Think of a word that inspires you. A word that makes you smile or square your shoulders or laugh. It’s a word. And – like any word – it can sometimes be used so often that it begins to lose the force it once had. Instead of knocking you flat with the power of it, it can just fade to an annoying nudge after a while of overuse. Eventually it’s reduced to a sound; a collection of letters pushed through lips that the heart never even touches. But then, something happens. You see something -- a person, a place, an action – and the word that used to skip over your ears so easily now becomes the only thing you can hear. It’s the only word that your mind can supply you with to explain what you’ve seen and what you’re feeling. That word suddenly gives the strongest voice to the beating of your heart, and you can feel it there again.
This is the how the word love touched my heart again.
People talk about love a lot. The word gets used a million times a day in a million different sentences spoken by a million different mouths. “I love you,” “I love this song,” “don’t you love this weather?” A million times a day. From family, from friends, and sometimes from total strangers, those four letters fall into the air and disappear like a fine wisp of smoke. And it’s not so much that I started to take the word for granted as it just started to fade. It became the smoke instead of the flame. Until I saw that something that ignited it again.
On Wednesday, I was sitting in the UCLA chemotherapy room where my mom has been going for treatments for a few years now. We always like to get a seat near the end of the building when we can, because the windows look out onto the playground of the elementary school across the street. My mom likes to watch the little kids on their recess and lunch breaks as they play tag and ride their tricycles. I like to watch the cars pass and judge the drivers who don’t know that I can see them through their sunroofs.
This day, however, I was enjoying the less cynical business of watching the kids roll around on all the bikes and wagons the school had for them. As each group of children pedaled and pushed, I laughed to myself at how – even at such a young age – you could already see how these kids were going to be as adults. There was the boy who abandoned his trike after one lap in favor of exploring in the bushes, the girl who giggled with her friends as they took turns pushing each other in their red wagon, and the group that was desperately trying to outrun the pursuing teacher.
But then there was the little blond boy who stood by himself, empty wagon at his side, waiting for someone to jump in. I saw his head turn as he watched each child that rode or ran by him. I could almost feel him hold his breath in anticipation that this would be the boy who asked for a ride or the girl who offered to steer. And I could see his tiny shoulders fall a little after everyone continued past him. For ten full minutes he stood at the ready, and for ten full minutes he stood alone.
My heart broke for him in those minutes, and I wanted so badly for someone to just see him. For someone to see the smile on his face and the way he held that wagon steady. He was there, and I wanted him to know that I saw him.
Eventually, another boy pedaled up to him and they chatted for a bit before he rode away and the little blond boy skipped off to play in the sandbox. But I could still see the boy by himself while the other kids ran past him, unaware. I’m sure he’s not alone and I’m sure he has friends in his class and parents who pick him up at 3:00p. But for that moment when I first saw him, he had no one. And it got me thinking about the people who start that way and never really get to see the end of it.
Whether they start out as shy kids who never manage to make those connections with others, or whether they become adults who can’t figure out how not to sever them, there are people in this world who are alone. By choice or not, they have no one and no one has them. The blond boy at the playground for a few minutes, the woman in the chemo chair behind my mom’s for a few hours, or my grandmother for a lifetime. These people were alone. When I thought about how awful it must be to live your life like that for even a second, I looked at my mom sleeping in that chair. I saw her IV piping toxicity into her veins to keep her living and her headphones piping Madame Butterfly into her ears to keep her alive, and one word filled my heart in that moment.
Love.
No matter what we have seen or what is to come, she loves me. She has cared for me and adored me every second of my life, and she never let me lose sight of that. I am loved. By at least one person on this planet, I am loved unconditionally and unendingly. But the beauty of my life is that she’s not the only person who loves me. My mother, my aunts, my uncles, my grandparents, my brother, my cousin, my closest friends, my distant friends. All of these people have a space in their hearts and in their lives that they allow me to occupy. How lucky am I? I’ve known plenty of people who can’t claim even a sliver of anyone’s heart as their own, but I have two fistfuls of people who truly love me. Two fistfuls of people who live in my heart, too.
I am loved, and I love. I wish the same for everyone, always.
