Love is strange

Some thoughts cross my mind as inappropriately as a clown at a funeral. The other night, my soon-to-be 16-year-old daughter rumbled up the stairs and when I intercepted her in the corridor, she fell into my arms. «I feel bad!» she said. She had been drinking beer, she had felt sick and she thought she was going to die. «Can't anything be done?» she cried. I stroked her head and had to smile. Nothing can be done, I thought. But at least the alcohol wears off quickly. Just wait until you fall in love for the first time.
Maybe I thought that because I had been re-reading my diaries from my teenage years. They are about nothing other than love. When we love, we are, in a way, just that: clowns at a funeral. So I wrote at the time:
«Whatever love is, it makes you ridiculous. You focus your attention on a centre that doesn't even exist: How and when will I see him again? Was he just nice and there's nothing behind it? Should I invite him to dinner? Why hasn't he called? Will I see him today? Or tomorrow? All these questions. How should I have reacted when he touched me? Touch him too? Nothing is more horrible than the idea that I could be a nuisance to someone. But I want to, I have to, I can't help it. A ridiculous figure.»
But then: Isn't it the inherent dramaturgy of love that makes life worth living in the first place?
"I can't find the words for what I have with X. We are in the mountains. Time is indefinite, we could ride our bikes up to the lake, X could walk in the door and we could have sex, I could get pregnant or we could have lunch. Or none of the above, it could all happen tomorrow or it could rain tomorrow. Why does the passage of time scare you? Everything is fleeting, even love.
We often just keep quiet. We sleep together, then we lie there and look at each other, occasionally one or the other laughs, smiles, we kiss and keep quiet. Yesterday, however, after a long silence, I managed to put three words together. «Love is strange,» I said.
«Why?»
I considered asking him if he thought it was as beautiful in paradise. Then I asked myself how anyone in this world could even come up with such a thought. Exactly. Love is strange."
Love is strange, that's true. «Like pinballs, we are sent on a journey that we only know will end. But to what end? I try to grasp what flows through my hands like sand, to give it a name, the name of the one I love.»
The true beauty of love lies in giving it away - whether to a man, a woman, a child, a stranger. That's what I thought, and when my daughter fell asleep, I quietly closed the door to my room.
© Tages-Anzeiger/Mamablog

About the author

Michèle Binswanger is a philosopher, journalist and author. She writes on social issues, is the mother of two children and lives in Basel.
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