“But sometimes lies are tangled with love.”
That was a line in a lecture by the poet Patricia Smith – a lecture I didn’t, but might, read. It’s a simple and effective statement. It carries with it the weight of wisdom and truth. Without context, it might even be described as triggering. Without context, it sends the reader to times in their own lives when lies were tangled with love. Those are often the most complicated types of lies, the most complicated types of love.
As I waded into the shallow shores of memory, the first example of a lie tangled with love that came to mind was of a partner who left the relationship. She did so in a manner that left me wondering if she ever loved me at all. Like jellyfish, it was a squishy example – beautiful but with some sting. It lacked form because there were no proven lies, just a dull suspicion borne out of bad reasoning. Perhaps she was lying to herself about what she wanted in the relationship and how much she wanted it? Perhaps she was lying to me about the distances she thought we could travel, the hardships she thought we could endure. The second example my mind landed on was an argument I had with that same woman. I had caught her in a small lie about a text conversation she was having with her boss. The lie itself was harmless, but I felt bad that our relationship was in a place where the lie was seen as a necessary step in keeping the peace. The third example was from a different relationship – one in which my partner of six or seven years cheated on me. No jellyfish squishiness – a cement bulkhead against which waves crash and relationships break.
As I played with these recollections, I started down the path of details – what happened when and what was said by whom. The details were boring and the pictures they painted were ones I had looked at dozens of times before. Rehashing would hold little value.
As I often try to do, I turned my attention inward. I tried to think of my own deceits. At first, I drew a blank. Had I stopped there, I would have had to conclude that I was either a saint or a master of repression and self-deception. Neither felt true. I worked a little harder… and there they were: the times I loved a little less honestly, the times I stayed because it seemed like the kinder thing to do, the lies of omission, the lies that began in the murky swamps of my own delusions and fears. My most egregious lies are lies of inaction and avoidance. They are the lies that keep me swaddled and help me avoid conflict and discomfort. They are the lies that, when examined, help me understand and show compassion for other people’s motivations. In instances of self-deceit, I’ve avoided calling out behaviors and actions that go against my beliefs because doing so would lead to conflict. In instances of less-than-pure compassion, I’ve gone along with things and stayed in relationships because it was easier than leaving. In instances of self-preservation, I’ve let other people initiate the uncomfortable discussion because in doing so I could always fall back on the moral high ground of “well, you started it.”
Like me, I think most people try to live and want to live honest lives. I think most lies stem from self-preservation and a desire to avoid pain and discomfort. There are, of course, those lies that are intended to deceive, manipulate, and swindle – lies designed and executed for one’s personal gain. I haven’t fallen prey to those types of lies (at least not very often). As such, I have the luxury of remaining an optimist. As such, I’m less interested in those types of lies. I find they contain very little nuance and therefore less room for exploration and growth. I’m interested in the lies we tell ourselves and the hard truths of self-discovery we avoid. I think those types of lies provide opportunities for healing, compassion, understanding, and growth. To unearth them requires a type of soft light, gentle tools, and kind but truthful mirrors – the very things that help us succeed in love.
If, as the poet Adrienne Rich suggests, relationships in which we dare to use the word love are necessary because they refine the truths that we can reveal to each other, it might be worth seeking clarity on how honest two people can be in a loving relationship. This is a question to which I have no answer… if sometimes lies are tangled with love, what’s acceptable and what isn’t? Where are the lines in the sand that dictate what we enforce and what we can let slide? While aspirational and commendable, a strict adherence to truth and honesty seems both improbable and unhelpful. I far prefer honesty to deception, but can we do it with less brutality? Can we do it with understanding for the all too human tendency to fall down? I like the Rich statement because it implies movement. It implies fluidity. It implies that as we move towards deeper levels of safety and trust, we learn to peel away our hardened outer layers of dishonesty and self-delusion. I like the Rich statement because love is not a static thing and truth is often a clumsy dance with it’s less flattering other half.
“But sometimes lies are tangled with love.” In that statement, I think the word sometimes feels both generous and kind. As I think about this and concepts like rose-colored glasses, and the limits of self-awareness, I, too, find myself wanting to stop short of saying all love involves forms of deception. The closest to I can come to approaching any truth on this matter is to say that I suspect love, capital L love, is the only kind that can survive its many small, big, and often unintentional yet unavoidable deceits. And that seems like something worth practicing.