Love is when you realize that he's as sexy as Woody Allen, as smart as Jimmy Connors, as funny as Ralph Nader, as athletic as Henry Kissinger and nothing like Robert Redford - but you'll take him anyway.

But it's hard to be hip over thirty when everyone else is nineteen, when the last dance we learned was the Lindy, and the last we heard, girls who looked like Barbara Streisand were trying to do something about it.

Passionate investment leaves us vulnerable to loss. And sometimes, no matter how clever we are, we must lose.

For we lose not only by death, but also by leaving and being left, by changing and letting go and moving on.

Late birds get worms while early birds get tired.

Our father presents an optional set of rhythms and responses for us to connect to. As a second home base, he makes it safer to roam. With him as an ally--a love--it is safer, too, to show that we're mad when we're mad at our mother. We can hate and not be abandoned, hate and still love.

Losing is the price we pay for living. It is also the source of much of our growth and gain.