“Once you have flown, you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward; for there you have been, there you long to return.”- Leonardo da Vinci
Pretty and not entirely sure about this one, Mr. da Vinci.
I could write books on pretty much every sentence in the book “A General Theory of Love” by Fari Amini, Richard Lannon, and Thomas Lewis. As it is very well-written and densely packed with wisdom.
However, honoring the quote “there is integrity in brevity,” I will try my absolute best to handpick only a couple of things that struck an emotional chord.
What left a lasting impression was learning that people who did not receive much interaction during their childhood were less likely to survive or thrive later in life. As seen in history, from the high death rate of babies in the 13th century who were not spoken to thanks to the orders of King Frederick II; or from the orphans of the 1940s who were not played with, handled or held and consequently became sick and/or died.
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Initially, reading this book shed some light on how much love my parents gave to my brothers and me. It made me recognize that my parents nurtured us through their rich, vivid, and frequent sensory inputs primarily in the form of… food.
Yes, food. My parents weren’t big on flippantly saying “I love you” to us.
Instead, they poured their hearts out to us by cooking exquisite meals daily — every salty, garlicky, olive-oil-drenched (insert any meal here) whispered loving words to us.
They prided themselves on using the best ingredients they could find — including mushroom foraging.
The dining table is where I felt, and still feel, genuine love radiating from my parents.
But with that love also came the brutal truths, the uncomfortable questions, the shouting matches, the angry tears, the explosive laughter, the affectionate words, and the wise stories.
I had an iridologist once tell me that I had a particular stomach shape and asked me if the family dynamic during meals was emotionally charged growing up.
Uhm… yep, try every single bite.
Table discussions aside, I feel particularly grateful towards my mother for single-handedly cement-packing our limbic brains to their maximum capacity with her continuous, no-nonsense come here for a solid hug kind of affection.
As my brother once said, “Mom raised us to believe that we were the best, and the worst part is that we actually believed her.”
“A General Theory of Love” helped me realize the potency of the lasting magic she imparted on us.
However, my mom’s devotion to us and her creation of that smothering cocoon effect came at the cost of her own self-actualization. She dedicated herself to being a full-time housewife, and in the process, let go of her own ambitions and aspirations outside of the home.
Consequently, my biggest source of guilt and distress used to be (with occasional relapses) neglecting my kids’ limbic needs in the name of my own self-actualization, alternating my priorities between their needs and mine.
Insert “a deep reverence for finding that oh-so-fucking-elusive middle path between the two” here.
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The aspect of the book that makes me call ‘bullshit’ underneath my breath is the fact that it is written by three eminent male psychiatrists. Of course, it is easy for them to point their fingers at neglectful mothers. How many mothers didn’t become experts in their field and weren’t able to write books because they were too busy creating, birthing, and nurturing the growing limbic brains of their young children?
And the authors also fail to elaborate on just how much a young child suffers when their mother herself is depressed, stifled, and unfulfilled.
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So, what came first, the chicken or the egg? What comes first: being loved to feel worthy of self-actualization, or becoming self-actualized to feel worthy of being loved and giving love?
Could twins who received the same amount of external love growing up still develop different internal limbic reservoirs as adults?
The authors claim that memory is an “elusive and unreliable tool that does not travel a straight line,” so that “the story of each life is traced on a sand dune that the wind of time and experience gradually sculpt from one shape to another.”
In my life, I knew a tormented artist who was very much loved as a kid but who tragically ended up taking his life as an adult.
I have also met people who had very unfortunate beginnings in life (orphaned, neglected, and abused) and that are now very stable, highly-functioning, and emotionally-intelligent adults.
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I’ve always appreciated the quote by Tom Robbins that goes, “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.”
I also love the line from the book, “Good physicians have always known that the relationship heals.” Having someone care heals.
So, can cultivating healthy relationships in adulthood override an unfortunate childhood?
I’d like to believe so. But I may be coming from a biased place of having had lots of garlic-olive-oil infused limbic love.
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My general theory of love boils down to self-love: to endlessly strive toward cultivating genuine self-love, regardless of upbringing. Because only from that place of true love for self can love for others (parents, partner, friends, and children) occur naturally and genuinely.
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There is one line in the book that gave my rational brain some refuge that I haven’t already hopelessly and utterly messed up my kids, “Ainsworth noticed that the securely attached children were not the ones held the longest but the ones hugged when they wanted to be hugged and put down when they wanted to be put down.”
Yum, there is a sense of ease and freedom in that sentence. Allowing intuition to take the lead when it comes to raising kids. Giving the child and the caretaker the discretion to choose between when to care and not to care.
Not overthinking it. Not forcing love (or food, for that matter). Just being present and allowing for needs to be seen and met naturally, continuously, organically, and effortlessly.
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To conclude on the topic of love (which may as well be interchangeable with the word “life”), nothing elicited such an orchestra of emotional reactions in me as did this sentence in the book:
“Love’s impermanence necessitates unending rediscovery.”
So, with all due respect, dear Mr. da Vinci, to your partially true quote, “Once you have flown, you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward; for there you have been, there you long to return.”
One must remain in perpetual creative and loving response to the flight of life. Even if you have never flown (i.e. felt loved) before. Keep flying or live trying (while stopping for food with company, of course). Always. Again and again.
