Trust and Love

A question that has been on the minds of philosophers and artists throughout time remains with us today, but in a rare, embattled form. Whereas literature abounds in essays and treatises on the true meaning of romantic love, few practical answers have ever been suggested. Generally, the theme most commonly agreed on today is that love is a powerful force that defies description, but is unmistakable when encountered.

This definition serves well enough in most situations for the simple reason that the idea of mistaking romantic love for something else is generally thought of as laughable. In many regards, this is an acceptable philosophy. Rarely has an exclamation of “I love glazed doughnuts!” inspired romantic jealousy. Similarly, a declaration of “I love you!” is rarely followed by a question of, “What do you mean by that exactly?”

Despite that fact, it remains a compelling question. The general assumption is that love is a sensation shared and defined by the couple experiencing it. Outsiders to a particular relationship are unaware of the depths and sensations of the love that holds it together, though spotting the existence of some form of love is generally assumed to be easy. But is this a reasonable assumption? Can it truly be argued that couples defined by love are bound by a sensation strictly the same for both members? Is it reasonable to think that couples held together by love may in fact be held together by sensations wildly disparate for each member, but complimentary to the union of the pair? If yes, is there a limit to how different these sensations can be before the idea of a shared love seems less credible?

For that matter, the general assumption is that love is an experience reserved for a pair. This is generally accepted as common knowledge, and suggestions to the contrary are alarming to some and infuriating to others. Granted, there are occasional dissenters to this point, but they are widely agreed on as being radical, fantastic, or proponents of an “untrue” love. However, even those willing to brand as radical those who believe love can extend beyond a couple are likely to admit that they have had numerous loves over the span of their lives. Given that, the definition is not that love is reserved for a set couple, but instead that love is reserved for one set couple at a time.

Taken individually, none of these minor questions pose much threat to common thoughts on love. However, as a group, they have the potential to raise troubling questions about the fundamental assumptions held about what is generally regarded as a universal, desirable phenomenon.

Take for example the idea that a couple is capable of holding member-specific sensations of love. This seems reasonable for the simple fact that, given that a couple contains two separate people, they must be – in the very least – capable of loving aspects of the partner not found in themselves. However, taken to extremes, this leaves open the idea that a couple can love each other on the basis of wild disparities in personality that do not lend themselves to traditional definitions of love. One partner can love the sensation of having complete control over the other – conscious or not – while the submissive partner loves the sensation of security this may or may not bring. Such imbalances of power can open the door to questions of manipulation or the concept of one party taking advantage of the other. Should such a situation exist, and if it does not lessen the sensations drawing a couple together, is the relationship held together any less by love? Is this chasm in the sensations of love within the pair still supportive of a love compatible with more traditional thoughts on love? If not, what holds such couples together?

The second question raised is that of romantic love existing in only one location, per person, per moment. For many, this notion is the cornerstone of the definition of love. But how stable a foundation is this? It seems logical that if one strongly feels that love can be felt for only one person at a time, then the idea of “lingering feelings” for a former lover are based on something that is not love. What then is this? Is this an experience unique to only a small portion of the population? And if so, does this then essentially require that a remarried widow or widower fall out of love with his or her deceased spouse before the idea of remarrying for love is conceivable?

Debate on this point is sure to exist. However, I feel that a compelling case can be made for the idea that, no, a person may continue to love a former spouse long after he or she has been taken and another lover has assumed a comparable place in the mind of the survivor.
If debate on this point is even accepted as existing, then a troubling corollary rises immediately in its shadow. Does one member of a couple have to die for the survivor’s love to be reassigned? If not, what form of distance must be attained for the idea to be widely accepted? And what name is to be given for the sensation felt if a long-removed, yet ever-dear lover should reappear to find a new couple established?

If the idea of “one couple, per time, per place, per person” is assumed to be true, then the answer is obvious. The person whose love is unexpectedly shared by two people both with respectable claims is forced to announce – relatively quickly – where his or her true love lies.

Let us assume – for the moment – that this is the natural order of things. We then accept that one couple will form (or continue to exist) from this mix of three people and that the unfortunate third party is out of luck. Does this unfortunate turn of events mean that the love of the “extra” third party is now a lesser form of love? In agreeing that this is the case, a troubling issue arises. The love the third person feels is likely exactly the same love that it was before the decision. That is, the love that society fully supported before the unexpected reunion has suddenly – by an outside force – been decreed a lesser, undesirable form of love. If the lover rejected is the newest lover, then the love felt as recent as a day ago becomes undesirable purely from circumstance. If the lover rejected is the elder of the two, then the fidelity of the older lover despite circumstance is actually used as the force bringing criticism to his or her continued attachment.

Is either of these possibilities, fantastic as they are, an acceptable scenario in the modern definition of love? Or is the idea of “one couple, per time, per place, per person” really a cover for an emotion or impulse separate from love itself?

Similarly, is unrequited love any less love for its lack of reciprocity?

Should the answer to either of these questions deviate from the most common answers – should “one couple, per place, per time, per person” be simply overwhelmingly common instead of outright necessary or unrequited love be thought of as love all the same – then the modern definition of love is unstable and insufficient.

What then is missing? Perhaps the most reasonable approach to answering this question is less than rigorously logical. In its essence, the “common” definition of love seems to deal entirely with passions felt and for whom. The unstated, missing part then seems to be what makes that a tenable position. Simply stated, love is presented as a force holding couples, families, and society together at the basest level. If it is nothing more than a matter of overpowering passion, this supposedly cohesive force would likely do more damage than good.

The missing piece of the definition must be a stabilizing element. Further, it must be a stabilizing element that explains how, on some level, we have sympathy for the passions of those who experience loves less tenable than others.

In its essence, this missing piece must be based on trust. Initially, this seems to be something of a logical leap. However, the core point is simply that there is a mutual hope and understanding between lovers that the passion of the other is compatible with their own best interests or desires. As passionate love is without logical basis or contractual obligation, this simple stabilizing assumption can be reduced to nothing so much as a sensation of trust.

Couples for whom the sensations of love are different within their match trust that the impulses and desires of their partner do not conflict with their own – regardless of how baffling this estimation may be to society at large.

The couple is overwhelmingly the base unit of love not because it is necessary, but rather because it is overwhelmingly the point from which estimations of mutual goals, trust, and reliance can be judged. Jealousy can be thought of as simply the mind of a lover interpreting the actions of his or her love as serving another individual or individuals above regard for the viewing lover. If there are no other individuals who can be thought of as relying on the trust of one’s lover, one can feel completely secure in having all available love, all available trust, to one’s self.

Similarly, while there may be nothing more than habit mandating the notion of “one lover, per place, per time, per person,” it is inarguably the simplest arrangement of lovers to ensure that the foundation of trust is secure. As such, it certainly deserves respect as a conservative and safe position from which to feel love. Despite this, it seems that the only reason that it must be held by individuals as the only respectable form is simply that to imply otherwise may unwittingly imply to current or future lovers (or even to one’s self) that one has not yet found all that one is looking for. To do that, even unknowingly, is to undermine the foundation of trust backing love in the first place.

If a hypothetical argument – that love for one person only is not necessarily the highest form of love – offends or alarms the reader, then it seems safe to assume that the reader has more than enough passion fuelling his or her love, and that that love is more than secure by the broad, modern, passion-based definition. However, the potential sense of alarm or anger calls into question just how impervious to attack the underlying stability – the trust basis, if you will – of passion-based love really is.

It should be a harmless enough thought exercise, at least, to stop and ponder hypothetical (or more familiar) transgressions in love. Are they in fact violations of passion? Or are they rather violations of trust or security? Perhaps they may be both. But if that is the case, is the loss of passion the result of a loss of trust? Or is the loss of trust the result of an assumed loss of passion? Perhaps there is some truth to be had in the idea that a loss of one will almost certainly bring about a loss in the other.

If this is the case, then how necessary are most of the conventions of love? For that matter, is it sensible to establish any unrealistic or self-defeating basis of trust for a lover without directly viewing such an arrangement as an inevitable affront to their passion?