Love in its everyday clothes is kindness. To friends and family? Heck, no. Even the deranged and the desperate practice transactional kindness. True kindness flies straight to the dude in the ditch. It’s spontaneous and unattached. It hasn’t any protocols. It doesn’t want anything.
The prison of personality chokes off love by first inhibiting and finally denying spontaneity. Perfect behaviour is spontaneous behaviour. Love doesn’t calculate. It cares nothing for results. Love’s reward is the action itself.
Skillful doing has no wanting in it, no desire for anything. Wanting something is the corruption of something. The reward for right action is the action itself.
Slowly and inexorably, in response to manifold transgressions, Nature has begun to assert herself. The books are being balanced, and it is entirely possible that humans will not survive the accounting.
We should be rewarded for making mistakes, not punished. Shamed boys grow into fugitive men—furtive and anxious, hidden and watchful, unable to trust themselves.
Men's Work 