On Shoes, Gloves, and Romance

    There was once, I hear, a cobbler who had a marvelous ability. His skill with making shoes was so phenomenal that it extended beyond creation into transformation. He could take two shoes which were completely different, and he could alter them so that they would be a completely new pair, quite alike in every way. People came from far and wide simply to see this curiosity take place. Nobody knew how he did it, but they came and tried to figure it out just the same. The rich and the eccentric would bring shoes of different pairs and makes and designers to see them change form, and the less rich and eccentric would bring lone shoes without partners to make them of use again. Though all watched the process with their own eyes, the skill was beyond their understanding, and it completely eluded their senses. 

    Now, it came to pass one day that a young person became dissatisfied with the cobbler's mysterious ability and the way it worked. He brought to the tailor two shoes quite unalike, just like many others before him had. He had, however, a different demand: he wanted the tailor to only alter one and not the other. He wanted one to remain the same, and the other to change to be like it. Now, there was no reason for this. Both shoes were decent, plain shoes without adornment or beauty, and both were still useful to some pair of feet for a time. Neither one was particularly special. The fact of the matter was only this: the man simply disliked the limitation the cobbler put on what seemed to be an infinite ability. If the cobbler's custom of only transforming shoes together was arbitrary, then why not break it? The cobbler clearly had the skill to. 

    When the young man came with this request, however, the cobbler refused him. The young man, of course, wanted to know why. To this, the cobbler's reply was short and simple. We are given what we are given, he told the young man, and we must be content with it. A blessing is a blessing, and distinguishing between them, or favoring one over the other for oneself is ingratitude. Everything we receive, after all, is a gift. 

    Forgive me for starting with a small story, but I feel that this bit of musing probably would not make much sense without the train of thought that came before it, this little tale. For the moment, the tale stands alone, but I'll come back to it. 

    Have you ever noticed the use of romantic curios in stories? Things like handkerchiefs or roses or such things. At first, they're something silly and mundane, but then they take on a greater meaning as the couple's story and development go on. Here's one example, for those who have read Little Women. Do you remember Meg and Mr. Brooke? Their romance begins, perhaps, when Mr. Brooke finds Meg's missing glove. It is a little thing, and Meg dismisses it as gone, so he keeps the thing and cherishes it. Later on, it is a factor of revelation, telling us of Mr. Brooke's true intentions and helping Meg to realize her direction in life. She marries Mr. Brooke, and the gloves are reunited, a complete pair once more. 

    Such a little thing, but it's a lovely little bit of metaphor, isn't it? Of course, we've all heard that cliche old chestnut about couples completing each other and what not. Very often, that stuff is nonsense, or at least heavily diluted therewith, talking about soulmates and fated matches and such drivel. Of course, couples are not fated to be with one another anymore than anyone is fated to do anything, and one good man is equal to the next when it comes to choosing a spouse, if things are done properly. 

    But let me indulge in another example before I continue. I'm sure even those who have not read Little Women know the story of Cinderella. Cinderella loses one glass slipper, and the Prince finds it and returns it to her, restoring unity just like with Meg's gloves.

    In human romantic love, the two shoes or the two gloves are exactly what each spouse should be. One is like to the other in the same way - their fragility. Is it a coincidence that Cinderella's shoes should be made of glass, or that Meg's glove should be lost? The shoes and gloves are like to each other and are one set. 

    That's all well and good, and more competent literary scholars than myself have probably already noted the allegory. Something much more important, however is present in the image. Shoes and gloves are pairs, they are designed for one another, and they make a complete set of something, but there is another aspect as well. Shoes and gloves alike are designed for a purpose, a purpose even beyond completing each other. Shoes are meant to protect the feet and gloves to warm the hands. If shoes or gloves existed independently of any wearer, they would be completely meaningless. 

    The truth of the matter is, we are gloves or shoes or what have you. We are meant for each other in a smaller, more temporal sense (not meaning temporary, but, rather, within time), but we have a greater purpose that we must serve together. If we do it apart, with only one party serving, only half the goal is met. One glove alone does not keep the hands warm, though it's better than none. One spouse on the road towards Heaven alone may get there, but he is missing his traveling companion. We are meant to be together because Heavenly Love is a difficult ideal. For many of us, it is not given that we can know it directly in an intimate way. Instead, we are part of a pair, made to work together and learn of God by serving Him with our human love. If both shoes are found and united, only then are they of full use to the Wearer. 

    This brings me back to my story and to the fallacy of fated lovers. We are not unchanging beings - this is exactly why we cannot be fated for anything other than Heaven. After all, the only unchanging thing in us is the bit of God in us. Only His Holy Image in us does not change. God is the Cobbler in the story. We cannot remain the same and hope to find a match. Both parties must change for love to happen because love is a radical change, only capable of moving and perfecting when it meets with something hardened and imperfect. Love will always be in motion as long as it is finite because it longs so much to reach a state of infinity. The cobbler in my story cannot bear to leave one shoe as it is. He creates, but, more importantly, he transforms. 

    Without being changed, we cannot hope to become perfect. If we cannot hope to become perfect, we cannot hope to achieve Heaven. Fate has nothing to do with romance, really. There is nothing less romantic than being fated to something; it takes all nobility, all beauty, and any influence of God out of the picture of romance. We are malleable, changeable beings, just needing to be hammered into shape to work out as we ought. Ultimately, Our Lord is a Cobbler, making out of even mismatched, useless shoes a beautiful pair, worthy of a King.

Sorry for rambling a bit again... Hope it made some little sense, at least. Either way, Happy St. Valentine's Day, all!