Love as an Act of Courage

Many of us make great acts of courage in our day to day lives. When we love, it is an act of courage. From birth to death, we find the humanity in ourselves to love, and to therefore be courageous. I find it important to acknowledge that the word 'humanity' comes from the Latin word 'humatio' which means ‘burial, burying’. The very word of humanity starts off with the humility that we will all die and be buried one day—that we will return to the ground we came from.

My mother is an expert at acknowledging and embracing this humility and frivolity of life.

She takes after my grandma. She clings to physical items, cries easily, and loves generously. I take after my aunt. My skepticism, erratic temperament, even my smile matches hers exactly: a crooked, cocky grin, a careful construction of confidence.

My mother has an innate ability to admire and appreciate all parts of nature and human craftsmanship around her. I used to roll my eyes at her; I would call her 'easily amused'. As I grew older, I lost the faculty of wonder that we were all born with as children. Life had become a habit.

"Joelle, come look at the sunset!" Mom exclaimed one day. "See how beautiful? It's like a Bob Ross painting."
I looked up from where I sat on the couch with my laptop in my lap. “What?” I said, taking off the headphones I had borrowed from my brother, and putting them next to my crossed legs. 

“Come. Look how beautiful.”

I pushed myself to my feet, stumbling over to my mom to stand next to her. She stood behind the glass door of the unlit balcony, looking up at the sunset in amazement. I leaned my head on her shoulder and slipped my fingers in between her own, interlocked. Her hand was warm. My mother was always warm.

“See? It’s like the sky is God’s canvas. Look at the blues and purples and pinks. It’s so pretty,” she murmured, as if afraid to disturb the serenity and intimacy of the moment. I looked ahead into the vast and empty sky, and indeed, the blue fell into purple to pink to the jarring orange of the bright and fading sun. Cognitively, I recognised that this was a stunning image in front of me, all for free and for me to marvel at. It was the kind of view a painter would declare as his muse, tastefully and delicately blending together a mosaic of pastel colours. It was beautiful.

However, as I looked deep into my mother’s eyes, more focused on her than I was on the actual sunset, I found nothing but sheer innocent awe and incredulity.

My hand tightened on hers. What was she seeing that I wasn’t? We were looking at the same sunset. I recognised the beauty of it, but I didn’t truly realise it like she did.

I’d read endless philosophical passages about appreciating the little things in life, and I wholeheartedly agreed. But it seemed my heart wasn’t in tune with my head, as I could never truly feel those same feelings of appreciation.

I was in awe of my mother. I was stupefied; I was stunned— every synonym under the sun. While she admired the sunset and its palette of colours, I admired her. 

After a few more moments of standing like that, she pressed a kiss to the side of my head and disentangled her hand from mine. Like that, the moment was over, and I was left to think. I sat back down on the couch, assuming my previous position. Mom stood in the kitchen, leaning against the black granite counter, preparing a bubbling pot of tea. 

The apartment was open-concept; I kept stealing glances at her as I tried to focus on the idly-playing video on my laptop. 

The moment I had just shared with her troubled me. I was troubled with admiration and a little bit of envy—more than I’d care to admit. 

Though the stereotype of philosophers goes that there is a sense of arrogance and elitism, I've found that instead there is a deep humility in the philosopher. No philosopher has ever thought a completely novel thought; there is nothing that is wholly novel. There are always antecedent conditions. They go back to the best to move forward. They learn from each other. “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.” A wonderful declaration of humility.

Like that, I made my decision to tell her. Tell her how I admired her, and ask for her forgiveness of my past mockings. Before then, this concept might as well have been unbeknownst to me. 

“Hey mom?” I said, a little tentative.

“Yeah?”

I swallowed. “You do this thing... and it’s really admirable.”

At this, she tilted her head: a curious cue for me to go on. “You… have this way of being so grateful for everything. You have this sense of wonder about all the beautiful things we see, despite you having seen them so many times. I was just thinking about it, and it’s just something I really… like about you. And I just wish I was like that, or had inherited it from you or something. 

“I feel bad when I would laugh at you, or pass some snide comment, because really you were right all along. I’m sorry. I don’t really know what I’m saying. I love you. I was just—”

And I burst into tears. For what reason, I wish I could pinpoint. 

Emotions flooded my being, and as she came to wrap her arms around me, I knew then that into my mother’s hands I had commended my spirit. 

An unbearable combination of guilt, envy, and most of all, an overwhelming sense of love wracked through me. Seldom in my life have I felt such love for another person all at once, but it made sense. What an incredible woman my mother was, and only then, after all that time, was I truly realising the extent of her greatness. To burst into tears was the least I could have done.

However, ever the wannabe ‘tough’ person I am, I wiped my tears as soon as they escaped.  I couldn’t believe myself. I had taken a courageous step to tell my mother a small portion of the amount of which I appreciated her, and I betrayed myself by crying. I felt stupid, and yet a small feeling of satisfaction made a home in my heart. 
I had told her, even if just a little, about how great I thought she was. 

She still doesn’t even know how beautiful she is, but even if I took all the words in the English language, they would never be enough.