on power and love: unfinished memoirs
are not love and power formed by the strokes of the same brush?
Love is sweet labour. Fierce. Bloody. Imperfect. Life-giving.
A choice we make over and over again.
âValarie Kaur
I remember sitting with a dear friend some time ago and sharing openly about our memories, experiences, and perceptions of love, specifically connected to intimate relationships and family dynamics.
âI have not seen love outside of a power struggle,â they said.
My heart broke openâboth because I saw their pain, and because I too, until that point, could relate to this experience.
It has been a few years since this conversation, and yet, these words echo in clear detail in my mind and heart. While the words linger, it has also been within the same period of time that I have been pushed and, sometimes, willfully offered myself into dynamics where my beliefs and stories about love and power have been challenged and transformed. I not only wanted new experiences and perceptions, I needed them.
I had long-held beliefs that power had to be âearnedâ. So I found it hard to tap into my own power because I had adopted false narratives that power, like love, was relegated to a select few who had âearned itâ. It has taken me years of reflection, waves of pain, and a commitment to the practice of wonder to realize that, the dysfunctions of our time are built on the fickle yet malignant premise that scarcity and struggle are necessary prerequisites for the experience of embracing oneâs own power and expressing love.
Before coming to this insight, I operated, for a long season of my life, with self-sacrificial patterns of emotional suppression (especially anger and rage), disassociation/numbing, people-pleasing, and undiscerning empathy. I outsourced my power to my emotional state, environmental circumstances, and most significantly, to the people in my life that I love(d) or those that love(d) me. Through conversations such as those with my friend, moments of crying, expressing my beliefs out loud and having them be compassionately challenged, as well as tumultuous relational experiences, I slowly and steadily began un-vilifying power and connecting to my wellspring of love.
Throughout this journey, nothing has undone me more than the practice of honestyâwith myself first. The seed of truthfulness that is planted in the core of my heart lay dormant over many years. But, with the support of the elements of life, the soil broke loose, water found its way to the seed, the heat and light of the sun pulled the sprout out from the dark underground, minerals nourished this emergent being and winds carried the birthing scent of new life. This power, held in a tiny seed, was neither lost nor absent. It simply retreated until a confluence of conditions broke it open.
Similarly, if you pay close attention, you may notice that sometimes powerâwithin yourself and around youâcan look and feel like a hibernating thing.
And while we might recognize the bubbles slowly springing up to the surface, some of us choose to look away. Perhaps because the language of power that you have come to know is one of violence, intimidation, and brutal opposition. Perhaps because love seemed to be a âthing out thereâ that could only be reached once you had âwon the fightâ through struggle and strain.
Possession of power, by whatever means, was the curriculum handed down to you as a frail attempt to teach you what it is to love and be loved.
This is the part where you can allow your heart to be broken open. This is also the part where you name, in honour, everything and everyone that has tried to call something different out of you. The part where you trace back through your days, seasons, timelines, and lineages to catch a glimpse of those who tried to nudge you towards a kind of love that felt more life-giving, and power that was life-sustaining. Above all else, this is a point of choice for youâwhere you either return to the templates of power that have required martyrdom, demanded destruction, expected exploitation, rewarded separation, manufactured scarcity and sanctioned violence.
Or instead, you breathe. You pause and breathe again.
Then you turn towards the wide and open field where power is present, not prescribed. You look towards the places and people that model a dynamic with power that feels relational, assumes abundance, and engages all parts of youâyour heart, mind, body, and spirit. At this choice point, I hope you remember that you have sovereignty and you always will.
âI have not known love outside of a power struggle,â they said.
And every image I could conjure was of broken hearts, abandoned hope, neglected needs, assumed hierarchy, unearned privileges, unrealized dreams, unprocessed pain, and seemingly insurmountable fear.
The struggle was not for power; the struggle was an attempt to feel a sense of âI matter and belong hereâ.
The struggle was not for power; it was pain playing out scenarios for its escape from the cages built in our minds and in our systems.
The struggle was not for power; it was a cry for help because the thing that was once a blessing has now become an unbearable burden.
The struggle was not for power; it was a repetition of old narratives that seemed to work at one point in our generation, but no longer serve us.
The struggle was not for power; it was a call to be loved unconditionally.
The struggle was not for power over you; it was a fight within myself to âbe the bestââuntil I settled down enough to know that I had nothing
elseto prove.
I think it matters who we tell our stories toâour stories of love and also of power. And beyond that, I think it matters more what stories we believe about our own relationship with power, powerlessness, love, and lovelessness. I am curious about what questions we ask about the generational templates that inform our personal and collective understanding of power. I rhythmically reflect on the dominant narratives that seem to (in)validate, (il)legitimize, and (re)produce our personal and collective relationship with power and powerlessness. I wonderâwith rage in one hand and love in the otherâwhat it would take for you and me to wholly reclaim our misplaced power in the micro and the macro, in the now and ever after.
There are days when I wish that I had developed more life-giving stories and beliefs earlier on in my life. Memories that make me wince when I recall the ways that I outsourced, misused, and distorted my power. Paradoxically, these moments, while more bitter than sweet, are also the hive of my wisdom and the treasure of my discernment. These memories are like hot coals which will burn me if I accidentally touch them, but are also the necessary source of heat that I cuddle next to for warmth.
What I mean by this is that your own journey so far with power and love might feel like an ocean whose roaring waves lead you to choose to stay on the farthest edges of the shore and, therefore, never get to experience the kisses of the tides. Or maybe, you could choose to dip one toe into the ocean and be gently touched by the ebbs and flows of the tides. Notice how playful it feels when the waves dance at your feet. You need not run into the vast ocean. You need not dive into the abyss of deep waters just yet. You just need to show up with awe and wonder and look with a keen heart at the ocean of stories, images, memories, lineages, and experiences that weave through and influence your understanding and practice of love and power.
All we have is who we are. And, my dear, here we are.
Breathing. Aching. Learning. Becoming. Breathing, until.
I would not reject my strengthâthough its source is not choice, but responsibility.
âNikki Giovanni