By Tom Delahunt the #hobopoet and Carolyn Oulton

In my PhD research, which navigates the complex intersections of love, consciousness, and trauma in nursing, I see love as something far richer than its commodified, societal portrayal. True love, for me, is akin to a force within nature—expansive, transformative, and deeply woven into the fabric of human experience. Yet, navigating this understanding within academia often feels like juggling water; trying to pour love and intuition into rigid frameworks that resist such organic shapes. 

The words of Nietzsche—one of my philosophical “buddies” alongside Spinoza—often come to mind when I encounter this struggle. Nietzsche’s reflections on truth and knowledge, especially in Beyond Good and Evil, reveal the limitations of attempting to fit the wild, living truths of love and existence into boxes of proven, quantifiable outcomes (Nietzsche, 2002). Here, I ask: What is truth? And what is love? This questioning sits at the heart of my work, pushing me beyond conventional academic boundaries and into a space where truth itself feels more like a shared act of discovery than a set of fixed certainties. 

Recently, I submitted a journal article, hoping to add to the discourse around trauma and consciousness, only to see it returned. The critique was fair, but the process stirred an old frustration—the perception that only knowledge measured and defined within specific parameters holds academic weight. The experience took me back to the teachings of Nietzsche and Spinoza, and even to my inner “madame” of resilience, Madame Lola Montez. This bold, defiant figure from history represents a spirit unwilling to be confined by societal norms, someone who pursued love and art without seeking validation, embodying an unapologetic pursuit of self-knowledge.  

Trust 

The Feminine or animas as a Liberating Force in Love 

Throughout history, the contributions of women thinkers have often been overshadowed, misattributed, or even erased—a fate that befell figures like Diotima of Mantinea. Diotima, a philosopher and priestess mentioned in Plato’s Symposium, profoundly influenced Western thought on love. In Socrates’ account, she presents the concept of love as a ladder of ascent, leading from physical attraction to the love of wisdom and, ultimately, to the love of the divine. Yet, as her teachings were filtered through male voices, her ideas and her very existence became a matter of speculation, leaving her philosophy vulnerable to obscurity. Diotima’s vision of love as a transformative force laid the groundwork for later ‘western’ conceptions of eros and agape, yet she remains a ghostly presence in the lineage of philosophy, emblematic of how women’s voices have often been redacted from history’s official record 

Love, from the ancient wisdom of Diotima to the intuitive reverence I express in my own work on my next children’s book The Butterfly Farmer, is not something to own or measure but to experience and grow with. Diotima taught Socrates to view love as a journey toward wisdom and unity—a process of “becoming” rather than “owning” (Plato, 1989). In Anam Ċara, John O’Donohue captures this expansive view, describing love as a connection that nurtures the soul, fostering belonging rather than mere possession (O’Donohue, 1997). 

In developing The Butterfly Farmer, I found inspiration in this vision of love as growth and change. The metaphor of a butterfly’s metamorphosis offers children a way to understand love not as a possession but as a process of caring, patience, and transformation. In the gardens and butterfly sanctuaries we’re creating with the help of local schools and Donna Truwhyte’s ‘Enchanted Garden’ children will experience love as care, witnessing growth and change in the delicate lives they nurture. The project, supported by my publisher Firesky Books and our illustrator Caleb Simmons, symbolizes a shift toward understanding love as something to foster and protect rather than something to acquire.  

Trauma 

Love, Truth, and the Academic Stumbling Block 

This journey through love and knowledge highlights the tensions in academia, where truth is often defined by consensus rather than exploration. Nietzsche’s critique of established norms in Beyond Good and Evil resonates here. For Nietzsche, truth is neither a fixed point nor a universal, but rather a subjective experience shaped by perspective, one that evolves as we deepen our understanding (Nietzsche, 2002). When I think of love—and the ways in which our society, particularly within academic contexts, seeks to control and validate it—I’m reminded that not every insight “cast from the taut bow” of intellect must be an “arrow of defined and proven truth.” Love, like truth, is a living process, and to reduce it to rigid forms is to miss its true nature. 

In a world increasingly polarized by social media and influenced by materialistic desires, this understanding of love as a dynamic process may feel even more crucial. Love’s vulnerability, its unmeasurable depths, challenges the status quo, pushing us toward a knowing that cannot be simply acquired or categorized (Sheldrake, 2020). This call to deeper understanding aligns with my PhD work, where I seek to bridge the knowledge of trauma, love, and healing in ways that can support nurses and caregivers, valuing experience over rigid academic boundaries. 

“The Holy Longing”  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 

“Tell a wise person, or else keep silent, 
For the mass man will mock it right away: 
I praise what is truly alive, 
What longs to be burned to death. 

In the calm waters of the love-nights, 
Where you were begotten, where you have begotten, 
A strange feeling comes over you 
When you see the silent candle burning. 

Now you are no longer caught 
In the obsession with darkness, 
And a desire for higher love-making 
Sweeps you upwards. 

Distance does not make you falter. 
Now, arriving in magic, flying, 
And finally, insane for the light, 
You are the butterfly and you are gone.” 

The Call to Know Love Differently 

In The Butterfly Farmer, children and caregivers alike are invited to see love through the lens of transformation and care. By nurturing butterflies, children could come to know love as a relationship with life itself—a practice of patience and reverence that exists beyond metrics. The butterfly sanctuary at Donna’s Enchanted Garden aims to be a fully immersive experience, where the “talking tree” and hands-on interactions with butterflies and plants bring love into an experiential, living context, echoing Nietzsche’s call to live one’s truths rather than merely understanding them intellectually. 

Diotima’s wisdom reminds us that love is a journey, one that values gentleness, intuition, and nurturing. Here, love aligns more with freedom and connection than with control or ownership, fostering a sense of knowing that encompasses all aspects of our being (Plato, 1989). The guiding force in love challenges the commodified, patriarchal portrayals of love, urging us to embrace it as something expansive, transforming, and deeply rooted in care. 

In my own work, happiness and love come from spaces of safety, from finding a “quiet view” that allows peace and silence to flourish. Working with Canterbury creatives at a recent event for dementia support, I saw love not as an abstract concept but as a tangible presence in connection, creativity, and shared vulnerability. As we discussed happiness, I found myself saying that true happiness, for me, lies within places of security, where I can find solace, peace, and the freedom to be. Here, love is a foundation, a space of refuge and resilience. 

In this journey, I am reminded of the expansive nature of love, rooted in both masculine drive and feminine nurturing. As Goethe’s poem “holy longing” suggests, love is a process of surrender and transformation, a journey that “blesses” us with understanding even as it challenges our comfort (Goethe, 2000). By reimagining love as a force for healing, unity, and growth, we can step beyond the limits of patriarchal possession and find a space where love connects us to all things, moving us toward wholeness and freedom.  

Love 

In my gallery, I displayed three pieces titled “Trust,” “Trauma,” and “Love”—central themes emerging from my research and the deeper layers of my own journey. These works are grounded in the cathartic process that began with my dyslexia assessment paper. Each piece embodies a unique aspect of what it means to release, to heal, and to transform. These are not truths in any conventional, provable sense, yet they resonate with a knowing that feels beyond words, shared by those around me. Through this creative work, the shadows I once carried have been cast and cured in the art. What was once hidden now stands openly, like a collective memory expressed on canvas. 

Carolyn Oulton’s co production of this dance of loves meaning feels like an invitation to honour the feminine voice within the work, a collaboration that will allow us to sit with and listen to the anima’s quiet wisdom. Writing together, we can dive deeper into those aspects of love, trust, and healing that resist easy articulation—especially as they emerge from our personal and collective shadows. Her poetic voice will bring a sense of balance and resonance, helping to shape this journey in a way that doesn’t just skim the surface but roots itself in the lived, layered experience of being and becoming. Together, societally we could create a fuller, more textured expression of love’s truth. 

This collaboration is about more than writing; it’s about tuning in to those aspects of love and knowing that are not easily confined to the intellect but instead require a trust in intuition, vulnerability, and shared presence. Through Carolyn’s insights, the art, the poetry, and the philosophy will weave together to express a truth that feels deeply grounded, as if responding directly to the anima’s whisper.

Carolyn Oulton: response 

When I think of love (or my own identity, come to that), gender isn’t the first thing that comes to mind. Which probably explains at least some of the incidents that continue to mystify me. I tell a close male friend that I love him. He should already know this, but still, in using the words I’m giving something extraordinary. What happens next is cultural code for horror: nothing at all. 

I suspect most women don’t risk it, and I can see why. The same may go double for men, I’ve never been one and I wouldn’t know. Certainly, I have one male friend who professes love once a week for anyone who happens to turn up – but then he’s a vicar and it’s in his job description.  

Between women, it’s supposed to be easier. Casual even. Many years ago I was talking to a woman with whom I’d recently become friendly. Rather unnecessarily, she told me she loved me. And it was sheer panic that made me respond, ‘I love you too.’ Was I embarrassed or relieved when she said immediately, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it. I just ran out of things to say’? To be honest, probably both.  

Notwithstanding this surreal exchange, I find it difficult to tell my female friends in particular that I love them. No I don’t know why either, but in one case it took me forty years. I mumbled something down the phone (I struggle with phone calls at the best of times), she proffered a cheerful goodbye and hung up. And here’s the thing – I laughed like a cat, because I took it as read that she loved me too.  

Perhaps we’re not reclaiming the word ‘love’ because it doesn’t seem to be in trouble. But if ‘I love you’ is a cliché, why is it apparently so dangerous? Why – this is what I really want to know – am I not allowed to use the words outside specific, approved contexts? As a Christian, I hear a lot of sermons. I mean official talks in church, not unsolicited critiques of my behaviour. And one of the best I remember cited Christ’s ‘extravagant love’. I’m not suggesting we can get close to all this implies. But when I think of Jesus walking around on earth, I can’t help thinking how refreshingly inappropriate he must have been. In our culture, the word ‘love’ is to be used in discussing chocolate, fluffy animals, potentially family members, or otherwise a person – and ONLY a person – with whom one is in love. It’s not something to throw in the general direction of someone who looks in need of it.  

Except. Perhaps. If it’s not just something we say when we’re off our heads on alcohol, or hormones or insecurity. If love is rather that commitment to valuing each other at the deepest level. I have always thought it was Matthew Arnold who said this, so apologies to Francis Thompson: 

Love is an affection, its display an emotion: love is the air, its display is the wind.  An affection may be constant; an emotion can no more be constant than the wind can constantly blow.  

My local vicar can’t be in love with all of us (as I’m friendly with his wife, that’s probably just as well). And I have occasionally told someone I loved them without being entirely sure what I meant by it. Most poignantly, I knew someone with advanced dementia who told me she loved me. I’m not convinced she knew who I was when she said this, and with half my brain I was responding on behalf of her daughter (whom I’d never met). With the other half, I was feeling very privileged that she’d said it, and deciding that I loved her too in some way and I’d disentangle all this in the car. I think I did the right thing. But did I love her? I’ve never been sure.  

When Tom asked me to write as a woman writing about love, I was delighted that someone I’d met twice had the sheer gall to suggest it – and in a car park, to boot. But I remembered that I’d once written a poem to try and think through some of these questions. And there it is in the very first line. I was 15 and excited about my first boyfriend of 3 weeks. All was going well until I went to see him while battling a seasonal cold. Illness makes me unduly emotional and for some reason I announced that l loved him. Inevitably he chucked me the next time we met. But wait. He went on to become one of the best and most insightful friends I had in those somewhat rocky teenage years. I don’t remember asking, perhaps I didn’t need to – but I’m pretty sure he loved me then. I certainly loved him.  

How to Love Not Loving 

Of course I didn’t mean it, 

I just had flu 

and it makes me a bit –  

if she loved me so much 

she’d had seven years 

of school to say hello. 

He was really a darling, 

she was just 

someone everyone liked. 

Then there’s polite I love you. 

I love you 

(I’ve run out of things to say). 

I’m drunk I love you, 

or this is exciting 

I love you. 

Somewhere, my God, 

there must be advice 

on how to deal with this: 

She’s worse than boring, 

she’s vicious when crossed – 

and not less boring then. 

You know it. But now she’s  

blessing me with oil. 

And there’s a word for that. 

[first published in Burning House Press, July 2019] 

References 

Goethe, J.W. von. (2000) Selected Poems. Translated by C. Middleton. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 

Nietzsche, F. (2002) Beyond Good and Evil. Translated by J. Norman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 

O’Donohue, J. (1997) Anam Ċara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom. New York: HarperCollins. 

Plato. (1989) The Symposium. Translated by A. Nehamas and P. Woodruff. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company. 

Sheldrake, M. (2020) Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds, and Shape Our Futures. New York: Random House.