Love is essentially a transcendent relationship. Love is subjectivity subsisting within an enveloping, higher-order subjectivity, which exceeds and involves you and others, who, like you, are exceeded and involved. Love always brings a third being to life, within whom lovers are together organized. Organized together — not merged.

Love’s purely immanent and objective counterfeit is lust. Lust, however, does not bring a third to life. Lust subsumes another within oneself. A lot of talk of merging and union refers to lust relationships. Fear of merging and loss of self is fear of becoming a lust object of another. It is a valid fear; not everyone is wiling to love. There are good reasons to avoid love.

We notice lust mainly when we are overwhelmed by it. So we associate lust with rare intensity. We might view lust as essentially intense. But weak and feeble lust is ubiquitous. Whenever we want to possess something objective — anything we take or mistake to be possessable — an object, a person, an experience, a feeling, a status, a bit of knowledge — and however faintly we want it — that is lust. We subsume something and make it exclusively our own — a part of us. Every home is filled with objects of lust.

We also treat love as essentially intense — as liking taken to an extreme. “I love you” is synonymous with “I double-plus-like you.” But love in weak form is common, and highly valuable. It happens whenever we form relationships with any being who transcends us. We give ourselves over to participation to being we are not. And if that being changes or disappears, we cannot be the same without it. We feel an inward loss — maybe small, maybe total. We are also open to transformative joys, large or minuscule. The more our life is saturated with loves of people, animals, places, rituals, traditions, and so on, the more valuable life is to us, and the more vulnerable we become. Love requires courage.

To say “I love you” is to say “I’d be someone different, and worse, without you.”