I forgot to mention yesterday the odd encounter on my way to sartorial improvement. I bumped into Ms. Mizuo, who lives at the dorm I used to live at when interning at Nippon Steel. I don’t know what it says about me that I forgot to mention randomly meeting someone I knew in a city of ten million.Â
This morning I headed out with just yoghurt and orange juice in my belly and got on a train for Kamatori, the station closest to the Oyumino chapel. This is the chapel I used to attend in 2001/2002 before they built the new and bigger one in Honda where I’ve gone on all my business trips. Being back there, even though most people I knew must have been at Honda today, was a touching moment – to sing and experience fellowship with a glimpse of bright sunshine outside the curtains in the same place I’d done before with dear friends. Scotty Smith, our guest speaker that Sunday because of a missionary conference, took Zephaniah 3:14-20 to look at “love so amazing, so divine” which “demands my soul, my life, my all,” which resonated with my emotional state. I won’t recap the message, just go ahead and read the passage.Â
I spoke a bit with some visitors there for the conference, as well as with Roberta and Sally, two long-term missionaries, and Mrs. Soneda, who is one of the few people I remember clearly from my original stay in 2001/2002. I can’t say why or how, but she’s a thoroughly pleasant woman to talk to and somehow projects a peace beyond that seems to settle on people around her. Or maybe only I am affected that way.Â
I also learned that I really can’t tell age with the Japanese. The lady sitting next to me had raised her hand when Mr. Dedachi asked who might stay for a seminar on “Shepherding a Child’s Heart.” I asked her afterwards if she had children, to which she replied with a frightened look and a “Me? I’m still in high school.” I guess it’s universal, but perhaps more successful in Japan: women in high school try to look grown up and women out of college try to look like they’re still in high school. The amount of mothers I see that still look girlish I find staggering.Â
For lunch I bought an unfiltered Kirin beer and some kara-age and tatsuda-age. I’m sure the Japanese approve of that match, but I don’t know that the beer was a great idea. I only drank it in Chiba in front of the train station, and as soon as I got on the train back to Tokyo a wave of drowsiness hit me. The only reason for getting off at Chiba was to go to the dingy PASEO store where I always got Super Salaryman toe socks and found racks of T-shirts with silly English, but when I got there, the building was gone and replaced by a construction site. I suppose this sudden flash of the ephemeral and the dwowsiness combined to send me into that sweet Sunday afternoon melancholy that makes me feel drained of everything but longing. It makes me simultaneously aware of a desire to fly away and of lacking any reason or motive force to do so; it makes me at once regret things not done and admit that doing them would have changed little; it makes me feel an urge to take a bold decision to change everything while knowing that the boldest decision wouldn’t keep this melancholy from reoccuring.  All the while, I know sleep will change everything, but in these times it would be infinitely better to have someone to hug. It is strange, though, to feel lonely in a city of ten million.Â
I got off at Ikebukuro and found the DVD I didn’t find at Shinjuku, then got back on for Shinjuku. Ads passed by with the bold message “you are what you buy” – ads, I think, for a credit card. The message was reinforced by the image: the woman’s clothing taking on the background, in one case a fruit stand and in the other shelves with earthenware. In my frame of mind it was immediately obvious that what you buy adds to your burden: it weighs you down with additional responsibility.Â
Back in the Ikebukuro train station I bought a half-liter bottle of jasmin tea and again took to playing with it in my hand, swinging my hand forward and backward and making the bottle rotate 180 degrees around the short axis on the forward swing and catching it without obviously letting go of it, something of a toned-down urban variant on drawing a revolver with a flourish. I got too confident on my way up the stairs, failed to catch the bottle and launched it up the stairs, past one elderly man’s feet, and then down the stairs again on the other side of the man. He kept walking as if nothing had happened; the elderly man behind him stopped and answered my embarrassed but amused smile with a smile of his own that seemed paternally entertained more than anything.Â
On my way back to the hotel I stopped at an outdoor cafe because it was still light and the temperatures balmy. I got a hot chocolate (plus five creams) and a “Salami-style Frank” which turned out to be a peppery short sausage stuck on a bone, a morbid naked corndog of sorts.Â
In the hotel I had to bring the Innis & Gunn bottle I bought yesterday to the receptionist to open the cap. Beyond being fixed to the bottle in the usual way, a sticker kept the cap from falling loose once opened, but the receptionist insisted on taking the cap away and discarding it herself. Her reason: it’s dangerous. I think a guy walking around a hotel with an open bottle of beer is more dangerous than a beer cap on the loose, but I held my tongue. The beer, by the way, is one of the best I’ve tasted. It’s aged in whisky barrels, which means it doesn’t taste like beer and doesn’t burn like whisky but instead provides a delightful combination.Â
I better get to bed. Tomorrow’s a long day and I need to get up early to pack. The shinkansen leaves at 7:13.Â
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[[[[[[Stephan]]]]]]
We sang “When I survey the wondrous cross” at BCF today, too. No All Saints hymns, though.
A bunch of brackets? How exciting! What could that mean? Let me guess…
– Stephan is really a babushka doll
– I like my Stephan in a box, I do not like him with a fox
– I’ve got a design draft for the new marquee on our pachinko parlor “Stephan”
– Stephan is expanding
– I changed the text on my LED belt buckle
– Stephan is a dumbbell (actually, deadweight, but let’s be nice)
– Stephan’s getting an engraved, personalized lightsaber for Christmas
*note: I’m not being serious.
Don’t tell me you’ve never received an online hug!!! I’m certain I didn’t invent it, though I use it a lot. Just the sort of thing to bring a little personal cheer to an impersonal, electronic medium, and give a lift to the lonely or sad.
But maybe guys don’t do such kindnesses? Even at my age I’m discovering things that surprise me about those of the male persuasion, such as John Stackhouse’sbizarre and even creepy (to me) belief that the phrase “in love with” necessarily implies romantic (as in husband/wife, not the broader definition) feelings.
No, that was the first, and a mighty public one at that. I suppose it made me self-conscious. I don’t know that that’s only a male/female thing, though it may have something to do with it.
I’m not sure I understand the second paragraph. What do you mean by “the broader definition?” What does “in love with” mean for you? To me it would not be creepy for people to use the phrase “in love with” to refer to anything but romantic love, but it would dilute the meaning in a deplorable way. “I’m in love with spaghetti carbonara!” “I’m in love with the Yankees!” “I’m in love with R&B!” “I’m in love with my pastor!” Please, no, in the name of love!
Relax. Just because I gave you a hug because your post screamed for one doesn’t mean I’m “In love with you.” Or did I misinterpret your loneliness and need for having someone to hug? It sounded like you just needed friendly human contact, not a girlfriend in your arms. I knew you’d followed my blog long enough to know what an ehug means. Sorry to publicly make you uncomfortable! So the rest of the world knows, an ehug is just a friendly pat on the back. Maybe I should have given some Swiss kisses, though xxx seems more dangerous to me. 😉
You and Stackhouse would get along fine on this issue. On his blog (follow the link if you want details) he objected to singing praise songs (and hymns) of the “I’m in love with you, Jesus” variety, because such language was only appropriate between husband and wife — and it’s the church (plural) that’s the Bride of Christ, not individual people.
While I can agree with him in disliking most of that kind of song, I was perturbed by his ill judgement of those who like and sing them, because many people do not see the phrase “in love with” in that restricted context. (You are the second who does — though I’ll admit it’s not a question I’ve asked of many.)
Perhaps we’re simply misusing the term, and have committed the error C. S. Lewis complained of when he said the term “gentleman” once had a narrow, specific meaning, and its metamorphosis into meaning someone with good manners and character simply made things confusing. (Particularly, I suppose, because the second definition did not apply to so many gentlemen of the first.)
But I’m inclined to think it has more to to do with the nature of our sex-saturated society, in which the erotic has eclipsed almost all the other wonderful and God-given delights of love. That is what I found creepy about Stackhouse’s post — the idea that “in love with” implies eroticism. I wouldn’t use the phrase as you suggest, but only because my love of spaghetti carbonara is not strong enough for such a statement — and if I said it about the Yankees, there’d probably be murder done here. (I’m in love with — in Stackhouse’s sense — a die-hard Red Sox fan.) But I’m madly in love with my grandchildren, for example, and I don’t care who knows it — though I guess it’s good to be aware that such a statement might cause some people to report me to Child Protective Services!
Sorry to rant so. You actually did me a favor by reinforcing Stackhouse’s view, since one person might be crazy but two is at least a trend. 🙂 I shall have to be more careful with my casual affections. But I’m afraid this is a hot button for me — the reduction of love to the sexual (to overstate just a little). My husband works with Indians who report having had to be trained in “cultural sensitivity” on coming to the U.S. In India, they say, it is common — as I believe it ought to be — for two men to walk down the street with their arms on each other’s shoulders, but here that has implications they would rather not give! I believe the loss of non-sexual affection, physical and otherwise, is a cause of many problems in our society. But I should write my own post, instead of hijacking yours!
@Irishoboe: Oh, I understood the intent of the hug correctly, no worries. Knowledge alone isn’t always enough to influence actual reactions.
@Sursumcorda: I hope we’re misusing the term “in love with.” I know people say “The moment I picked up the racket I fell in love with tennis,” but to me that’s an unnecessary abuse of the term. I suppose you want to use it referring to your grandchildren in order to indicate a greater devotion than the phrase “I love my grandchildren” may imply, because we also casually love nacho cheese chips. I’d rather we stopped loving football, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, toe socks, chapstick, and Beethoven, and reserved that verb for grandchildren, friends, perhaps even pets, but (grammatical) objects where love has a real meaning. Then we can go on to use “in love with” for romantic relationships alone, and our language would be a lot less muddled. I don’t know the evolution of our use of the word, so I don’t know if I’m championing former use or just a reform.
I’ll agree that non-sexual affection merits a revival, but I don’t think that’s behind Stackhouse’s view (I can’t read the blog; the link is only a <a> and a </a> and I’m too lazy to google it). Fortunately humans are reasonably good at understanding the influence of context and won’t get creepy ideas if I say I’m in love with gorgonzola, but I’d still rather not use the term that way. They won’t likely get creepy ideas if I say I’m in love with my Mom, but I’d rather grant the use of that phrase to my Dad and myself state that I love my Mom to bits or some such phrase. It would represent a gain in clarity.
In the end, I don’t care what you call it, as long as you keep on loving your children and grandchildren with constancy and selflessness.
By the way and beside the point: “Sursumcorda” can be re-arranged to spell “mucus ardors.”
Two issues here. First, we should use the speaker’s definition of any word he uses. Wether we like it or not, we cannot change how the whole world uses a word or phrase.
Second, the meaning of the phrase “in love with.†At first I didn’t quite see why Mom got so upset about it, but then I realized that I explain my reasons from coming back to Switzerland by saying “I fell in love with the city, the school, my church, etc.†So, what do I mean by it and how can I substitute for it if the phrase bothers people like Stackhouse and Stephan (WBAGNFARB)?
I agree that ‘loving’ a food is too strong, but I cannot deny that I use ‘love’ in this way quite frequently. “I love chocolate†means I intensely enjoy eating chocolate, but in the case of “in love,†the whole is not the sum of its parts. I may like New York City because of the museums, the parks, the hustle and bustle, the history, or any number of reasons, but one person may like all those things while another is captivated (ooh, bad word I know) by something magical in the whole of New York City. There’s a connection, a delight, an enjoyment that is somehow inexplicable and outside the self.
I love chocolate because of how it makes me feel. Someone ‘in love’ with NYC certainly likes the way he feels when he walks down the street, but that’s not what he would tell you if you asked him why he loves it. He would talk about the object itself. The phrase “in love†implies that the object has some kind of life and internal value that is worthy of enjoyment and preservation. The chocolate bar I consume is not the object of my love – my own pleasure is.
I naively think that falling in love with a human is this way, too. It’s not about how the other person fulfills my sexual desires but that the person himself is valued beyond the self. I delight in him, I desire to be with him and it is not simply because he is handsome or smart and fulfilled everything on my wish list. I love the ‘object’ so much that I overlook its faults (which is not the same as calling them good or not desiring that they should change for the better – quite the opposite) and make considerable self sacrifice to protect and bring the best for my “love.â€
I think this kind of love for a city or a grandkid is appropriate as well. What would you call it?
And don’t just say ‘love’ because I can choose to love and care for someone despite the fact that I do not delight in his company or find loving him natural.
Sorry – I don’t know what happened with the link. I’ll try it this way: http://stackblog.wordpress.com/2007/09/16/jesus-im-not-in-love-with-you/>http://stackblog.wordpress.com/2007/09/16/jesus-im-not-in-love-with-you/
Well, I tried again to give the Stackhouse url, but my comment seems to have disappeared into the ether. Probably just as well — it was a long post with an even longer, very spirited (mostly thoughtful, sometimes nasty) response.
@Sursumcorda: the URL ended up in the moderation pile. I don’t know why that happened. (I’ll check if somehow the Akismet spam protection gobbled up the thoughtful cum nasty post.) The link is still not quite right, but it takes you to the blog and then a bit of scrolling takes you down to the post in question, which I now read and quite appreciate.
I think it’s a question of the use of language as much as Stackhouse’s own main point. (He admits as much quite a ways down in his comment #69 saying “If you’re “in love with†your grandchildren or “in love with†someone or something other than your lover, then sure, sing it.”)
I’ll try my own luck at including the direct link: Jesus, I’m NOT in Love with You.
@Irishoboe: Yes, ITIWBAGNFARB – at least some alternative one with crooning harmonies, folksy guitar, and breathy vocals.
Just trying to figure this out: you’re asking me for an alternative to “love” (v, transitive) to capture how something else (city, grandkids, etc.) makes you feel good and attracted to it by virtue of its character? If that’s the case, I’d suggest either your option, “captivating,” despite being a participle and despite Eldredge hijackery, or a passive form of a verb like (you’re making me use my thesaurus again) allure, beguile, bewitch, captivate, charm, dazzle, delight, draw, enamour*, enrapture, enslave*, ensnare*, entertain*, enthrall, entrance (v), fascinate, gratify*, grip, hold, hook, hypnotize, infatuate*, intrigue, lure*, magnetize, mesmerize, please* (v), seduce*, spellbind, take, vamp*, wile*, win, to name but a few. 😉 (The * signifies I wouldn’t use it for New York or your nephews.)
I take your point that love describes a long continuum from tough decision to enthusiastic response. So maybe I should delight in cheese and be hooked by Virginia Tech footbal and won and held by Jesus.
P.S. no luck in the spam commentary. We’ll have to keep looking in the ether.
And I need to correct an already awkward sentence by making it more awkward: “I think it’s a question of the use of language as much as of Stackhouse’s own main point.”
of, of, of.
Throwing the Thesaurus at me was the easy way out, Stephan. 😉 I think you missed the point by summarizing this love with “makes you feel good.” That’s not how I judge things, or if it is, I’m suspicious of it. The very point is that it is not about how it makes me feel, but it is a fascination and appreciation for the value of the thing itself. It makes me forget myself. I suppose captivated and some other words could work, but I’m curious. Have you ever experience this kind of ‘love’ (or pick the word you want) I’m describing? Does it mean anything to you at all?
It wasn’t my post that was long, thoughtful, and nasty — that was my description of Stackhouse’s post and the reams of commentary it generated. (One or two comments were nasty — not the post.) The one I tried to post finally appeared, just above my complaint that it had disappeared, though as you pointed out, the link was still messed up. Guess I’m as tired as the Sheep Dash says I am.
“The very point is that it is not about how it makes me feel, but it is a fascination and appreciation for the value of the thing itself.” That reminds me of something C. S. Lewis wrote in “Men without Chests” from The Abolition of Man. The entire essay is well worth reading; it is a serious charge leveled at a school textbook that purportedly teaches English but is in reality a propaganda piece for the authors’ relativistic philosophy. One line Lewis quotes is, “We appear to be saying something very important about something: and actually we are only saying something about our own feelings.” (The context is two men’s reactions upon seeing a waterfall, one calling it “sublime” and the other “pretty.” The textbook debunks the idea that “sublime” refers to any characteristic of the waterfall itself, but is just as subjective a description as “pretty.”)
It’s not relevant here, but I can’t resist quoting one of my favorite lines from the essay, the concluding sentence: We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful. I tend think of it when contemplating (as in Lewis’s essay) the effects of certain educational policies, but it probably has a much wider application.
And Stephan, you will no doubt like this one: “St. Augustine defines virtue as ordo amoris, the ordinate condition of the affections in which every object is accorded that kind and degree of love which is appropriate to it.” St. Augustine would probably not approve of my statement that I love Jack Daniels barbecue sauce. 🙂