms, to plunge, as in epic poetry, in medias res .... Lets dispense with the—uh—matter of—funds. Larry, I can suppose—uh—met you on one of our numerous streets, and so I take it you are—uh—seeking—(how did one street angel put it to me not too long ago? Oh, yes:)—bread: a fitting designation for funds, reduced, in the manner of the streets, to The Essential:... bread. I will give you (this is always a rather touchy subject, and so I have established a fixed fee)—$7.50 an hour, and if a fraction of an hour, the full amount All right?... Very good, thats Marvelous! And you will come to see me as often as—” His voice broke, he stares at the red mark on the tape-measure. “—as often,” he finished sighingly, “as the interviews shall last...” He reaches for a Kleenex, also pastel-colored, and touches his nose delicately. “Very well, then.... Im looking forward to knowing All About You my novice angel. Angel!” He puckered his lips and threw me a kiss. “I am all love, my dear boy—every inch (and there are, oh, so many!), every thought, every sigh—all Love: Love, dear child, which is, indeed, God!... Now do move closer. Yes. Now on with our First Interview!—the most important, really—in which we will get to know each other—in which we will turn a searchlight on the wonder of our mutual lives—ignoring momentarily the ugliness, of which—” he said sadly “—of which—there is—so much.... Ah, life—that vast plain of—what?... Like a cold card dealer, God deals out our destinies: It was mine to be born ugly.... But let me, now—by way of establishing an Important Contact with you—let me tell you, now, about The Angels....”

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  This little boy was seated on his bench one day, studying his primer, when he heard some other children in the class singing out ‘Alma Redemptoris’ in praise of the Mother of our Saviour. He drew closer to them, listening very carefully, and after a while he had by heart the words and the notes of the hymn. He could sing the first verse by rote. He was too young to know what the Latin words meant. But then he asked a schoolfellow to explain it to him, and to interpret it in simple language. He went down on his knees and begged him so many times that his young friend eventually agreed to translate it for him. Then this fellow explained the hymn. ‘I have heard that this song,’ he said, ‘was composed in honour of the blessed Virgin. It is meant to praise her, and to beseech her to come to our aid when we are about to die. That is all I know about it. I am a chorister, not a student of grammar.’ ‘So this hymn was written in honour of the Mother of God?’ the innocent boy asked him. ‘I am going to make sure that I have learned it by heart before the Christmas season. I don’t care if I am scolded for not attending to my lessons. I don’t care if I am beaten three times a day. I am going to learn this song in honour of Our Lady.’ So his comrade taught him the words, syllable by syllable, until he could repeat them without any mistakes. He began with the first verse: As I lay upon a night, My thought was on a maid so bright That men call Mary, full of might, Redemptoris mater. He mastered the notes, and sang out the hymn boldly wherever he went. He sang it when he walked to school in the morning, and when he came home again in the afternoon. He was devoted to the praise of the Virgin. As I have said before, this little boy always made his way through the ghetto on his way to school. So he sang out ‘Alma Redemptoris’ earnestly and brightly as he passed through the Jewish quarter. He was blissfully unaware of his surroundings. He simply wanted to honour Our Lady. But then the enemy of mankind, Satan himself, rose up among the Jews. He was full of bitter poison. ‘Oh people of the Old Testament!’ he called out. ‘Is this right? Is this fitting? Can you allow this child to walk among you uttering blasphemy? It is against your reverence. It is against your Law.’ So, from that time forward, the Jews of the neighbourhood conspired against the little boy’s life. They hired a murderer, and told him to wait in a dark alley close to the route of the child on his way to school. This cursed man seized the boy and cut his throat; then he buried him in a pit.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Since I met you, I’ve been awake - alive! Do you think I could give that up, now, so easily?’ My words startled her - as well they might, for I had never spoken like this before, to her or to anyone. She looked away from me, about the room, and ran her tongue over her lips. ‘And all of them, downstairs?’ she said, nodding towards the door. ‘Your mother and father, your brother, Alice, Freddy?’ As she spoke there came a shout, and the sound of voices raised in friendly argument. They mean nothing to me, I wanted to say, compared with you ... But I only shrugged, and smiled. She smiled then, too. ‘And so you really will come? We must leave on Sunday, you know - a week from today. It doesn’t give you long.’ I said it would be long enough; and she placed the faded rose upon the bed, and seized my hands and squeezed them hard. ‘Oh Nan! My dear Nan! We’ll have such times together, I promise you!’ As she spoke, she flung my hands aside and gripped me in a fierce embrace, and laughed with pleasure, so that I felt her body shudder in my arms. Then, all too soon, she stepped away, and I had only empty air to clutch at. There was more noise from below, then the sound of a door opening, followed by the thud of feet upon the staircase, and a cry: ‘Nancy!’ It was Alice. She paused outside the bedroom door, but was too polite - or fearful - to turn the handle. ‘Everyone is leaving,’ she called. ‘Mother says will Miss Butler just step down for a moment, please, for them to say good-bye.’ I looked at Kitty. ‘You go on,’ I said, ‘without me, and I shall come down in a minute. And don’t,’ I added in a lower voice, ‘say anything to them about - our plans. I’ll talk to them about it, later on.’ She nodded, and gave my hand another squeeze; then she opened the door and joined Alice on the landing, and I heard them step below, together. I stood in the gathering shadows and put my trembling fingers before my face. I had taken to scrubbing my hands very carefully, since meeting Kitty Butler; and if they were ever a little stained at the creases now, it was as much with paint and hot-black and blanc-de-perle, as with vinegar.

• From Ulysses (Kindle edition — verify full work) (1922)

  Hannah's notion of the unremarkable nature of sex with a "nothing-worth-talking-about" essence might also account for her not talking about sex or instructing Sula through a practical, meaningful discourse on sexuality. This choice, then, is not merely negligence of her maternal role. Rather, it also reflects the extent to which silence surrounding black women's sexuality is deeply ensconced in the community. In an environment or culture wherein the script circumscribes women's behavior, with its particular dictates governing sexuality, even Hannah, who engages in sexual intercourse frequently, does not entirely overstep its boundaries. She engages sexuality in its physicality, never exceeding the domain of corporeality that would, otherwise, manifest in the discursive, vocalized, or the spoken. Thus, in silent disposition regarding sexuality, she, in essence, does not "articulate any conception of [...I sexuality," to evoke black feminist scholar Evelynn Hammonds, or "the possible varieties of expression of sexual desire."19 Instead, sex is performed and enacted but, "quiet as it's kept," it is never vocalized, spoken about, or taught through a discursive pedagogy of instruction or intergenerational transmission of experiential knowledge. Hannah, in addition to this "lesson" on sex-which Sula learns incidentally after witnessing her mother having sex in the pantry-also imparts a second lesson to Sula: "there was no other that you could count on" (118-19). Sula learns this upon overhearing her mother admit that, while she loves Sula, she "just don't like her" (57). Hannah's differentiation between loving and (not) liking her daughter-which alludes interestingly to Hannah's inquiry to Eva of "did you ever love us?"-exists, much like her ideologies regarding sexuality, in direct opposition to the script, which demands women's idealization and exaltation of motherhood. Hannah demystifies the gradations, obligatory dimensions (or lack thereof), and contingencies of "love" in a demarcation between duty/obligation (love) and agency/choice (like).20 Hannah not only destabilizes fallacious or generalized assumptions regarding the "quality of love," particularly where mothers are concerned, but also illustrates that "love" and "like" are not coterminous notions-nor do these entities fall along the same emotional-committal continuum. For, fundamental to Hannah's notion of love is what feminist sexuality studies scholar Jennifer Nash recognizes as a "black feminist love-politics" in which love engenders a "resistant ethic of self-care"; or, put another way, "love is a politics of claiming, embracing, and restoring the [...] black female self."21 Thus, none of the inadvertent "lessons" Hannah instills in her daughter, namely about sex, love, and nondependency, offers Sula any substantial or pragmatic instructions on girlhood/womanhood or, more specifically, codes of conduct for female behavior. Hannah's not instructing Sula in these areas, however, provides Sula space in which to create a self unaligned with conventionality"a resistant ethic of self-care." And, too, it functions, in part, as an impetus and foundation for Sula's later transgressive behavior and interrelated prioritization of her "self."

• From Sister Outsider (1984)

  And he taught me wonderful things about Africa. And he said to me, “You are a poet. You are a poet. I don’t understand your poetry but you are a poet, you are.” So I would get this underlining of me. “You’re not doing what you’re supposed to do, but, yes, you can do it and we totally expect you to. You are a bright and shining light. You’re off on a lot of wrong turns — women, the Village, white people, all of this, but you’re young yet. You’ll find your way.” So I would get these double messages, this kind of underlining and rejection at the same time. It reduplicated my family, you see. In my family it was: “You’re a Lorde, so that makes you special and particular above anybody else in the world. But you’re not our kind of Lorde, so when are you going to straighten out and act right?” Adrienne: And did you feel, there in the Harlem Writers’ Guild, the same kind of unwritten laws that you had to figure out in order to do right? Audre: Yes, I would bring poems to read at the meetings. And hoping, well, they’re gonna tell me actually what it is they want, but they never could, never did. Adrienne: Were there women in that group, older women? Audre: Rosa Guy was older than I, but she was still very young. I remember only one other woman, Gertrude McBride. But she came in and out of the workshop so quickly I never knew her. For the most part, the men were the core. My friend Jeannie and I were members but in a slightly different position; we were in high school. Adrienne: And so Tougaloo was an entirely different experience of working with other Black writers. Audre: When I went to Tougaloo, I didn’t know what to give or where it was going to come from. I knew I couldn’t give what regular teachers of poetry give, nor did I want to, because they’d never served me. I couldn’t give what English teachers give. The only thing I had to give was me. And I was so involved with these young people — I really loved them. I knew the emotional life of each of those students because we would have conferences, and that became inseparable from their poetry. I would talk to them in the group about their poetry in terms of what I knew about their lives, and that there was a real connection between the two that was inseparable no matter what they’d been taught to the contrary. I knew by the time I left Tougaloo that teaching was the work I needed to be doing, that library work — by this time I was head librarian at the Town School — was not enough. It had been very satisfying to me. And I had a kind of stature I hadn’t had before in terms of working.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  I hope that their stories, which I present in part II of this book, will move and inspire you as much as they move and inspire me. Still my most cherished teachers—my two sons, Crosby and Garrett, alongside my husband and soul mate, Jeff Chappell. We four have now been joined by my boys’ two “kitty boys”—Zeus and Apollo—who seem to know an awful lot about positivity resonance already. Every day I learn something new from my family about how to open my heart to love. Singularly most inspiring and important of all, Jeff has, from the day we first met in that strawberry patch, taught me how love really works and opened my eyes to the poignant limits of my entrenched ivory tower habits. His natural gifts for seeing and acting from his heart, together with his courageous honesty, have taught me, year by year, to fully trust his instincts and wisdom, so much so that he was always the first to read and critique each word and chapter of this book. Just like our beloved ocean, my love for Jeff crests and renews endlessly, reinforcing our lifelong bond. Recommended Reading Brach, Tara (2003). Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha. New York: Bantam. Brantley, Mary and Hanauer, Tesilya (2008). The Gift of Loving-Kindness: 100 Mindful Practices for Compassion, Generosity and Forgiveness. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger. Cacioppo, John T. and Patrick, William (2008). Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection. New York: W. W. Norton. The Dalai Lama (2001). An Open Heart: Practicing Compassion in Everyday Life . Boston: Little, Brown. de Waal, Frans (2009). The Age of Empathy: Nature’s Lessons for a Kinder Society. New York: Three Rivers Press. Ehrenreich, Barbara (2009). Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America. New York: Metropolitan Books. Fredrickson, Barbara L (2009). Positivity: Groundbreaking Research Reveals How to Embrace the Hidden Strength of Positive Emotions, Overcome Negativity, and Thrive. New York: Crown. Germer, Christopher K. and Siegel, Ronald D. (eds.) (2012). Wisdom and Compassion in Psychotherapy: Deepening Mindfulness in Clinical Practice. New York: Guilford. Lyubomirsky, Sonja (2008). The How of Happiness: A Scientific Approach to Getting the Life You Want. New York: Penguin. Neff, Kristin (2011). Self-Compassion: Stop Beating Yourself Up and Leave Insecurity Behind. New York: William Morrow. Nhat Hahn, Thich (2007). Living Buddha, Living Christ (10th anniversary ed.). New York: Riverhead Books. Salzberg, Sharon (2002). Faith: Trusting Your Own Deepest Experience. New York: Riverhead Books. Salzberg, Sharon (2011) Real Happiness: The Power of Meditation . New York: Workman. What’s next on your reading list? Discover your next great read! Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author. Sign up now. _140145454_ CHAPTER 1 Love, Our Supreme Emotion THE ESKIMOS HAD FIFTY-TWO NAMES FOR SNOW BECAUSE IT WAS IMPORTANT TO THEM: THERE OUGHT TO BE AS MANY FOR LOVE. —Margaret Atwood Longing . You know the feeling.

• From Memoirs of Fanny Hill (1749)

  I then just hinted to him not to mention in the house his having seen such a person as me, for reasons I would explain to him more at leisure. And then, for fear of miscarrying, by being seen together, I tore myself from him with a bleeding heart, and stole up softly to my room, where I found Phœbe still fast asleep, and hurrying off my few clothes, lay down by her, with a mixture of joy and anxiety, that may be easier conceived than expressed. The risks of Mrs. Brown’s discovering my purpose, of disappointments, misery, ruin, all vanished before this new-kindled flame. The seeing, the touching, the being, if but for a night, with this idol of my fond virgin heart, appeared to me a happiness above the purchase of my liberty or life. He might use me ill, let him: he was the master, happy, too happy, even to receive death at so dear a hand. To this purpose were the reflections of the whole day, of which every minute seemed to me a little eternity. How often did I visit the clock! nay, was tempted to advance the tedious hand, as if that would have advanced the time with it! Had those of the house had the least observations on me, they must have remarked something extraordinary from the discomposure I could not help betraying; especially when at dinner mention was made of the charmingest youth having been there, and stayed breakfast. “Oh! he was such a beauty!... I should have died for him!... they would pull caps for him!...” and the like fooleries; which, however, was throwing oil on a fire I was sorely put to it to smother the blaze of. The fluctuations of my mind, the whole day, produced one good effect: which was, that, through mere fatigue, I slept tolerably well till five in the morning, when I got up, and having dressed myself, waited, under the double tortures of fear and impatience, for the appointed hour. It came at last, the dear, critical, dangerous hour came; and now, supported only by the courage love lent me, I ventured, a tip-toe, down stairs, leaving my box behind, for fear of being surprized with it in going out.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  8 To humiliate anybody, even a slave or a goy, was a sacrilegious defacing of God’s image 9 and a malicious libel denied God’s existence. 10 Any interpretation of scripture that bred hatred or disdain for others was illegitimate, while a good piece of exegesis sowed affection and dispelled discord. Anybody who studied scripture properly was full of love, explained Rabbi Meir; he “loves the Divine Presence (Shekhinah) and all creatures, makes the Divine Presence glad and makes glad all creatures.” 11 The rabbis continued to use terms such as the Glory (kavod), Shekhinah, and Spirit (ruach) to distinguish their inherently limited, earthly experience of God from the ineffable reality itself. Their new spiritual exercises made the divine a vibrant and immanent presence. Exegesis would do for them what yoga did for Buddhists and Hindus. The truth they sought was not abstract or theoretical but derived from the practice of spiritual exercises. To put themselves into a different state of consciousness, they would fast before they approached the sacred text, lay their heads between their knees, and whisper God’s praises like a mantra. They found that when two or three of them studied the Torah together, they became aware of the Shekhinah in their midst. 12 One day, when Rabbi Yohanan was studying the Torah with his pupils, the Holy Spirit seemed to descend upon them in the form of fire and a rushing wind. 13 On another occasion, Rabbi Akiva heard that his student Ben Azzai was expounding the Torah surrounded by a nimbus of flashing fire. He hurried off to investigate. Was Ben Azzai attempting a dangerous mystical flight to the throne of God? “No,” Ben Azzai replied. “I was only linking up the words of the Torah with one another, and then with the words of the prophets and the prophets with the Writings, and the words rejoiced, as when they were delivered from Sinai, and they were sweet as at their original utterance.” 14 As Ezra had indicated so long ago, scripture was not a closed book and revelation was not a distant historical event. It was renewed every time a Jew confronted the text, opened himself to it, and applied it to his own situation. The rabbis called scripture miqra: it was a “summons to action.” No exegesis was complete until the interpreter had found a practical new ruling that would answer the immediate needs of his community. This dynamic vision could set the world aflame. Anybody who imagines that revealed religion requires a craven clinging to a fixed, unalterable, and self-evident truth should read the rabbis. Midrash required them to “investigate” and “go in search” of fresh insight.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  That was why Socrates was not like other people; he did not care about money or advancement and was not even concerned about his own security. In the Symposium , Plato made Socrates describe his quest for wisdom as a love affair that grasped the seeker’s entire being until he achieved an ekstasis that was an ascent, stage by stage, to a higher state of being. If the philosopher surrendered himself to an “unstinting love of wisdom,” he would acquire joyous knowledge of a beauty that went beyond finite beings because it was being itself: “It always is and neither comes to be nor passes away, neither waxes nor wanes.” 43 It was not confined to one idea or one kind of knowledge. It is not anywhere in another thing, as in an animal, or in earth, or in heaven, or in anything else, but itself by itself with itself, it is always one in form; and all the other beautiful things share in that in such a way that when these others come to be or pass away, this does not become the least bit smaller or greater nor suffer any change. 44 It was “absolute, pure, unmixed, unique, eternal” 45 —like Brahman, Nirvana, or God. Wisdom transformed the philosopher so that he himself enjoyed a measure of divinity. “The love of the gods belongs to anyone who has given birth to true virtue and nourished it, and if any human being could become immortal, it would be he.” 46 As Socrates finished this moving explanation, Alcibiades burst in upon the company and, his tongue loosened by drink, described the extraordinary effect Socrates had upon him. He might be as ugly as a satyr, but he was like the popular effigies of the satyr Silenus that had a tiny statue of a god inside. He was like the satyr Marsyas, whose music propelled an audience into a tranced yearning for union with the gods, except that Socrates did not need a musical instrument because his words alone stirred people to the depths. He had made Alcibiades aware of how deficient he was in wisdom and how lacking in self-knowledge: “He always traps me, you see, and he makes me admit that my political career is a waste of time, while all that matters is just what I most neglect: my personal shortcomings, which cry out for the closest attention.” 47 He tried to stop his ears against Socrates’ imperative summons to virtue but simply could not keep away from him. “I swear to you, the moment he starts to speak, I am beside myself: my heart starts leaping in my chest, the tears come streaming down my face.”

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  Each of us maxed out at four feet six inches. “Maybe one of you will break the world record one day,” Mr. Steers said. (I learned later that the world record at that time, six feet eleven inches, belonged to Mr. Steers.) Out of nowhere my mother appeared. (She was wearing gardening slacks and a summery blouse.) Uh-oh, I thought, we’re in trouble. She looked over the scene, looked at me and Jackie. Looked at Mr. Steers. “Move the bar up,” she said. She slipped off her shoes, toed her mark, and burst forward, clearing five feet easily. I don’t know if I ever loved her more. In the moment I thought she was cool. Soon after, I realized she was also a closet track-ophile. It happened my sophomore year. I developed a painful wart on the bottom of my foot. The podiatrist recommended surgery, which would mean a lost season of track. My mother had two words for that podiatrist. “Un. Acceptable.” She marched down to the drugstore and bought a vial of wart remover, which she applied each day to my foot. Then, every two weeks, she took a carving knife and pared away a sliver of the wart, until it was all gone. That spring I posted the best times of my life. So I shouldn’t have been too surprised by my mother’s next move when my father accused me of jackassing around. Casually she opened her purse and took out seven dollars. “I’d like to purchase one pair of Limber Ups, please,” she said, loud enough for him to hear. Was it my mother’s way of digging at my father? A show of loyalty to her only son? An affirmation of her love of track? I don’t know. But no matter. It never failed to move me, the sight of her standing at the stove or the kitchen sink, cooking dinner or washing dishes in a pair of Japanese running shoes, size 6. PROBABLY BECAUSE HE didn’t want any trouble with my mother, my father loaned me the thousand bucks. This time the shoes came right away. April 1964. I rented a truck, drove down to the warehouse district, and the customs clerk handed over ten enormous cartons. Again I hurried home, carried the cartons down to the basement, ripped them open. Each carton held thirty pairs of Tigers, and each pair was wrapped in cellophane. (Shoe boxes would have been

• From City of Night (1963)

  I want you to tell me all about yourself, too, I want to know you, I want to hear you tell me about your life. Was your childhood happy? You see, these interviews are For You—and once I said this to a young Frenchman, who believed it—as I would have you—and wanted him—to believe it But! He believed it differently. He robbed me!... You wont rob me, will you, darling? No, I know you wont. Besides, we have a doorman—ha, ha—and—the—telephone—is—within—my—reach.... Enough of that: It was merely a feeble attempt at humor, child.... And thinking of a doorman—his uniform only—I remember Robbie. I met him at a costume ball—it was a New Year, and Robbie was there: He was dressed in an elegant uniform—I dont know what kind: It was definitely military: sword, gloves, boots to his hips.... Frankly, I dont think it was anything definite, really—he had just improvised it, the dear child. But he looked Magnificent! Like a prince! An Angel!... Gold brocade. Purple coat White tights. Ah! So slender!... The only other person I have ever seen look quite as Elegant—in my long, long, spent life—is Lola—Lola del Rey: She is like a queen of queens: a Beauty. She had left Hollywood in exasperation: those insipid comedies, as if a goddess had been cast as a maid! It was blasphemy.... An outrage against Beauty is the only blasphemy.... But to pick up the thread of my story: I asked a friend of mine, ‘Who is that magnificent youngman in the white tights?’ And he answered the magic name—Robbie! My Angel!—my love—the first, really, of the Angels: The Angel. Robbie.... And that child with the face of purity—that child, I was to learn, was a call boy.... But I anticipate my story. There is still another category of angels: The Ethereal Angels—these are the artists, the poets, the dancers.... Which will you be? Ah, but we’ll find out later.... I knew an ice-skater, who glided across my heart as if it were ice—at first—at first, burying the blades of his ice-skates into my already-wounded heart—... I have a weak heart, child—at times I stop and listen to it, listen to its beating, I cling to that sound—can it be, I wonder at times, that it has stopped, and am I now suspended between life and death?—but that would be impossible because no such stage exists: Death is merely the absence of life, and all philosophy that goes further goes on superfluously. It must stop There.... So this ice-skater warmed later, but then, as is the way of angels, he flew away—skated away to someone he had met—through me—an investor in a bigger show.... So you see, Life—my life—is the delving into the mysteries of the heart: ‘The heart is deceitful above all things.... Who can know it? ’ We can try! Try, by sharing our mutual space of time together, to fuse the secrets—to find an answer: Love....

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  I never stopped loving the man, and I never found a way to shed the old fear. Sometimes the fear was less, sometimes more, sometimes it went right down to my shoes, which he’d probably cobbled with his bare hands. Love and fear—the same binary emotions governed the dynamic between me and my father. I wondered sometimes if it was mere coincidence that Bowerman and my father—both cryptic, both alpha, both inscrutable—were both named Bill. And yet the two men were driven by different demons. My father, the son of a butcher, was always chasing respectability, whereas Bowerman, whose father had been governor of Oregon, didn’t give a darn for respectability. He was also the grandson of legendary pioneers, men and women who’d walked the full length of the Oregon Trail. When they stopped walking they founded a tiny town in eastern Oregon, which they called Fossil. Bowerman spent his early days there, and compulsively returned. Part of his mind was always back in Fossil, which was funny, because there was something distinctly fossilized about him. Hard, brown, ancient, he possessed a prehistoric strain of maleness, a blend of grit and integrity and calcified stubbornness that was rare in Lyndon Johnson’s America. Today it’s all but extinct. He was a war hero, too. Of course he was. As a major in the Tenth Mountain Division, stationed high in the Italian Alps, Bowerman had shot at men, and plenty had shot back. (His aura was so intimidating, I don’t recall anyone ever asking if he’d actually killed a man.) In case you were tempted to overlook the war and the Tenth Mountain Division and their central role in his psyche, Bowerman always carried a battered leather briefcase with a Roman numeral X engraved in gold on the side. The most famous track coach in America, Bowerman never considered himself a track coach. He detested being called Coach. Given his background, his makeup, he naturally thought of track as a means to an end. He called himself a “Professor of Competitive Responses,” and his job, as he saw it, and often described

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  This skein will never be all goodness and light, without imperfections or darkness, either now or in some distant, yearned-for future. At the same time, wallowing in your shortcomings—or defensively hiding them out of view—distorts reality. Simply accepting them, allowing them to exist and inform you, can be a radical act of self-love. Meditation teacher and clinical psychologist Tara Brach’s phrase “radical acceptance” can be a useful touchstone for this. Embrace all aspects of yourself, especially when your first impulse is to either turn away from or scold yourself for them. Put differently, experiment with leaning in toward your shortcomings, with eyes and heart open. Find a way of rephrasing your self-talk such that you become a friend to yourself. It can help to imagine how someone more practiced in love and compassion might respond to you at this moment. My own touchstone for accessing love and acceptance has become an experience I had upon the tremendous honor of first meeting His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I’d been invited to participate in a scientific discussion with His Holiness as part of the grand opening of Richard Davidson’s Center for Investigating Healthy Minds at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. I’d been briefed on the ritual aspects of the event: Following Tibetan custom, on parting, His Holiness would greet us each individually in turn. We were each to bow when he stood before us, and then he would drape a khata, a ceremonial white silk scarf, around each of our necks. I knew all this, and indeed I’d witnessed this ritual countless times. And yet, when the Dalai Lama stood before me, I froze. I simply stared into his eyes and absorbed the warmth and benevolence of his demeanor. I did this for too long. I’m sure it was only a few seconds too long, but it was too long nonetheless. What happened next was an exquisitely subtle and loving nonverbal gesture: a slight movement of His Holiness’s face that gently moved me along, as if to say “You’re doing this [ritual] wrong, but I love you anyway.” It was an experience completely new to me. I was simultaneously corrected and loved, and in a public setting, no less. What was especially new to me was the silence of my inner critic, that part of me that would typically scold myself for such a public gaffe. Instead, I gently thought to myself, I bet this happens from time to time. Some people become awestruck in the presence of the Dalai Lama. It happened to me. He’s experienced this before and helped me along without judgment. This last piece is key: without judgment. That’s what full acceptance feels like. It is loving connection without judgment, without the unreachable conditions of perfect actions or perfect speech.