“One should rather die than be betrayed. There is no deceit in death. It delivers precisely what it has promised.  Betrayal, though … betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope.” -  Steven Deitz (American Playwright).

Sooner or later - no matter your good your intentions, no matter your commitment to love and honor, no matter your ethical code, belief system, religion or spiritual path - if you choose to love and be loved you will one day be betrayed (and at least once be the betrayer).  And I’m a pretty cheerful guy who thinks of himself as an optimist-by-choice.

I like to think that these betrayals are rare and either unavoidable or unintended.  (I’m aware that some people really think nothing of betraying themselves and others.  Thankfully, these people are relatively few in the world that I inhabit.  I hope that they are the exception in your world, too.)

Today I’m meditating on the choices we face after feeling betrayed.  For the longest time I thought the only sensible response to betrayal was to cease trusting the betrayer, closing my heart and dropping the betrayer from my life.  After all, how can someone prove they are trustworthy after they have clearly demonstrated they are not trustworthy?   In my mind, any alternative to closing my heart would involve inviting a known betrayer into my life, again.  “Fool me once - shame on you.  Fool me twice - shame on me” as the saying goes.

As I’ve gotten older, and hopefully a bit wiser, I begin to see the flaws in that approach.  I pose a question to myself:  Who owns my heart?  I ‘m pretty sure I own my heart, but if I buy into the I-can-never-trust-you argument, then apparently I’m forced to expel you from my heart.  In a way, I have stopped being in charge of my heart.  Perhaps this is the “willful slaughter of hope” that Deitz is talking about?

With my children, I notice that nothing they can ever do or say will have me stop loving them.  I choose to love them.  End of sentence.  I begin to see betrayal as another of those opportunities for growth - perhaps a fucking opportunity rather than a gorgeous opportunity - but an opportunity nonetheless.

I choose love.  Usually that choice brings me joy.  Sometimes it brings me confusion. uncertainty.  Sometimes choosing love is painful.  Sometimes it seems downright self-destructive.  And, I choose love.