Love is the Answer—But What Was the Question?

Reflections on Unconditional Love

My most gratifying experiences recently have come from sharing my unique gifts with the world and tapping into the unconditional love that exists within me and all around us. Unconditional love is very simple, but its simplicity makes it an expansive matter to someone like me, who has a natural tendency toward complexity.

A temple where I practice this skill is my small balcony garden, where I’ve been tending to a growing family of plants over recent months. On the days I forget to water them, their leaves droop, and they look visibly sad—especially the chili pepper plant, the most generous member of the community. Within an hour of watering them, I see them lift their leaves as if raising little green hands in celebration. Their silent smiles gratify this small act of care, and from time to time, they return with gifts that nourish my health, as if expressing an unconditional thank you.

I exist in a state of ongoing reciprocity with my plants, and as my attachment to them grows, so do their leaves. My small daily interactions with these simple green beings offer me another clue about the nature of love, as if to say, “Yes, it really is that simple.”

An inanimate object—a small ball of rubber bands I named “Gary”—has been teaching me the same lesson and has become a point of connection between my partner and I. Since I work from home, I rarely come across rubber bands to feed the growing mass that is Gary. A few months ago, my partner noticed Gary, who always sits on my desk, and started bringing me the occasional rubber band home from her days at university. It excites me every time! Each time she does, I cheerfully thank her for the gift, then joyfully find Gary and add the band securely to him.

In a way, it feels like my girlfriend waters me, and then I water Gary. I love seeing it come full circle when I catch her fidgeting with him. There’s this waterwheel of reciprocity between us, flowing through this little conduit object that I’ve personified as a desktop pet.

Simple acts of service for simple beings (and rubber band balls) fit so naturally into my subterranean ecosystem as unquestioned positives. Of course, it’s good to water the plants. Of course, it’s good to feed another band to Gary. There’s no question—I love these things, and their flourishing brings me joy. And yet, it’s not for this joy that I do it—it’s automatic.

But what if I could apply this same unconditional love to people? To my friends, family, and romantic partner? In many cases, I do, but the waters are murkier. The intention behind an act of service becomes unclear—both to them and to me. Receiving such love, too, often comes with suspicion. What do you want from me? What are you buttering me up for? There’s an aura of distrust, as if we’re bracing for punishment, loss, or some meaningless pain to follow at any moment.

Sometimes, when approached by a beggar on the street, a narrative plays in my mind—one that warns that an act of kindness will come with invisible fishhooks, sinking into my skin and tugging at the flesh of my creative energy and emotional reserves, burdened by the weight of unspoken expectations. Even a misplaced smile or a fleeting meeting of eyes seems to carry a silent warning: Don’t.

Why?

Half a decade ago, in the latter stages of my teens, I embarked on what felt like a radical experiment: to smile and greet the strangers I passed on my journey. Through this ongoing experiment, I realized I wasn’t alone in the struggle to love openly. Many times, a stranger would ignore me, often looking startled before hastily walking away. Other times, it seemed to break the ice of someone’s day—a smile would emerge, their back straightening slightly as if lightened by the exchange.

At some point, I became like a wild monkey fed by beach tourists, enthusiastically shouting at passing men, “HEY! GOOD AFTERNOON! I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY!” Most would respond with a surprised “Thanks, you too,” or a puzzled stare, their expressions a mix of shock and amusement.

What started as a well-intended experiment gradually revealed itself as an act of conditional care, exposing the subtle undercurrent of expectation that fortifies the walls around my own heart.

Friendships that no longer gave back lost their significance, fading from “best friend” status to nothing more than a forgotten contact on a social media platform I no longer have the password for. Family relationships that became too taxing were bookmarked under “he’ll come around.” Past relationships that took more than they gave eventually ended, revealing the extent of love’s conditionality as a partner became estranged. Memories of people I once loved deeply have been reshaped into narratives that no longer welcome them back into my life.

Sitting here now, I reflect on how limiting it is to love so shallowly in contrast to the teachings of Christ, who embodied unconditional love so fully that He blessed and prayed for those who tortured and killed Him. And yet, when I think of my enemies, I don’t dream of blessings—I dream of revenge.

Who among us can truly emulate the love God has for us? Without this elixir of true, unwavering love—one that carries on through fire and flames—what is the purpose of this life? When it does reveal itself, it feels like stepping into perfect harmony, like standing in the eye of a storm and feeling the sun on my face. When it’s absent, life feels desperate, meaningless, and profoundly hopeless. Yet its presence—whether in the quiet resilience of my plants or in the playful moments with my partner as we childishly smile and weave another band onto Gary—provides a kind of nourishment, a reserve of warmth to carry me through the rainy days ahead.

Like the gifts of my plants—growing slowly yet giving back whenever they can—my dance with this skill, or rather, this trust and surrender, unfolds in its own time. My experiences of unconditionality are becoming more abundant; once rare and surprising, leaving me thinking, “What the heck was that?”, they are now more recognizable. Yet, the moment I try to label them, they seem to fade, slipping beyond my grasp.

The Tao of love is much like the Tao of anything—when I move beyond fixation on myself and exist as present-mindedly as the plants on my balcony, love flows in with abundance. Surrendering is like opening the tap, allowing it to pour freely. But the moment I grasp at the process, the “I’m doing it” voice takes over, and my access to the infinite abundance all around me shuts off.

My most powerful state is not one in which I try to harness this power for my own intelligence, but rather one in which I surrender to the will of the Force—for lack of a better phrase. In the movies, they say, “May the Force be with you.” But as I continue along my path, I’m beginning to see that a more fitting blessing is, “May you be with the Force.”