I was away for five years and four months. Deliberately ghosting scores of cousins, aunts, grandparents, and relatives I didn’t know I had, I finally returned to the land that bore fruit to me and my kin. For that long I stayed away from what I perceived to be holding me back from the inevitable currents of change.
For much of my teenage years, that rather selfish attitude underscored my unwillingness to reach out to those who held me eternally dear.
My return to Bangladesh was rather superficial - I only desired to present myself as a renewed person, grown past the maternal attachment and naivete that I was associated with in my youth.
Not until I was showered with affection, warm welcomes, and meticulous meals that I realized this superficiality. My aunt who tirelessly cooked the best of their repertoire every single day, the older brother who plodded through the trafficked mazes of Dhaka’s streets to buy me a jacket, and the little sister who sketched a batman poster dashed with affection - all were overwhelmingly kind to me.
There was unbounded love on the other side of the world the entire time. Love that was independent of my rebellion against the past, the failings of my choices, and the ingratitude that I harbored for years.
I understood what unconditional truly meant.
Anthony de Mello deems this kind of love “a kind of symphony, a kind of orchestra that plays one melody in your presence, but when you depart, the orchestra doesn’t stop.” Transcending any transitory undulations in the ebb and flow of life, such love is eternally present, patiently waiting to embrace its object in all its warmth. Absence is not a cause for its contraction, but rather that of a brief hibernation, if not a continuous chiming on the surface of memory that intermittently knocks on the regularity of waking experience, providing glimpses onto the often forgotten purpose of existence.
Unlike the relentless yet transitory pop song that accommodates itself into a corner of experience, lasting love doesn’t burden an individual with a dominant presence or induce fierce bouts of emotion. That description could instead be likened to the brief passions that individuals find themselves enamored by in the present only to be left exhausted in the near future.
David Sinclair is a proponent of adding stressed plants to our diets - adversities in their growth promotes the kind of molecules that are beneficial to the longevity of the plant and the human body. Adversity is a signal for growth, nourishment, and longevity. The same can be said about love. A relationship that is stretched thin by time, distance, or unruly emotions without coming to pieces is one built for the long haul.
In high school I often found myself resenting being excluded from the disparate social groups that my closest friends belonged to. However, I never acted on those sentiments, instead opting to permit this independence among each of us while trusting in our authentic camaraderie.
The opposite of that would breed insecurity, which can only lead a relationship, whether platonic or romantic, to eventually implode. Harboring an expectation of complete surrender and absolute presence to the other person is not only unhealthy but principally unreasonable. A healthy relationship is built upon a respect for the autonomy of all parties involved to seek their solace or yearn for close transparency as deemed necessary.
To be like Jane and Mr. Rochester at the closing of Jane Eyre who are “at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company” in spite of trials that render them at odds. The lasting relationships with which I’m blessed share this element of security unfettered by the bounds of time and space.
They don’t demand much of anyone - only a sustained trust in the bond once established.