Love isn't dramatic

So I learned something while writing and illustrating this book. (No surprise there.)

Love isn't dramatic. It's powerful, but not crazy. It's not extravagant and whooping, it's not rough or short-lived. Love has a steady, quiet and persistent quality.

Take a look at this first draft of the breaking unity and starting over chapter. (Ch 2: "How do we keep unity with each other?").

Basically, the figure on the left is feeling or presenting a grievance, and the person on the right is blocking it out, with presumed preoccupations. It's okay, but harsh.

This is all-out accusing going on next. This is like a cartoon fight getting heated. Fists are about to come out. These people seem dangerous and likely unreasonable.

Yep... a yelling war. Does this happen to you sometimes? Hopefully only once in a while. There was just so much anger in this first take. Getting this upset, they weren't going to be able to calm down and talk to each other again.

Exactly, wounded, split, absolutely not an option to stay in the same room. These people are apart and waiting it out.

The only thing I could think of to regain a sense of togetherness at some point was to show the passing of time. I knew this wasn't going to work because it went against the design rules of the book: no objects and no symbols. A moon does not count as figures, lines and dots, and those were the only tools I was letting myself use.

Okay sure, so I guess at breakfast the next day these folks are peaceable and contrite, fearful of each other and another volatile interaction. But this is tentative, this is not generous, this is not what I wanted to show.

Alright, so I hope that gave you another idea as to what is NOT included in the final book. I discovered through this process that love begins sooner. It doesn't get crazy. To stay in the state of openness is to feel hurt and not become overwhelmed by it, to not become absurd, to not let our fight-or-flight response show up.

Love is responsive. Love is not easily shaken. Love is normal. And unity breaks not from screaming, but by accident. It breaks in moments we are trying as often as in moments we've forgotten to care. Unity is fragile. Unity is long gone before yelling is present. Unity breaks when someone shows a doubtful or discouraging expression at the very moment someone else is sharing their vulnerable hopes.

Breaking unity is immediate. It's not loud. It's not dramatic. It's subtle.

And repairing unity is the same way.

No need to apologize profusely or explain or give gifts, though those may be a part of certain repairs. Rebuilding unity begins the moment we open again, the moment we turn our face back to the other with an open expression. The window to unity appears when we re-center our minds on listening to what the other person is saying, when we think for a moment what if their thoughts were ours?

So in the final book, breaking unity wasn't a screaming fight. It was just this unexpected moment of collapse, a temporary deflating of the synced breathing in a relationship.

And repairing unity wasn't waiting to cool down naturally and sleep it off. Repairing begins by reaching out, softly, respectfully, somewhat quickly.

These are the things I learned while writing and illustrating this book.