Bottlenose

One of the frameworks that I use to explain love to my Psychology
class comes from Robert Sternberg. In his “Triangular Theory of Love,”
Sternberg differentiates among the different forms of love by first
identifying three basic elements: passion, intimacy and commitment.
Different combinations of these elements lead to different kinds of
love, he says.

Passion, said Sternberg, refers to “fire and desire,” those intense
emotions associated especially with the beginning of a relationship. It
is as if the heart cannot be contained: it yearns, covets, and demands
to be with and united with the other person.

Intimacy, on the other hand, has “a foundation that is deep,” which
characterizes friendship, Sternberg says. When someone shares a level
of intimacy with another, in this framework, one is not necessarily
into physical relationship with the other. Intimacy is derived from
shared experiences, especially the disclosure of personal things to the
other. Friends know each other well, and this makes their level of
intimacy high. On the other hand, acquaintances do not have a deep
level of intimacy, and even less so strangers.

Finally commitment means a person’s decision to keep a relationship
“in good times and in bad, no less than 100 percent,” as I read on a
friend’s T-shirt. People with a very high degree of commitment stick it
out, even when they face the most difficult trials, even when they feel
like pulling his hair or smashing the laptop against the wall.

“Romantic love” is characterized by a high degree of intimacy and
passion, but a low degree — or even a total absence — of commitment.
People experiencing romantic love usually are friends who are driven by
intense emotions. Most love songs probably refer to this kind of love.
And those who feel this way tell each other, “I will love you forever,”
“I will never leave you,” or “I will stand by you forever.” Their
commitment, however, is unfortunately usually weak, and I say this
because love is expressed by deeds, not sweet words.

A friend of mine, who was in a relationship, once sought my advice.
“What do you think is the best thing for me to do?” she asked. “I feel
that we are not growing in the relationship anymore. I think I am not
happy anymore. Sometimes I feel it is best for us to go our separate
ways.”

“How long have you been feeling this way?” I asked her in turn.

“It’s already been more than three weeks,” she told me.

“But how long have you been together?”

“Three years already.”

I then asked her, “Three years is how many more weeks compared to three weeks?”

Some people claiming to be “in love” are merely feeling infatuation,
which is characterized by a high degree of passion, an intense yearning
for another person, but with very low levels of intimacy and
commitment. They know the other person superficially, and the amorous
words they profess quickly prove to be just that, words.

These feelings are kinds of love, yes. And they are valid emotions.
But perhaps there is another kind of love that one has in mind, one is
in search of. It is the kind of love that people seek and desire, which
some are unable to attain, because of misconceptions about the nature
of love, and so they give up.

One of the simple yet profound analogies I picked up during the
Second International Congress on Love, Sex and Life referred to the
four legs of a table as representing the different elements of love
(Dr. Colleen Mast used four elements in her framework, using
self-mastery as the fourth). If one of the four legs is short the table
becomes rocky. That is why we must learn how to balance these elements
and master the appropriate times and forms on when and how to express
them. Learning these entails active, purposive effort. Many times, the
learning process can be painful.

I remember a time when I could not stand the fighting, bickering and
blaming going on between my dear Anne’s mom and dad. “Oliver,” I told a
friend, “for more than 20 years now, Anne’s mother has been suffering.
From the beginning, through his deeds and unfaithfulness, Anne’s dad
has been making her mom cry.” I thought that it was stupid that they
continued to stick together. Useless, I thought. Her dad had been given
enough chances and kept on committing the same grievous offenses. Her
mom was at a breaking point. She wanted a separation, finally. And I
wanted to see it through.

Smiling calmly, Oliver replied, “But what did her mom and dad say,
23 years ago, in front of a lot of relatives and friends? ‘In sickness
and in health, in good times and in bad, for better or for worse, I
will love you.’ Right? Tell her mom, ‘Hey, I know this is hard, but it
just so happens that at this moment, now is another of those bad and
worse times, but this is what your commitment is, right?’”

Stupid. But the next time I met her, with a heavy heart, I told Anne’s weeping mom Oliver’s advice instead of what I thought.

That was about a year ago. Looking back, I am glad I relayed
Oliver’s advice instead. In fact, I was touched recently when I saw a
birthday card given to her dad that he had posted on a wall. Anne wrote
there, “Dad, thank you for staying with us.”

Thinking about these experiences reminds me of the idea that when we
say “yes” to love, we have to keep saying “yes” every day. A great
person put it this way: “It is easy to be consistent in the hour of
enthusiasm; it is difficult to be so in the hour of tribulation. And
only a consistency that lasts throughout the whole life can be called
faithfulness.” Another great person wrote: In the end, even the “yes”
to love is a source of suffering, because love always requires a denial
of the “I,” in which the “I” allows itself to be pruned and wounded.
Love cannot exist without this painful renunciation of the “I”;
otherwise there can only be pure selfishness, and love ceases to be.

Are we capable of renouncing the “I”? Is the other [person]
important enough to warrant my becoming a person who suffers? Does
truth matter enough to make my suffering worthwhile? Is the promise of
love enough to justify the gift of myself?

These words of a friend made me understand why this must be so: “Why
are you surprised to see thorns beneath that beautiful rose?”

As I ponder these words, I glance at a picture at my side, and tell
her in my heart, “Admirable Mother, teach me so I may also learn how to
keep my love real. Help me, so that through my lectures and my example,
I can also teach others to keep their love real.”

Michael Joseph B. Luistro, 24, teaches general
psychology and principles of learning at the University of the
Philippines, Diliman. He enjoys reading books, jogging around the
academic oval, and taking walks around the UP campus. He frequents a
study center and is also a member of a youth organization whose aims
are scholarship, leadership and service.