Being-Love

 

February 1, a little later.

The sun has already touched the edge of the table, and in this growing light, my thoughts—previously cocooned within my own soul—begin to expand outward, toward the Other. I asked myself: how does this starved freedom, this quiet architecture of deprivation, change the way we touch the people around us? If money and material security are often the armor with which we face the world, then their absence leaves us stripped bare—not only before God, but before our neighbor. A true encounter between two human beings is possible only when we stop seeing each other as objects of use or instruments of security.

From a psychoanalytic perspective, most of our relationships are woven from projections and transfers—we rarely love the person across from us; more often, we love the function they fulfill in our internal economic model. We love their ability to give us confidence, their status, their role as the "good parent" or the "generous donor." But when you choose the path of spiritual freedom and accept material deprivation for the sake of your "bliss," you destroy these market relations within your heart. Freedom in a relationship begins where the need to possess the other as a guarantee for one’s own survival ends. When you do not seek a bank account or social cover in your partner, you are finally free to see their sacred, fragile, and divine essence.

This is a new, almost painful intimacy. It is like the touch of bare skin on bare skin, without the layers of social prestige that usually protect us from true friction. In this nakedness, love ceases to be a transaction and becomes a presence. To love from a position of spiritual poverty means to give from your emptiness, which is actually your greatest abundance. In psychology, this is the transition from "deficiency-love" to "Being-love"—the kind that does not demand, does not drain, and does not set conditions, because its center is not in the ego, but in the shared rhythm of Being.

I often think about how material comfort creates an illusion of independence, which is actually a form of isolation. We wall ourselves in with our conveniences and stop needing the other as a life buoy. But in the space of deprivation, we discover our radical interconnectedness. To admit that you are vulnerable, that you need support, a kind word, or a shared silence, is an act of supreme spiritual courage. This is the place where true empathy is born—not as an intellectual exercise, but as an organic sensation of another’s pain and joy through the cracks of our own insecurity. When you starve your dream, you begin to recognize the hunger in the eyes of others—the hunger for meaning, for recognition, for a love that is not measured in numbers.

Freedom on the spiritual plane gives us the right to be imperfect in the eyes of the Other. In a world dominated by images of success, we constantly try to sell our partners an embellished version of ourselves. But in the territory of "there may be no money," the mask becomes too heavy to wear. And then the miracle happens: we discover that we are loved not for what we have achieved, but for who we are in our pure, unfiltered authenticity. This is the ultimate liberation of the soul—to know that you are accepted in your poverty, that your deprivations do not make you less valuable, but on the contrary, make you more transparent to the light.

In a spiritual sense, relationships become a form of joint prayer. If both follow their "call of the future," if both are ready for sacrifice in the name of something greater, their bond turns into a sacred union of two pilgrims. They do not look at each other as sources of gratification, but look in the same direction—toward the horizon of meaning. This is a love that does not fear lack, because it knows that the spirit feeds on shared longing. In such a relationship, silence is not emptiness, but a shared kenosis—a mutual emptying of the ego to make room for the presence of the Third, the Divine, which connects us all.

I asked myself today: how often have we avoided true intimacy simply because it required us to give up the control that money provides? The freedom to be with someone without knowing what tomorrow brings is the purest form of trust. It is like holding hands while walking in the dark—your only orientation is the pulse of the other. In relationships cleansed of material expectations, words acquire the weight of gold, and gestures of attention become true treasures. A small note left on the table, a warm tea when it is cold outside—these things become carriers of infinite meaning because they are torn from scarcity like flowers blooming in a desert.

The free person does not fear losing the Other, because they know that love is not a possession. It is a free gift. Psychoanalytically, this is a release from attachment anxiety—when you stop viewing the person beside you as an "object of need," you allow them to be a free subject. And precisely in that freedom, they return to you most truly. We hold people most strongly when our hands are completely open. Deprivation teaches us this art of "non-attachment," the ability to love without suffocating, to value presence without demanding eternity.

Ultimately, our relationships are a mirror of our inner landscape. If fear and scarcity reign within us, we will bring that fear into our intimacy. But if we have found that "freedom on the spiritual plane," we begin to radiate peace. This peace is contagious. It allows those around us to catch their breath, to lower their own defenses, to feel safe in our poverty. Our freedom becomes a space in which others can be free too. And perhaps this is the greatest gift we can make to the world—to be so grounded in our spiritual fullness that the lack of material means seems like a mere insignificant detail in the landscape of our eternity.

I close this thought with the feeling that love is the only currency that does not lose value in the desert. It is the bread that multiplies when it is broken. And as long as we have the courage to follow our bliss, we will never be truly poor, because we will possess the ability to see the divine in the other—a wealth before which all the treasures of the earth pale.