A friend of mine went through a breakup recently, and when I asked what happened, he told me that—among some concerns about how compatible they are (e.g., sense of humour, etc)—she said that she was looking for someone who would inspire her to love the Lord in everything that they do. I’ll translate for any non-Catholics who might be reading: her point was that he wasn’t holy enough, or at least that he wasn’t holy enough to inspire her. Apparently they talked about this, and she said that while holiness can be worked on, she wanted someone who was already at that point. To give add some context, I’ll say this: my friend is a good, practising Catholic. He’s much more Catholic than most Catholic guys I know, and he’s got a good future ahead of him. And yes: he does have a sense of humour. So by no stretch of the imagination, he’s a solid pick for a Catholic woman.

When he explained what had happened to me, while I thought the second reason to do with holiness was a bit odd, I quickly dismissed the first reason she gave (i.e., that she wasn’t sure if they “clicked”). Because on some level, we have all had concerns like this: that someone may not be mature enough, or kind enough, or what have you. These are very sensible things, all of which can be worked on, but which are also quite important. Whereas when someone just says that they don’t think they “click,” it sounds like more of a cop out for what really happened: they just lost interest, which is a lot more boring and probably doesn’t allow them to leave with their head up high because, if that’s the case, then the reason is more to do with them rather than the other person. At any rate, it got me thinking, and upon some reflection, I’ve begun to think that the first reason, despite its drabness, is far better than the second; and this is entirely due to what it means to love.

I began to think of something a monk said to me once. When I asked him why he became a Benedictine, he told me that he didn’t really know. Of course, he said that when others have asked before me, he would give them answers like the liturgy, or the radical poverty, or the chants. “But then,” he said, “When I was in Africa, we had none of that.” He would give people these elaborate reasons for why he made the choice that he did, but the truth was far simpler. He became a Benedictine because, in his words, “Dieu est beau.” He explained: “When someone asks why you’re with someone, people generally say that it’s because they’re pretty or intelligent or funny—whatever! But the truth is, it’s not like they’ve come up with a list of pretty, intelligent, or funny people, and chose based on that. No: they just love them.” That’s the strange thing: it’s not only when someone ends a relationship that they justify themselves with these “grander” reasons, but also when they start one. When in fact the truth is quite simple: they feel that way or they don’t.

This is the crux of my point: love is ineffable, so much so that I’m sceptical of any love that is too quickly deciphered and abstracted. Think of it this way: Mother’s Day cards will sometimes say things like “#1 Mum” or “To the best mother in the world,” but—and let’s be honest about this—how many of us are compiling an annual list of mothers in the world and ranking them? Not a soul does anything like this because if that’s not what our love is based on. That would be completely insane, yet this love we have is based on something that is quite primordial, arguably even irrational, and it’s far more enduring than any of the loves that we can describe. Of course, that’s assuming the relationship you have with your mother is a good one, but that’s just an example. So it is that my running theory is this: that a love too easily described and understood cannot be much love at all.

In King Lear, when Cordelia says to her father, “I love your Majesty / According to my bond, no more nor less,” (I.I.101–102) he feels betrayed. After all, it was not long beforehand that his other two daughters gave him impassioned speeches describing their love for him, one of whom dares to say: “I love you more than word can wield the matter, / Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty, / Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare” (I.I.60–63). Yet, despite Cordelia’s lack of rhetorical flourish, we find her love for her father to be the truest of all. Likewise, perhaps it is true that the simplest reasons for not being in love are closer to the truth. Sometimes people just don’t click, and sometimes they can’t help but love each other. In short, I have begun to think that the simplest love is the most enduring, for if nothing else, I think love is something beyond the definitive capabilities of our words, and leaves us entirely mute when we stop to ponder it.