"I have missed you very much, Namaste," he said in English, and then again in Arabic.
He draped his hand over my upper thigh in an attempt to draw me a bit closer to him in the corner where we were sitting. It occurred to me that I had forgotten about this side of us. I had forgotten that we ever had chemistry. Was it really only two years ago that we dated? It all seems so brief and uneventful in comparison to all that has happened since. It was a time when I found the maintenance of a relationship structure burdensome and overbearing. But the truth is that I never felt like he had any passion for me. I felt like he was unwilling to fight the good fight for me...
Or had he?
With his hand still on my knee, I smiled and drew back a little. I registered my hesistation in a flirtatious way of looking into his eyes, which was my subtle way of assessing his sobriety and truthfulness. Despite the fact that we were at a cocktail party for our respective academic interests, I knew that he did not have a drop to drink. And, given our dating history, I reminded myself that I knew for a fact that he never lied to me. Not once. Nope. Never.
Hmmm.
But he also never spoken to me like this. At least, not while we were dating. Of course, there was that one time when he pulled me to him after a big dinner with friends, kissed me, and said something profoundly romantic in Arabic. Come to think of it, maybe he did that a lot. And yeah, I remember how he was always very proud to be with me. One time, he asked a mutual friend of ours to drive him to the airport early one morning. Even though I volunteered to give him a lift, he insisted that our friend drive him. That morning while I attempted to sleep, I heard him say to the friend:
"My girlfriend is beautiful and too generous to me already. I ask you this favor so that you will allow me to let her rest, and so that my memory of her on this trip is that she is still peacefully sleeping in my bed while I am away."
Wait. Why did I break up with this guy?
As we sat there talking, I realized how he has continued to walk through life with me, even at a distance. I remembered how he was the one who nudged me in the direction of my current research. In that moment, I realized how unselfish he was when he agreed to let me end our relationship so that I could leave and do other things. (I remember feeling hurt that he refused to join me, but I guess this was his way of letting me fly, albeit without him.) Even still, as my friend, he came to Jerusalem as many times as he could while he was visiting his family to spend afternoons with me. As my friend, he invited me to come to visit him at his family home, to meet his parents and siblings, and see the place on earth that makes his heart whole again and again.
"It's better for you not to be with me right now," he once said when I hinted at the fact that I was struggling with my end of the relationship. In my mind, this only confirmed his lack of passion for me or my happiness. But now, with just a little bit of retrospect, maybe I have finally grown smart enough to realize that he was two steps ahead of me all along...
Damn it.
I smiled and discreetly put my hand over his. The party rolled on around us, while we sat with our hands touching under the table. Mutual friends walked by and laughed awkwardly, as socially inept academics must do when put in a room together.
"You know, I'm pretty sure that you see into my soul and only see the best. It's like...you see the best in me--" I actually said out loud.
"Because you are one of the truest people I know," he replied evenly.
Nothing more was said, other than an unsolicited promise to see me in Jerusalem again in the coming summer when he comes to see his family. Between an exchange of smiles and heavy hugs, he whispered to me to keep going, and I couldn't help but love him and want him to hold me that much longer for this. But, instead of asking him to ask me to stay, I allowed him to allow me to go.
Up until that moment, I had been toying with the idea that love may really be a selfish and empty enterprise at best, a system of score-keeping, notch-making, and so forth. As my hand slipped out of his as I reached for the door, I realized that the best love is willing to let us go.
I left him standing in a circular doorway somewhere between 6th and 7th avenues on 46th street, the smell of his cologne still clinging to the collar of my coat. As I walked away, I made a silent promise to myself to never do it again. That is, of course, if the opportunity should ever come back around.
But for now, I leave for the Middle East in ten days. I leave with the knowledge that what is now behind me was never in vain, always in love, if not sometimes a bit misguided, and admittedly clouded in my own insecurities.
Next time, I said to myself, I won't let myself be let go. But such is the enterprise of love and being loved well.
Namaste
Showing posts with label Him. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Him. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
Neither an Island (Nor an Automaton?)
The men in my life...at least, the important ones, have challenged me to be better.
Pouring soy milk into my cup of tea this morning, I had a sudden flashback of my brief tenure as a vegan. I laughed at the memory itself when the thought crossed my mind that my longstanding relationship with all things healthy (and organic) has outlasted the brief love affair I had with the man who (unsuccessfully) introduced me to a world without meat.
I chuckled at the realization that we all have the ability to change each others' lives without even realizing it. It made me think of the many private imprints that have been left in my own life from the individuals who have held more or less prominent positions in my heart. Specifically, I considered the idea that the male persons who have come into my life and made the most impact are the ones who consistently challenged me to be better than I could imagine myself to be. While I have certainly been the one doing all of the hard work, it would be remiss not to attribute the inspiration for the bulk of my most far-reaching endeavors to the individuals who pushed me and believed in me along the way.
For example, from the Spanish Poet-Cum-Tax Attorney that I nearly married once upon a time--I learned about beauty. Not only did he show me how to make fantastic mashed potatoes, he also firmly believed in my dream of earning a PhD. I may have since moved around the world and back a few times, but I still have every single letter and poem he wrote for me because of the sheer amount of artistry contained in them. He taught me about seeing the world in a grain of sand, only through the eyes of Spanish poet. In many ways, he gave me Spain. And, if not for Spain, I honestly don't think I could be writing this today. He also made me a tea drinker.
The Vegan (mentioned above) carried me into intellectual consciousness in the early years of my graduate work. Of course, it is little matter that I was kicking and screaming the entire time. Despite my childish machinations to the contrary, he patiently and persistently threw books at me to gobble in an effort to prevent me from cannibalizing myself with doubt and self-loathing. He gave me feminism, doused me in non-violence and stripped me to my bones before rebuilding me with postmodernist philosophy. He was the one who made me face my intelligence in the mirror and find a healthy outlet for it. "Good habits," he called it at a time when my very best habit was avoidance and denial. I still have every book gave me. Thank G-d for his friendship today.
The young Engineer-Cum-World Healer taught me about my place in the Universe, I think? We entered each others' lives just as I was emerging from a very serious illness, and, ironically, he had recently completed his training as an energy healer. Scattered across the world, we were quite a pair. When not testing the waters for pollutants in Bolivia, he was the French-Arab guy riding bicycles in the desert in an attempt to rid the world of the guinnea worm. Meanwhile, I was high-assing around Iberia and leading students through the jungles of Costa Rica while somehow miraculously pulling off my PhD field exams with aplumb. Crazy times. I have all of the letters and cards he ever sent me, not for their poetic beauty, but for their sincerity and affection. I also still have the perfect seashell that he sent me from the middle of genocidal Africa, where there isn't a drop of water in sight. He challenged me to think holistically and forced me to reckon with my own intuition. Endearingly, he supported me through my early forays into the Arabic language. His mother once remarked that we are the sort of souls who dance through lifetimes together. Realizing that we both have a long way to go before we are done, he still inspires me.
Who else? Ah, the Crazy Druze from the Golan! In the Crazy Druze I found yet another poet, and I also found my ability to love someone without complication. I still remember all of the words I learned from him in Arabic. My favorites are the words for "heart", "moon", "mint", and the phrase: "from my eyes". Through his Arabic, he introduced me to a world that would otherwise be lost in translation. His intellect was fierce, yet his manner was consistently soft and always steady. It always shocked me how he stood 100% behind my research. My favorite memories with him are walking arm and arm in East Jerusalem when he came for a visit. He taught me about honey, sweetness and patience.
Of course, rounding out my cast of characters is the Rabbi. Certainly this post would be incomplete without him. (And I can only chuckle as I write this.) Going back to my roots, the Rabbi was--perhaps not shockingly--from Latin America. He didn't give me poetry per se, but did introduce me to a way of living poetically. Biblically, maybe? In light of everything, he left a profound imprint of Judaism in my heart, spirit and daily life. While there have been days that I have felt brutally marred by the time he occupied in my story, I can say that I knew from the start that the Hand of the Universe must have engineered the whole thing for a reason. If not for him, I would not have considered teaching or living New England. In Boston, I returned to the place of my birth, which was both unexpected and revealing on so many levels. My time with the Rabbi solidified my already well-developed committment of service to others, of finding realistic ways of being "the change I wish to see in the world", which directly stemmed from my study of Gandhi with the Vegan and my personal evolution since. Perhaps the Rabbi gave me grace...
And so, here I am...on the threshold of another adventure...ready to re-launch to the Middle East in a few weeks...prepared to storm the deserts, rock the kasbah, and sink back into expatriate living. To quote John Donne, recent events have brought my attention to the fact that "no man (or woman) is an island". Of course, there are times that we may attempt to minimize the impact that people have on our lives, but what does this say about us? The mere act of doing so is an acknowledgment in itself. Perhaps it is not the best way to honor that person, but this is how we learn more about who we are. No one is an automaton, I would respond...
(Well, at least I am honest.)
Namaste
Pouring soy milk into my cup of tea this morning, I had a sudden flashback of my brief tenure as a vegan. I laughed at the memory itself when the thought crossed my mind that my longstanding relationship with all things healthy (and organic) has outlasted the brief love affair I had with the man who (unsuccessfully) introduced me to a world without meat.
I chuckled at the realization that we all have the ability to change each others' lives without even realizing it. It made me think of the many private imprints that have been left in my own life from the individuals who have held more or less prominent positions in my heart. Specifically, I considered the idea that the male persons who have come into my life and made the most impact are the ones who consistently challenged me to be better than I could imagine myself to be. While I have certainly been the one doing all of the hard work, it would be remiss not to attribute the inspiration for the bulk of my most far-reaching endeavors to the individuals who pushed me and believed in me along the way.
For example, from the Spanish Poet-Cum-Tax Attorney that I nearly married once upon a time--I learned about beauty. Not only did he show me how to make fantastic mashed potatoes, he also firmly believed in my dream of earning a PhD. I may have since moved around the world and back a few times, but I still have every single letter and poem he wrote for me because of the sheer amount of artistry contained in them. He taught me about seeing the world in a grain of sand, only through the eyes of Spanish poet. In many ways, he gave me Spain. And, if not for Spain, I honestly don't think I could be writing this today. He also made me a tea drinker.
The Vegan (mentioned above) carried me into intellectual consciousness in the early years of my graduate work. Of course, it is little matter that I was kicking and screaming the entire time. Despite my childish machinations to the contrary, he patiently and persistently threw books at me to gobble in an effort to prevent me from cannibalizing myself with doubt and self-loathing. He gave me feminism, doused me in non-violence and stripped me to my bones before rebuilding me with postmodernist philosophy. He was the one who made me face my intelligence in the mirror and find a healthy outlet for it. "Good habits," he called it at a time when my very best habit was avoidance and denial. I still have every book gave me. Thank G-d for his friendship today.
The young Engineer-Cum-World Healer taught me about my place in the Universe, I think? We entered each others' lives just as I was emerging from a very serious illness, and, ironically, he had recently completed his training as an energy healer. Scattered across the world, we were quite a pair. When not testing the waters for pollutants in Bolivia, he was the French-Arab guy riding bicycles in the desert in an attempt to rid the world of the guinnea worm. Meanwhile, I was high-assing around Iberia and leading students through the jungles of Costa Rica while somehow miraculously pulling off my PhD field exams with aplumb. Crazy times. I have all of the letters and cards he ever sent me, not for their poetic beauty, but for their sincerity and affection. I also still have the perfect seashell that he sent me from the middle of genocidal Africa, where there isn't a drop of water in sight. He challenged me to think holistically and forced me to reckon with my own intuition. Endearingly, he supported me through my early forays into the Arabic language. His mother once remarked that we are the sort of souls who dance through lifetimes together. Realizing that we both have a long way to go before we are done, he still inspires me.
Who else? Ah, the Crazy Druze from the Golan! In the Crazy Druze I found yet another poet, and I also found my ability to love someone without complication. I still remember all of the words I learned from him in Arabic. My favorites are the words for "heart", "moon", "mint", and the phrase: "from my eyes". Through his Arabic, he introduced me to a world that would otherwise be lost in translation. His intellect was fierce, yet his manner was consistently soft and always steady. It always shocked me how he stood 100% behind my research. My favorite memories with him are walking arm and arm in East Jerusalem when he came for a visit. He taught me about honey, sweetness and patience.
Of course, rounding out my cast of characters is the Rabbi. Certainly this post would be incomplete without him. (And I can only chuckle as I write this.) Going back to my roots, the Rabbi was--perhaps not shockingly--from Latin America. He didn't give me poetry per se, but did introduce me to a way of living poetically. Biblically, maybe? In light of everything, he left a profound imprint of Judaism in my heart, spirit and daily life. While there have been days that I have felt brutally marred by the time he occupied in my story, I can say that I knew from the start that the Hand of the Universe must have engineered the whole thing for a reason. If not for him, I would not have considered teaching or living New England. In Boston, I returned to the place of my birth, which was both unexpected and revealing on so many levels. My time with the Rabbi solidified my already well-developed committment of service to others, of finding realistic ways of being "the change I wish to see in the world", which directly stemmed from my study of Gandhi with the Vegan and my personal evolution since. Perhaps the Rabbi gave me grace...
And so, here I am...on the threshold of another adventure...ready to re-launch to the Middle East in a few weeks...prepared to storm the deserts, rock the kasbah, and sink back into expatriate living. To quote John Donne, recent events have brought my attention to the fact that "no man (or woman) is an island". Of course, there are times that we may attempt to minimize the impact that people have on our lives, but what does this say about us? The mere act of doing so is an acknowledgment in itself. Perhaps it is not the best way to honor that person, but this is how we learn more about who we are. No one is an automaton, I would respond...
(Well, at least I am honest.)
Namaste
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
And Still It Moves
"To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch...to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."--Ralph Waldo Emerson
"You changed my life," he said.
I blinked back tears and I felt my knees nearly buckle beneath the weight of the world...
My Honda and I barely made it out of the parking lot before I let out a sob that lasted for the first two hours of my drive away. Then, for the next 5 hours, I only cried intermittently as my mind flip-flopped between what had suddenly and so unexpectedly become "the past" and what is yet to appear in the shapeless future. I sobbed between knowing exactly what has brought me here, and trying to focus on the unknown ahead.
Of course, I thought about stopping and turning back, but I knew this would not be wise. It has all been revelatory, but it is clearly not the time for being foolish. I told myself that I do not yet have the room in my heart to have it break again. I also told myself that I have done all that I came to do. Yet even still, I (briefly) fantasized about spontaneous car trouble and I even laughed at myself for this. Despite the fact that life certainly feels like a soap opera at times, I still cannot bring myself to act like a drama queen.
So I kept going with the awareness that going back would be an admission of my own tenderness right now and the limitations of what I can both give and bear. Yet moving forward was also an acknowledgment of my own, undeniable vulnerability. It occurred to me that no matter where we are, it is important not to stagnate, sell-out, and settle for what seems like a good idea on paper. I considered the idea that it is all too easy to be comfortable for all of the glaringly wrong reasons.
And so I kept going in light of the truth because the truth is that I never had the intention to change anyone's life, I was just living mine. It just happened that I was navigating through a year of the biggest personal and professional challenges one could find. Funny how it was just a job for the meantime, just another line to add to the resume, and just some random place in the middle of nowhere. But, (once upon a time), the proximity of the job to the rabbi allowed the rabbi and I to make plans of a lifetime. Who knew?
In all, all of it was serendipity. Even with everything so fresh, I can clearly see that it was never about the job or the rabbi, but about the enormity of encountering the lives of many others beyond my own, even in a moment that became exceptionally solitary, dark and often perilous for me to bear.
In the end, perhaps this is what Emerson means to have "succeeded"?
Perhaps.
"Yoga just ain't the same without you...," my amazing boss wrote me tonight.
"You are so missed," one student wrote earlier in the day.
"You'll always be in my heart," he texted with conviction. And then, "It is not nearly as much fun waking up without you here."
Others have written and called to say that there is a palpable hole that I left behind. In my mind, I imagine the water of the Finger Lake filling it over in the spring and a tree taking root somewhere in the meantime. I suppose we can never understand the enormity of what we leave behind in the lives of others?
"Bring me back to the job," I replied via text to my amazing boss.
"I miss you, too. Please keep up the good work!" I enthusiastically wrote my student.
"Miss me. A lot. And if you still miss me badly enough then we should talk...," I told him with as tenderness as my heart could bear.
And still it moves...(said Galileo).
And still it moves...
(Though the hardest part is not knowing why or to where.)
Maybe I will get the call again and my heart will be more prepared this time. Or maybe I will just go back for a nice visit.
Namaste
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Unicorns
"Unicorns are considered mythical, magical creatures, though some believe that they did in fact once roam the earth...Unicorns are considered virtuous and it is believed that they appear only to those with pure hearts or to those on a mission for good. Unicorns grant wishes and carry qualities of love, peace, calm, gentleness, hope, majesty and caring. Unicorns work at the soul level by helping to fulfill life’s purpose." --Diana Cooper
Asking me if I wrote today is like music to my ears. Not only is it a question of care, but it is a question of support for one of the best parts of me that usually hides in isolation. It is Mozart--invisible, soothing, verbal honey. The sweetness of these words finds its way deep down into the marrow of my tender person, to the ancient river of words within me where I usually dwell in silent, innocent and entirely unassuming aloneness.
Outwardly, I smile and tell the truth in the affirmative: Yes, I wrote today.
Inwardly, my mind wanders to all that I have not actually written...yet...
At the thought of this, my pulse speeds ahead of what my body can contain. I think of what a healer from France once told me, and look down at my feet. With a smile, I invoke the healer's suggestion to gently remind myself to keep them on the ground.
Of course, this is when the bare bulb with the broken chain suddenly turns on in the banana peeled room of my practical brain. The whir of the generator commences, and the usual worries begin to shoot from the wall like chicken nuggets: Write as much as you want, dear girl, but don't get too carried away...
Hmmm...
Not so surprisingly, I was thinking in the shower yesterday that the person who had not yet asked this question could end up being one of the people I add to my long list of "Thank You" when the time comes to print that page. Of course, this is not simply because he has offered what he can in helping me with my computer so that I am able to do the writing that must be done. Rather, it is because he cares to know that I do this and more and he has offered what he can to assist. Without really thinking about it, he is lending me what he can in order to help me fulfill this part of my life's purpose.
(Isn't it funny how quickly things can change in a matter of days? But how did it change? Did we manage to break the spell that was put in place long before we crossed each others' path? Hmmm.)
Atop the white mound of covers on his bed, my computer is warm on my upper thighs. As I take a sip of tea, I am able to hear the wind from the finger lake below. I pause to dance with the thought that it seems as though I have finally arrived in a place that feels right just in time to leave.
But then--because it never is--I think to myself that this is not just about me or my journey alone. Instead, just as I look to my feet, I remind myself to hope that in my own extremely fragile way I have caused his heart to smile again, too.
And maybe, too....well, just maybe...I have (similarly) proven to him that women like me aren't just unicorns.
Namaste
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Good Luck Lessons
The story of my life for the past 15 years is that I have always been coming or going. Leaving, I suppose, is the operative word.
"But, you're leaving...," he will say...
He will say it in that terrible, drifting voice, a voice that trails along with the blankness behind his eyes--supported only by the silent, bouncing ball, which I somehow manage to follow directly to the used condom resting at the very top of his bathroom trash can or to the disgusting, week-old hickeys on his collarbone at dinner, which he falsely swears was given to him by his brother in a wrestling match. I roll my eyes to that voice that feels like nails on a chalkboard to me--it is the sound that makes me want to scratch, crawl, run, and above all else, bolt with all of my senses--out of the door, down the stairs, down the street, out in the snow, to the next time zone, the next war zone, and whatever else might possibly make me feel worse and fully removed from this moment. And yet, beyond my own mother's deathbed wish for smart, gorgeous grandchildren, it is the voice that reminds me of my mortality. Life is short, I tell myself. People meet for a reason....There are no coincidences....Love takes work and it is worth fighting for. (Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera.) Yes--it is simultaneously the voice, which, for whatever reason stops me cold in my tracks and makes me want to stay and stand my ground--on ground that is simply not mine--and deliberately push against the grain for something that is obviously...
just...
not...
worth
...it.
But, I am worth fighting for. At least, this is what I tell myself to justify the futility of engaging something so pointless when the obvious is at hand.
I remind myself of this as I wrestle with the decision to leave, despite the fact that I know there is absolutely no choice.
But, wait? How did I find myself here again?
While I am looking out of the high window at the night on the lake that I have grown to love with so much tenderness, he fidgets with his flashing cell phone and motions for me to join him on the couch. I look back at him and try to smile. I look back and tell myself: He is nice. I have liked his smell and his company. There is a beauty to his spirit. There is a potential. Maybe? Yet where I am flowing and open, he is technical and robotic. He's a lot like an optical illusion. Somehow, there's always a flash of something substantial, then suddenly a glitch, a catch, a curveball--and yes--I know that I have been ignoring it. So, c'mon, honey-- just accept the obvious. No need to make this a big deal. Yes, it occurs to me that I wish his material warmth did not feel so hollow inside. I begin to blink back tears.
I cast one more glance out beyond from his window, perched high on the wall of the small town elite--his window--peering down upon this random place in snowy New England where my little heart has managed to travel so far by staying in one place in the past 14 months. In the distance, I watch the frozen water from the sky fall down and dissolve upon the deep, dark water from the earth. And still, from my side of the window, I am reminded that even on the inside of this home--his home-- I am an outsider, a polite guest, and this moment, detached, removed and distant from all of the rest, is the very last moment of my outsider's view from the inside of where I have been. Despite my best attempts, my eyes turn wet yet again. It is all I can do to sigh and attempt to focus on the lake. I blink and see bombs falling around me in Gaza. The sky feels like it is falling, and it's not just the snow outside. I blink and refocus on the lake, while I try to hold back my own, inner ocean.
Ultimately, my feet find their way back to my shoes, and manage to politely say that it is time for me to leave. At first he turns his back to me and says, "Ok, well, buenas noches." His words and inability to look me in the eye sting very suddenly but I am not capable of reacting. Instead, I just say good-bye. When he hears my heels on the stairs, his teasing and attempts to make me stay sound more like shaming than care. But he stays there, above me, fixed on the top of his stairs, beckoning me to come to him, just to make it easier for him to be more of a jerk than he has been already. Feeling as if he has been indulged by enough by women who need this sort of power struggle more than me, I remind myself of my ongoing awareness of my own complicity in making this interaction possible. Against my better judgment, I have given in enough already. This time, I hold my ground, even if I am literally and figuratively at the very bottom. I look around and realize that I am satisfied in the comfort of discovering how far I can sink when I tell myself it is ok to give in. Despite his transparent insistence to the contrary, I realize that I simply won't reach out because, ultimately, he won't either. I don't have words for it in the moment, but this is precisely why I am leaving. I am not done because I want to be, but because I have to be.
Because I have to be, I am done.
Of course, even if I did not truly want to return to my extremely cold house down the street, to the icebox of a bed that is temporarily where my body stays as I dream, I simply could not stay there, knowing that the morning will bring my inevitable replacement in my awareness of the currently rotating woman position next to him in his bed. I shrug my shoulders and realize that maybe this isn't my story after all, but his. Either way, I calmly, quietly and sincerely wish him good luck. Yet, as I reach the first door, I nearly cry again when I realize that he is the one who fears being alone more than I do. Even still, I tell myself not to cry for him, even though I know all too well that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. Ultimately, I know that I can be alone far easier than I can be complicit in perpetuating some elses' state of disequilibrium.
Perhaps he'll read the book I gave him, I tell myself...
Either way, I continue to leave, knowing that I did the best that I could under the circumstances.
Through tears, I gently shut the door behind me--his door--and make sure that it is locked, as to prevent any temptation for a dramatic re-entry, even though I fully know I am only capable of performing such a thing in my mind and never in the moment.
Then, I emerge into the night air from the sweet-smelling home--his home--also leaving behind me the parent folks inside who welcomed me without question over the Christmas holiday. As I do, pure oxygen from the middle finger of the famous Finger Lakes hits me hard at my first inhalation. The frozen water from the sky falls upon my hair, tangles in my crazy eyelashes, and blinds me for a second until it melts in the water of my eyes.
"I am...so...lost," I sigh. I feel directionless as I look up the dark street, in the direction of the empty college campus that will move forward without me once the students return. I laugh to myself as I remember almost asking him earlier in the evening to give me a reason, any reason to stay. Just, please, hold on to me because I am scared of flying away.
Then, as the 15 year old story always seems to go, I look to my feet and ask my brain to put my right foot in front of my left. And, as I always do, I find a direction by creating yet another destination in my mind: Home.
As I walk in the direction of a place that I am truly yet to reach, I give myself the moment to remember what it is that I have learned:
I have learned that I can be happy anywhere. I have also learned that where I am is where I need to be. I have learned that I can give until my heart is empty because I know that I am a part of a cycle of giving, and the center of this cycle is love. And finally, perhaps I have learned to learn the lesson of being honest with myself...and maybe, just maybe, this time I got it right.
In the end, I will wish that he had taken the time to get to know me better, to trust himself to hold me closer--not just with his body, or with his wallet, but with his heart. Yes, I will hope that he might think to read the book I slipped into his life just as I slipped away. But in the end, I know that it really doesn't matter. If he's ever ready, he'll read it. If not, then nothing--this never had anything to do with me. Things have a way of working out as they should, and, of course, they will for each of us. In fact, I realize that they already have.
Ultimately, I admit that this may be the smallest piece of my 14-month long puzzle. Yet, where my part of the story is concerned, the final lesson taken was...finally...the most important.
Namaste
"But, you're leaving...," he will say...
He will say it in that terrible, drifting voice, a voice that trails along with the blankness behind his eyes--supported only by the silent, bouncing ball, which I somehow manage to follow directly to the used condom resting at the very top of his bathroom trash can or to the disgusting, week-old hickeys on his collarbone at dinner, which he falsely swears was given to him by his brother in a wrestling match. I roll my eyes to that voice that feels like nails on a chalkboard to me--it is the sound that makes me want to scratch, crawl, run, and above all else, bolt with all of my senses--out of the door, down the stairs, down the street, out in the snow, to the next time zone, the next war zone, and whatever else might possibly make me feel worse and fully removed from this moment. And yet, beyond my own mother's deathbed wish for smart, gorgeous grandchildren, it is the voice that reminds me of my mortality. Life is short, I tell myself. People meet for a reason....There are no coincidences....Love takes work and it is worth fighting for. (Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera.) Yes--it is simultaneously the voice, which, for whatever reason stops me cold in my tracks and makes me want to stay and stand my ground--on ground that is simply not mine--and deliberately push against the grain for something that is obviously...
just...
not...
worth
...it.
But, I am worth fighting for. At least, this is what I tell myself to justify the futility of engaging something so pointless when the obvious is at hand.
I remind myself of this as I wrestle with the decision to leave, despite the fact that I know there is absolutely no choice.
But, wait? How did I find myself here again?
While I am looking out of the high window at the night on the lake that I have grown to love with so much tenderness, he fidgets with his flashing cell phone and motions for me to join him on the couch. I look back at him and try to smile. I look back and tell myself: He is nice. I have liked his smell and his company. There is a beauty to his spirit. There is a potential. Maybe? Yet where I am flowing and open, he is technical and robotic. He's a lot like an optical illusion. Somehow, there's always a flash of something substantial, then suddenly a glitch, a catch, a curveball--and yes--I know that I have been ignoring it. So, c'mon, honey-- just accept the obvious. No need to make this a big deal. Yes, it occurs to me that I wish his material warmth did not feel so hollow inside. I begin to blink back tears.
I cast one more glance out beyond from his window, perched high on the wall of the small town elite--his window--peering down upon this random place in snowy New England where my little heart has managed to travel so far by staying in one place in the past 14 months. In the distance, I watch the frozen water from the sky fall down and dissolve upon the deep, dark water from the earth. And still, from my side of the window, I am reminded that even on the inside of this home--his home-- I am an outsider, a polite guest, and this moment, detached, removed and distant from all of the rest, is the very last moment of my outsider's view from the inside of where I have been. Despite my best attempts, my eyes turn wet yet again. It is all I can do to sigh and attempt to focus on the lake. I blink and see bombs falling around me in Gaza. The sky feels like it is falling, and it's not just the snow outside. I blink and refocus on the lake, while I try to hold back my own, inner ocean.
...
Ultimately, my feet find their way back to my shoes, and manage to politely say that it is time for me to leave. At first he turns his back to me and says, "Ok, well, buenas noches." His words and inability to look me in the eye sting very suddenly but I am not capable of reacting. Instead, I just say good-bye. When he hears my heels on the stairs, his teasing and attempts to make me stay sound more like shaming than care. But he stays there, above me, fixed on the top of his stairs, beckoning me to come to him, just to make it easier for him to be more of a jerk than he has been already. Feeling as if he has been indulged by enough by women who need this sort of power struggle more than me, I remind myself of my ongoing awareness of my own complicity in making this interaction possible. Against my better judgment, I have given in enough already. This time, I hold my ground, even if I am literally and figuratively at the very bottom. I look around and realize that I am satisfied in the comfort of discovering how far I can sink when I tell myself it is ok to give in. Despite his transparent insistence to the contrary, I realize that I simply won't reach out because, ultimately, he won't either. I don't have words for it in the moment, but this is precisely why I am leaving. I am not done because I want to be, but because I have to be.
Because I have to be, I am done.
Of course, even if I did not truly want to return to my extremely cold house down the street, to the icebox of a bed that is temporarily where my body stays as I dream, I simply could not stay there, knowing that the morning will bring my inevitable replacement in my awareness of the currently rotating woman position next to him in his bed. I shrug my shoulders and realize that maybe this isn't my story after all, but his. Either way, I calmly, quietly and sincerely wish him good luck. Yet, as I reach the first door, I nearly cry again when I realize that he is the one who fears being alone more than I do. Even still, I tell myself not to cry for him, even though I know all too well that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. Ultimately, I know that I can be alone far easier than I can be complicit in perpetuating some elses' state of disequilibrium.
Perhaps he'll read the book I gave him, I tell myself...
Either way, I continue to leave, knowing that I did the best that I could under the circumstances.
Through tears, I gently shut the door behind me--his door--and make sure that it is locked, as to prevent any temptation for a dramatic re-entry, even though I fully know I am only capable of performing such a thing in my mind and never in the moment.
Then, I emerge into the night air from the sweet-smelling home--his home--also leaving behind me the parent folks inside who welcomed me without question over the Christmas holiday. As I do, pure oxygen from the middle finger of the famous Finger Lakes hits me hard at my first inhalation. The frozen water from the sky falls upon my hair, tangles in my crazy eyelashes, and blinds me for a second until it melts in the water of my eyes.
"I am...so...lost," I sigh. I feel directionless as I look up the dark street, in the direction of the empty college campus that will move forward without me once the students return. I laugh to myself as I remember almost asking him earlier in the evening to give me a reason, any reason to stay. Just, please, hold on to me because I am scared of flying away.
Then, as the 15 year old story always seems to go, I look to my feet and ask my brain to put my right foot in front of my left. And, as I always do, I find a direction by creating yet another destination in my mind: Home.
As I walk in the direction of a place that I am truly yet to reach, I give myself the moment to remember what it is that I have learned:
I have learned that I can be happy anywhere. I have also learned that where I am is where I need to be. I have learned that I can give until my heart is empty because I know that I am a part of a cycle of giving, and the center of this cycle is love. And finally, perhaps I have learned to learn the lesson of being honest with myself...and maybe, just maybe, this time I got it right.
In the end, I will wish that he had taken the time to get to know me better, to trust himself to hold me closer--not just with his body, or with his wallet, but with his heart. Yes, I will hope that he might think to read the book I slipped into his life just as I slipped away. But in the end, I know that it really doesn't matter. If he's ever ready, he'll read it. If not, then nothing--this never had anything to do with me. Things have a way of working out as they should, and, of course, they will for each of us. In fact, I realize that they already have.
Ultimately, I admit that this may be the smallest piece of my 14-month long puzzle. Yet, where my part of the story is concerned, the final lesson taken was...finally...the most important.
Namaste
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Operation Stay in One Place
I have the ability to make myself at home just about anywhere. For me, home is where I sleep. With a quality pair of earplugs, I can sleep just about anywhere. (Including 60 year old refugee camps.) I have done my fair share of squatting, too. I once survived for a week of college "Beach Week" activities by sleeping on the covered deck of an empty home, making use of outdoor showers, and enjoying various social invitations to fraternity party cocktail BBQ's. The absolute worst place I ever slept was in the hotel brothel I stayed at with Dr. B last year during our trip to Petra, Jordan. When backpacking through Europe once, Bro and I regularly enjoyed the luxury of overnight sleeping compartments on moving trains. We once swindled a hot shower out of an Italian youth hostel manager, but vanished into the night before paying for a bed. I have also thoroughly enjoyed myself at the London Ritz. Go figure.
A former love partner wrote me an email this morning. He had a stopover in Istanbul, and wanted to say hello before he carries on to do the work he's been sent to do in a small village in the Turkish interior, where he will no doubt save the world, breastfeed a few babies, have a few more marriage proposals, and do big and important things (like cure cancer and end world hunger) with the aid of his pocket knife and charming personality. Last week, he sent me pictures of a very impressive hike he took in the White Desert, about 600km SW of Cairo. The pictures were amazing, and, yes, I silently made a note to self: "Go there".
In his email, my former love partner requested to know what I am up to these days...
I laughed when I considered the many ways that I could respond...
The truth is that I woke up this morning and walked down to the street to the gas station that sells milk, eggs and cheese. I was wearing my glasses, my hair piled in a crazy knot on top of my head, the pair of faded jeans that I bought in Israel 2 years ago, a tight black shirt, flip-flops and no bra. I was sexually harassed by two man standing behind me in the cashier line, and I pretended not to hear the comments they made about my body, and most especially, my derriere. One of the nice men followed me out of the store, and called after me. He requested to know my name. However, I wasn't in the mood to play the game of smiling to acknowledge his advances and then embarrassing him in front of his friend, so I continued to pretend as though I was a deaf-mute. It caused me to wonder if men such as this ever stop to wonder why women like me scatter away from them as quickly as possible. It also caused me to wonder about the women who actually welcome and enjoy this sort of aggression from strange men in public places. Finally, it also caused me to wonder why there seems to be a statistically strong correlation between men who enjoy grunting and commenting openly about my body, most especially those who wear old t-shirts cut out to display the hair in their armpits?
But I didn't write this in the email.
I also didn't write about my short walk home with my groceries, in which I found myself remembering with fondness all of the walking I did a year ago when living in the Middle East. I didn't mention how it occurred to me that living in America is really so easy. It's so soft and silent. I can go to a grocery store here, and the person at the checkout counter always bags my groceries, giving me the option of "paper or plastic?" and tells me to have a nice day. I didn't mention how I still have a tendency to cross the street as if I never left the Middle East, and this completely freaks out American drivers who are not accustomed to having a human being so close to their car.
I also didn't mention that on a good day, I am bored. On a less than good day, I am really, really bored. And yet, I am passively observing my boredom while actively enjoying it.
When it is all said and done, this will go down in the books as "The Summer That I Stayed Put". There is no doubt that adventures in the White Desert of Egypt await me. For now, I'm trying to make time in my busy writing schedule to hike the waterfalls in the New York Fingerlake region. Again, go figure.
And, so I wrote back to my old friend with the enthusiasm and gusto that he has always loved about me, wishing him the best of fun and the safest of travels. He is the last person on earth that needs to be reminded that sometimes, we need to unpack the bags and stay in one place. Sometimes we need to assess what we carry with us and unload ourselves of the burdens we've taken on. Sometimes, though, doing this is not as carefree and breezy as it sounds. It is hard work, but necessary. There are some people in this world, who are born to be the conductors of experience. We are the mediums through which things must pass--people, places, events, emotions. We are not these people, these places, these events, or these emotions. And sometimes, we need to remind ourselves of this.
A year ago, if someone had told me that I would be writing my doctoral dissertation in the middle of an American version of "nowhere", I would have laughed with good humor. But am here, now, unpacked as much as possible, and making eggs on a Sunday morning. I am enjoying a cup of coffee from a French press and the air from the nearby lake. I am somewhere. Always somewhere, I suppose. (Strange and foreign though it may be.)
...And so I am digging in rather than spinning out. Of course, I didn't write that either.
(But I am.)
What a journey.
Namaste
A former love partner wrote me an email this morning. He had a stopover in Istanbul, and wanted to say hello before he carries on to do the work he's been sent to do in a small village in the Turkish interior, where he will no doubt save the world, breastfeed a few babies, have a few more marriage proposals, and do big and important things (like cure cancer and end world hunger) with the aid of his pocket knife and charming personality. Last week, he sent me pictures of a very impressive hike he took in the White Desert, about 600km SW of Cairo. The pictures were amazing, and, yes, I silently made a note to self: "Go there".
In his email, my former love partner requested to know what I am up to these days...
I laughed when I considered the many ways that I could respond...
The truth is that I woke up this morning and walked down to the street to the gas station that sells milk, eggs and cheese. I was wearing my glasses, my hair piled in a crazy knot on top of my head, the pair of faded jeans that I bought in Israel 2 years ago, a tight black shirt, flip-flops and no bra. I was sexually harassed by two man standing behind me in the cashier line, and I pretended not to hear the comments they made about my body, and most especially, my derriere. One of the nice men followed me out of the store, and called after me. He requested to know my name. However, I wasn't in the mood to play the game of smiling to acknowledge his advances and then embarrassing him in front of his friend, so I continued to pretend as though I was a deaf-mute. It caused me to wonder if men such as this ever stop to wonder why women like me scatter away from them as quickly as possible. It also caused me to wonder about the women who actually welcome and enjoy this sort of aggression from strange men in public places. Finally, it also caused me to wonder why there seems to be a statistically strong correlation between men who enjoy grunting and commenting openly about my body, most especially those who wear old t-shirts cut out to display the hair in their armpits?
But I didn't write this in the email.
I also didn't write about my short walk home with my groceries, in which I found myself remembering with fondness all of the walking I did a year ago when living in the Middle East. I didn't mention how it occurred to me that living in America is really so easy. It's so soft and silent. I can go to a grocery store here, and the person at the checkout counter always bags my groceries, giving me the option of "paper or plastic?" and tells me to have a nice day. I didn't mention how I still have a tendency to cross the street as if I never left the Middle East, and this completely freaks out American drivers who are not accustomed to having a human being so close to their car.
I also didn't mention that on a good day, I am bored. On a less than good day, I am really, really bored. And yet, I am passively observing my boredom while actively enjoying it.
When it is all said and done, this will go down in the books as "The Summer That I Stayed Put". There is no doubt that adventures in the White Desert of Egypt await me. For now, I'm trying to make time in my busy writing schedule to hike the waterfalls in the New York Fingerlake region. Again, go figure.
And, so I wrote back to my old friend with the enthusiasm and gusto that he has always loved about me, wishing him the best of fun and the safest of travels. He is the last person on earth that needs to be reminded that sometimes, we need to unpack the bags and stay in one place. Sometimes we need to assess what we carry with us and unload ourselves of the burdens we've taken on. Sometimes, though, doing this is not as carefree and breezy as it sounds. It is hard work, but necessary. There are some people in this world, who are born to be the conductors of experience. We are the mediums through which things must pass--people, places, events, emotions. We are not these people, these places, these events, or these emotions. And sometimes, we need to remind ourselves of this.
A year ago, if someone had told me that I would be writing my doctoral dissertation in the middle of an American version of "nowhere", I would have laughed with good humor. But am here, now, unpacked as much as possible, and making eggs on a Sunday morning. I am enjoying a cup of coffee from a French press and the air from the nearby lake. I am somewhere. Always somewhere, I suppose. (Strange and foreign though it may be.)
...And so I am digging in rather than spinning out. Of course, I didn't write that either.
(But I am.)
What a journey.
Namaste
Friday, March 16, 2007
Musings on the Muse
Yesterday, I practiced yoga next to a new friend-- an extremely muscular and heavily-tattooed young man. Henceforth, I will call him Timor, due to his on-going work in a this part of the world. Timor just returned from working for a year in East Timor. He's now back in town to finish up his Master's degree this spring before he will return to build more community centers in the region in order to give the kids there some better things to do than literally slaughter each other. As far as One Miss Namaste is concerned, Timor is already a very interesting person.
For months prior to his arrival back in town, a mutual friend of ours kept chatting him up to me. "He's complex. He's one big muscle with an even bigger heart," she said. She assured me that I was going to fall madly for his brains and exceptionally ripped physique. On the flip side of this, she privately assured him that he was going to fall madly in love with me, and I was going to to be the girl to break his heart. An interesting way to be set up, if you ask me. Clearly, it is far too premature to say that any of these predictions are worth much more than putting us together to hang out. However, I will say that it was very much in his favor to attend a yoga class with me yesterday. There is something extremely compelling about a muscle-bound, machete-carrying, 4th world globe trotter who voluntarily falls into child's pose on the mat beside me, and actually looks comfortable doing it...
Normally, I would wait before writing about someone I just met. In fact, I would normally go through several rounds of analysis before rendering a person uninteresting to write about in the first place. While all people are complicated and capable of wonderful surprises, I usually find that most people, in a very archetypal sort of way, tend to operate on a few basic frequencies without a whole lot of variation. This is especially true for men. They operate at longer and more self-sustained frequencies than women. This certainly makes them more low-key in general, but also more inflexible and predictable as a result, which is possibly why I find most men incredibly uninteresting, dull and overwhelmingly boring.
I know it probably says something horrible about me to admit that the majority of men out there bore me to tears, but they do. Take, for example, a guy I met at a party a while back who had the emotional frequency of a man who might consult with his old fraternity brothers (who now play on his softball team) to get the "thumbs-up" on everything from his wardrobe to his luxury car to his choice in women. If he had mind of his own under his hair pomade, he certainly wasn't in the business of using it. When he asked me what the point of "all of this education" was for me, I pretended to ignore his insecure slant. Every time I opened my mouth to participate in my side of the conversation, he looked at me like I was speaking Swahili. Only, I was personally led to doubt very strongly that he's never heard Swahili spoken in his life, nor has he the faintest curiosity in doing so.
On the flip side, there are men who legitimately say that they want a "woman with a brain". Hearing this, I instantly decipher this as code for: "I want a woman who won't embarrass me in front of my elitist crowd of friends and colleagues, but it is imperative that she is much more insecure than I am, yet smart enough to never challenge my superior position of control and power in the relationship." It's safe to say that I've dated this guy a few times. Thusly, from my line of observations, anyone who uses this specific phrase may already be inclined to think that he is smarter and better than the rest us. He doesn't classify himself as a bad guy, but he is incredibly self-serving. It's entirely possible that when he was in primary school, someone told him that he was smart enough to rule the world some day, and so his entire self-identity is devoted to the externality of who he considers himself to be. I have found that the majority of men who say this fall on the spectrum of manipulative personalities, spoiled by their ability to construct their own world as they see fit. Ergo, a "woman with a brain" is somehow supposed to fit into their pre-constructed mold for her, the space that they have designated "Woman" in their closet so that they can appear to live a "well-balanced" life. The intention is that she's professional and accessible, but that she comes from a background of just enough low self-esteem that she never asks questions or demands too much of him except for thinking that he's 100% great, 100% of the time. After all, she's really the lucky one to be with this fine speci-Man of infinite superiority. But let's face it, no one is absolutely perfect, and any woman with a "real brain" can patiently and confidently figure that out and find a way to navigate herself through the social dilemmas of being in a relationship with a man who values nothing about her brains at all.
Of course, it isn't my intention in this little missive to cast a negative light on men. Quite the opposite, in fact. I, for one, happen to be a card-carrying Number One Fan of the Man. I'm a complete sucker for the kind of man who thinks and constructs his reality "outside of the box", and I will say that I'm getting better at spotting this type of individual in his native habitat. I won't go into my lengthy proscription of why there seems to be a paucity of agency and integrity among the men of my generation, because that's another missive entirely. But I do think that it's fair to say that it is extremely redeeming to note that not all of my fellow, opposite sex-ers have become emotional and intellectual weaklings and one-dimensional beings in our tough, post-modern jungle of modernity and co-optation of individuality and all authenticity. I'm simply over the flashy, yet shallow emotional and spiritual death that we have replaced with masculinity in our generation. Whatever happened to the understanding that we are all, in fact, intellectual animals, which may or may not rightly assume that a man or a woman can be all things at once without having an identity crisis? Beyond just being human, doesn't that magical connection of mind and body say something more about who we are and what we commit to doing in this life?
At least, these were all of the things that naughtily and very subversively passed through my mind in yoga yesterday. I guess you can say that I was multi-tasking as I patiently worked every fiber in my body whilst breathing in that wonderful aroma of invisible Man pheromones emanating from the person beside me. He makes for quite an interesting muse. But, more importantly, he has excellent yogi potential, not just in his body, but between his ears.
"You're the best time I ever had, Jack Colton." My, oh my ... indeed.
For months prior to his arrival back in town, a mutual friend of ours kept chatting him up to me. "He's complex. He's one big muscle with an even bigger heart," she said. She assured me that I was going to fall madly for his brains and exceptionally ripped physique. On the flip side of this, she privately assured him that he was going to fall madly in love with me, and I was going to to be the girl to break his heart. An interesting way to be set up, if you ask me. Clearly, it is far too premature to say that any of these predictions are worth much more than putting us together to hang out. However, I will say that it was very much in his favor to attend a yoga class with me yesterday. There is something extremely compelling about a muscle-bound, machete-carrying, 4th world globe trotter who voluntarily falls into child's pose on the mat beside me, and actually looks comfortable doing it...
Normally, I would wait before writing about someone I just met. In fact, I would normally go through several rounds of analysis before rendering a person uninteresting to write about in the first place. While all people are complicated and capable of wonderful surprises, I usually find that most people, in a very archetypal sort of way, tend to operate on a few basic frequencies without a whole lot of variation. This is especially true for men. They operate at longer and more self-sustained frequencies than women. This certainly makes them more low-key in general, but also more inflexible and predictable as a result, which is possibly why I find most men incredibly uninteresting, dull and overwhelmingly boring.
I know it probably says something horrible about me to admit that the majority of men out there bore me to tears, but they do. Take, for example, a guy I met at a party a while back who had the emotional frequency of a man who might consult with his old fraternity brothers (who now play on his softball team) to get the "thumbs-up" on everything from his wardrobe to his luxury car to his choice in women. If he had mind of his own under his hair pomade, he certainly wasn't in the business of using it. When he asked me what the point of "all of this education" was for me, I pretended to ignore his insecure slant. Every time I opened my mouth to participate in my side of the conversation, he looked at me like I was speaking Swahili. Only, I was personally led to doubt very strongly that he's never heard Swahili spoken in his life, nor has he the faintest curiosity in doing so.
On the flip side, there are men who legitimately say that they want a "woman with a brain". Hearing this, I instantly decipher this as code for: "I want a woman who won't embarrass me in front of my elitist crowd of friends and colleagues, but it is imperative that she is much more insecure than I am, yet smart enough to never challenge my superior position of control and power in the relationship." It's safe to say that I've dated this guy a few times. Thusly, from my line of observations, anyone who uses this specific phrase may already be inclined to think that he is smarter and better than the rest us. He doesn't classify himself as a bad guy, but he is incredibly self-serving. It's entirely possible that when he was in primary school, someone told him that he was smart enough to rule the world some day, and so his entire self-identity is devoted to the externality of who he considers himself to be. I have found that the majority of men who say this fall on the spectrum of manipulative personalities, spoiled by their ability to construct their own world as they see fit. Ergo, a "woman with a brain" is somehow supposed to fit into their pre-constructed mold for her, the space that they have designated "Woman" in their closet so that they can appear to live a "well-balanced" life. The intention is that she's professional and accessible, but that she comes from a background of just enough low self-esteem that she never asks questions or demands too much of him except for thinking that he's 100% great, 100% of the time. After all, she's really the lucky one to be with this fine speci-Man of infinite superiority. But let's face it, no one is absolutely perfect, and any woman with a "real brain" can patiently and confidently figure that out and find a way to navigate herself through the social dilemmas of being in a relationship with a man who values nothing about her brains at all.
Of course, it isn't my intention in this little missive to cast a negative light on men. Quite the opposite, in fact. I, for one, happen to be a card-carrying Number One Fan of the Man. I'm a complete sucker for the kind of man who thinks and constructs his reality "outside of the box", and I will say that I'm getting better at spotting this type of individual in his native habitat. I won't go into my lengthy proscription of why there seems to be a paucity of agency and integrity among the men of my generation, because that's another missive entirely. But I do think that it's fair to say that it is extremely redeeming to note that not all of my fellow, opposite sex-ers have become emotional and intellectual weaklings and one-dimensional beings in our tough, post-modern jungle of modernity and co-optation of individuality and all authenticity. I'm simply over the flashy, yet shallow emotional and spiritual death that we have replaced with masculinity in our generation. Whatever happened to the understanding that we are all, in fact, intellectual animals, which may or may not rightly assume that a man or a woman can be all things at once without having an identity crisis? Beyond just being human, doesn't that magical connection of mind and body say something more about who we are and what we commit to doing in this life?
At least, these were all of the things that naughtily and very subversively passed through my mind in yoga yesterday. I guess you can say that I was multi-tasking as I patiently worked every fiber in my body whilst breathing in that wonderful aroma of invisible Man pheromones emanating from the person beside me. He makes for quite an interesting muse. But, more importantly, he has excellent yogi potential, not just in his body, but between his ears.
"You're the best time I ever had, Jack Colton." My, oh my ... indeed.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Time and Space
It's always quite lovely to get a nice yet completely random email from someone you once briefly loved out loud but let go with a smile. It's especially nice when it's a heartfelt hello. He writes from the other side of the planet:
"Hi. I miss you. You've been in my head. I look at the women here and see your smile in them. I watch them in their traditional dancing, and see you laughing and dancing among them. I think you would love it here. What's it going to take to get you to visit?"
He happened to be working in Vietnam and vacationing in Thailand when the tsunami hit two years ago. He was way out in the sea on a diving trip. A seasoned water person, he says that the water was choppy and unfriendly that morning. By the time he was heading back in for the day, thousands of bodies and debris started floating towards the boat. He said it felt like something out of the Bible. When he finally made it back to the land, everything familiar to him was gone, including two good friends of his who didn't feel like diving with him that day. The minute his feet regained the earth, he began working on recovery efforts. And he never did find his friends. But I suppose, in a way, he found his purpose. He's been there ever since. At this point, he has no plans to leave.
I don't miss much about life before Thailand. But I do miss the sweetness and complexity of you. I miss watching your mind work when you think no one is paying attention. The other day, I saw a little girl in my village light up and clap her hands they way you do when you get excited about something. I miss that about you. I miss watching your self-awareness of time and space, how these things have a way of bending around you when you walk through a room. You don't command an audience intentionally, but time and space holds you in rapture along with the rest of us. You realize it, and yet you don't. This is what I miss most about you--how when you realize that someone is watching, you give yourself a goofy, half-confused smile and nervous half-laugh like maybe you should have been paying closer attention, but then brush it all off as a moment of weirdness and keep going on. I miss your hilarious laughter and ability to hold the world in your heart as you do. So few women in our generation know what it's like to be hopeful, much less radiant and full of life.
After the initial news of what happened, we didn't hear from him for a while. Our mutual friends called me in various states of alarm, wanting to know if he'd contacted me. After three weeks, everyone was convinced that we'd lost him. His parents started making funeral arrangements. Call it crazy intuition, or optimistic denial, but I knew that he would surface eventually. Tragic things happen every day, but I somehow think that when a person is living according to his purpose, even the biggest of cataclysmic events can't stop him from serving his call. In fact, risks don't seem so risky when you know that you'll either land on your feet or you won't. And if you don't, then oh well, at least you were living according to your call.
I like to think that he was meant to be in Thailand at that very moment, not just for the lives he actually saved in the immediate aftermath of this tragedy, but because of the lives he will continue to positively impact for the rest of his life. He's special. Not because he's any more special than anyone else out there, but because he's listened deeply to what is in his soul, and responded to it the way he feels is right for him.
Of course, long before the tsunami, I was aware of this when we parted. I could see the long-off horizons in his eyes, and knew that he had much bigger and important things to do than hang around with silly me. I think he knew it, too. He belongs to the world, and not to me. And this is exactly why I let him go.
Still, at the very least, it's awfully nice to be missed for all of the right reasons.
Namaste
Friday, January 05, 2007
This Is Not About Love
It's only in retrospect that I can say that I've been in love. In the aftermath of the whole affair, however, it certainly didn't feel that way. It also took me a long time to admit that it was love. I categorically denied it as such because it didn't work out. Shouldn't love, real love, work itself out? Shouldn't it last? Shouldn't it be something evident, tangible and worth fighting for? Surely there is a disco song about this.
I primarily did not consider it love because there was a communication issue from the start. He thought I wanted "more" when I invited him to meet up with me in Europe at the tail end of my stint there. Since we are both travelers, I offered to show him some of my favorite spots in a country where he didn't speak the language. But before I knew it, he presumed that I was trying to entrap him into a relationship when I was just really looking forward to having a good time. I told him this, but he refused to believe me. Then, I thought he wanted "more" when he made an 18 hour road trip "just to see me" in the exact place, one year to the day after we met. When he later said that he did this out of his desire to maintain our friendship, somehow I was less than willing to believe him.
Yeesh.
It went on like this. We didn't love each other, but we talked like clockwork every week no matter where one of us was in the world. He surely didn't love me, but sent me gifts and cards, called me on my birthday and major holidays, and encouraged me spend time with his friends and family. I didn't love him, but I sent him books that made my heart sing. In my travels, I found a few small things that reminded me of him, and I passed them on accordingly. I never once gave this a second thought. He didn't love me, but he loved the books I gave him, and often thanked me for "giving him so much in his life". He also gave me books that held meaning for him. And music. And small things from his travels that he thought I should have, like a small seashell that he brought back from the deserts of Sub-Saharan Africa. In a state of non-love, we exchanged hand-written, non-love letters, posted to each other from obscure and remote corners of the world. Meanwhile, we both had a revolving door of non-significant others come through our lives, but, of course, we never talked about this out of fear of hurting the other's feelings, because, dare I say it again?-- this was not about love.
I thought about him the other day because I missed him in NYC over the holiday. We were in the same place at the same time, but we intentionally failed to connect. It was not that long ago when we would talk at least 2 times on a major holiday, once in the morning, and once at night. Now the calls, the cards, the non-love letters that always ended in "love always" have stopped. A sad, uncomfortable silence has lapsed between us. It's dreadful, and yet it's a room without a door. I'm not sure how we got there, but I don't think it can be undone. The silence ultimately worked better than the two of us not working.
And yet, I thought about him during my return flight home. Out of nowhere, tears began to sting my eyes at the memory of how hard I once allowed myself to cry over the confusion of him. I was thankful that the plane was dark and full of sleeping passengers.
He's the bar set for me for what it means to not be in love.
Two serious relationships, several more stamps in the passport, and year after the fact, I had to stop myself from crying in public.
I primarily did not consider it love because there was a communication issue from the start. He thought I wanted "more" when I invited him to meet up with me in Europe at the tail end of my stint there. Since we are both travelers, I offered to show him some of my favorite spots in a country where he didn't speak the language. But before I knew it, he presumed that I was trying to entrap him into a relationship when I was just really looking forward to having a good time. I told him this, but he refused to believe me. Then, I thought he wanted "more" when he made an 18 hour road trip "just to see me" in the exact place, one year to the day after we met. When he later said that he did this out of his desire to maintain our friendship, somehow I was less than willing to believe him.
Yeesh.
It went on like this. We didn't love each other, but we talked like clockwork every week no matter where one of us was in the world. He surely didn't love me, but sent me gifts and cards, called me on my birthday and major holidays, and encouraged me spend time with his friends and family. I didn't love him, but I sent him books that made my heart sing. In my travels, I found a few small things that reminded me of him, and I passed them on accordingly. I never once gave this a second thought. He didn't love me, but he loved the books I gave him, and often thanked me for "giving him so much in his life". He also gave me books that held meaning for him. And music. And small things from his travels that he thought I should have, like a small seashell that he brought back from the deserts of Sub-Saharan Africa. In a state of non-love, we exchanged hand-written, non-love letters, posted to each other from obscure and remote corners of the world. Meanwhile, we both had a revolving door of non-significant others come through our lives, but, of course, we never talked about this out of fear of hurting the other's feelings, because, dare I say it again?-- this was not about love.
I thought about him the other day because I missed him in NYC over the holiday. We were in the same place at the same time, but we intentionally failed to connect. It was not that long ago when we would talk at least 2 times on a major holiday, once in the morning, and once at night. Now the calls, the cards, the non-love letters that always ended in "love always" have stopped. A sad, uncomfortable silence has lapsed between us. It's dreadful, and yet it's a room without a door. I'm not sure how we got there, but I don't think it can be undone. The silence ultimately worked better than the two of us not working.
And yet, I thought about him during my return flight home. Out of nowhere, tears began to sting my eyes at the memory of how hard I once allowed myself to cry over the confusion of him. I was thankful that the plane was dark and full of sleeping passengers.
He's the bar set for me for what it means to not be in love.
Two serious relationships, several more stamps in the passport, and year after the fact, I had to stop myself from crying in public.
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