All You Wanted And More

"If she was all you wanted and herself besides," asked Rydra, her head shaking between two names on the screen, "could you love her?"

Excerpt from Babel-17
by Samuel R. Delany

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It seems to me that there are many ways of loving someone, but in my experience there are some that pop up frequently:

1. Because she's everything you wanted (or close enough)
Why else would you be with someone? Isn't this what we all strive for? The ideal? The person who treats us how we want to be treated, makes us feel better about life, is easy to look at and talk with, the best friend and lover, and the one who always has our back, no matter who else abandons us? This is the purely selfish part of love, but a necessary part. What we want matters, just as much as what the other person wants.

2. Because you understand her
Harder to express is how important it is to "get" the person you're with, whether they see it or not. To appreciate their sense of humor; to be able to make sense of their moods, their subtle facial expressions, and their words (or lack thereof); to feel a sense of enjoyment and relief because of how close this understanding makes you feel to them.

3. Because she grew on you
Despite perhaps being perplexed at first by the person you're with, their peculiarities begin to grow on you. They walk a certain way, laugh a certain way, sleep a certain way, and though you may always find these things fascinating, you eventually consider them less odd than necessary. Their way of being has grown on you to such an extent that you can't imagine not having them play a role in your life.

4. Because she's herself
Sometimes the trickiest aspect to loving someone is in doing so for whomever and whatever they are. This is where collisions happen, where personalities must navigate the same waters and find ways to moor. Accepting others when they're being themselves, and encouraging it, is in fact one kind of love, and perhaps the most difficult. It often requires giving up some of that selfishness, and just allowing yourself to adore the person you're with.

 

Such Is Life

I was wrong about nearly everything. There were things that I was right about, but my confusion muddled it all. My focus was on the muddled part, and -- because I couldn't make sense of it -- I became convinced it was wrong.

Being lost is no excuse, but it certainly has an effect. Being lost is contagious. We can't be right for anyone when we're lost, and we can't be found by anyone but ourselves.

When the right things come along, it's best to focus on them rather than the confusing bits. It's best to hold on to the things that make us happy rather than chase them away because we fear the vagaries.

Though we're all fools, it's possible (at least I hope it is) to be fools in the right ways. Life is too short to be wrong so often.

 

Even When We Take On Giants

...I can too easily imagine how his feathery hope is being crushed beneath a weight of unearned shame. His failure to defeat something more powerful than himself, and the scar that reminds him of his failure, is no reason for shame; guilt is deserved only when the effort to resist evil is never made.

Yet the human heart is disheartened by the most unreasonable self-judgments, because even when we take on giants, we too often confuse failure with fault, which I know too well. The only way back from such a bleak despondency is to shape humiliation into humility, to strive always to triumph over the darkness while never forgetting that the honor and the beauty are more in the striving than in the winning. When triumph at last comes, our efforts alone could not have won the day without that grace which surpasses all understanding and which will, if we allow it, imbue our lives with meaning.

Excerpt from Odd Interlude: A Special Odd Thomas Adventure
by Dean Koontz

 

Trying To Find Direction

A signpost near my father's home. Helpful, if you're looking for Hogwarts or Valhalla.

I'm still here, by the way. And still searching.

 

Good Enough

"Happy?" I ask. He smiles as if guilty of something but only says, "Heh," a kind of grunt with raised eyebrows, which I now know means "abbastanza," good enough, the highest degree of happiness he can allow himself to experience. Italians are suspicious of American exuberance.

Excerpt from Blood, Bones & Butter
by Gabrielle Hamilton

Hopefully we can all allow ourselves more.

 

Let Go

There is a mindset, I've noticed, that affects people of a certain age. There is a reluctance to cut off connections to others. A reluctance to press delete, trash memories, or start over. There is a tendency to hold tight to the good things, however dainty they may be. A tendency to treasure the safety net, cling to what's already there, and settle. This is a mindset of fear. It's the easy road.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm there, too, along with the rest who've been affected. Other times, I wonder which is more difficult: holding tight or letting go. And I don't always know.

Certainly it's no simple thing to build something in life; it's much simpler to destroy it all. But the question is: why? Why am I continuing to build? Or why am I throwing it away? Is what I'm doing worth it to me? Could it be? Am I wasting my life away by doing this?

As if determining what's right for me comes down to asking the right questions. Or perhaps I figure that if I stay on a certain road long enough, then I'll forget that there were other turns, other options, and unanswered questions.

What I do know is that I don't want to live my life ignoring fears. I want to face them. And if what I'm doing is mostly out of fear for the alternatives, then it probably isn't right.

I want to hold on to the good things, of course. I just want those things to be worthwhile. I'll still be afraid, but it'll be the kind of fear that translates into courage, the kind that makes me proud. I won't be holding on because I'm afraid of something else, but because this is what I want.

And if that's not how it is, then I should just let go.

 

Unbecoming

This year ... this year, I hope for less. I hope to be less, to tear down whatever it is that I've become and perhaps, in time, rebuild. This year, I want for only the smallest and simplest of enjoyments. Anything more would be too much.

I fear that I've become someone who's too negative, and I don't want to be that person. I want to bring relief to friends and family. I'd rather be a source of happiness for those that I care for. I want to make a point of noticing the things that I love more often than the things that I don't. I want to enjoy the littlest of things as much as I possibly can.

This year, I hope for less. But I think, in the end, it may be more fulfilling.

 

When History Comes Around Again

During one of the darkest periods of my life, I was so down that -- no matter how I struggled to -- I could not remember what happiness was nor whether I'd ever felt it. But I had one thing going for me: I had work to drive me and to make me forget myself for many, many hours each day. Now I'm headed for a dark place again; this time, though, I have nothing to make me forget. Work doesn't drive me as it once did. If I have any goals, they're things I can accomplish from home; unfortunately, home is no place to be when you want to escape from yourself.

I'm trying not to fall into that cycle, but I feel history stalking me. I hear it whispering that it's time for a repeat. I try to stay one step ahead of the shadows, but only because it seems like I should. I've got no reasons to. No cares.

I feel like letting go; I feel like embracing the darkness. History may not be a welcome visitor, but at least it's a familiar one.

 

Getting Clear Away

I was in the mood for a long drive. Sometimes when I feel like getting away from myself, I hit the road and get away from home, instead. I chose to head south towards Oregon, and I ended up at Cannon Beach. I wasn't planning to stay, but once I was there I just wanted to find a place to park. The streets were too busy and the traffic too heavy. Every hotel I passed claimed to have no vacancies. I stopped at a place that looked nice and large. I figured that I had a better chance there, but they were also full. They told me that the closest vacancy was likely ten or twenty miles away, at least. And then, while I was standing there, the clerk received a call from a sister property down the block; there was a last minute cancellation, and I was "in luck". Even before I was handed the phone, I knew I would take the room. Of course the person on the other side of the line tried to sell me on the room -- a ground floor suite right on the beach, etc., etc. -- but I had already decided even before they told me what it would cost me, which was more than ten times what I would normally pay for a room. Though the cost gave me pause, I said to myself, "What the hell. I want a place to park."

After settling into my new room, I hopped into a courtesy shuttle and headed towards town. It was nearly dinner time, but I wasn't about to try making reservations anywhere. Instead, I tracked down a place that I'd heard made the best fish and chips anywhere in the world, a place called Ecola Seafood; they catch their fish daily. Admittedly, the fish and chips were very good. A nice and thin, crispy batter, and a homemade tartar sauce. Definitely worth trying, though I'm not yet convinced it was the best.

Then I walked around town, stopped in at a few shops and museums, rested at a beach lookout or two, and wished I had someone to share it all with. The shuttle driver had recommended I try a brewpub called Bill's Tavern, and I headed there next. I sat at the bar and enjoyed a pint of their home-brewed IPA. I also tried a sample of their blackberry beer. It was odd, yet light and refreshing.

Afterwards, a shuttle picked me up and brought me back to the hotel. I then went for a long walk along the beach; the water was freezing, but there's little that both sharpens and relaxes the mind so much as the cold sea along a quiet beach. The hotel was holding a wine tasting that night, but I'd brought my own bottle on the trip and I elected to taste what I had instead. I sat out on the patio, watched the ocean and read a book. When the sun neared the horizon, I went out to the sand and sat, watching it fall into the ocean while I nursed my glass of wine. When the sky darkened, I laid back and looked at how full of stars it was. I miss seeing a sky so packed with stars.

For the rest of the evening, I reclined in my room with a throw blanket over my lap, listening to eighties music and reading a book, all whilst the waves crashed against the nearby shore. The hotel claimed to make fresh chocolate chip cookies twenty-four hours a day, and I padded out to the lobby to verify it once or twice. Or thrice. Their claim was apparently true; that cookie jar kept filling up. And once while I was out there, complimentary cocktails were being served. Nightcaps. So I sat in the lounge and enjoyed one, a sweet whiskey that I can't recall the name of. Then I returned to my room, but not before snagging more freshly baked cookies.

In the morning, I ran two miles or so along the shoreline. Others were riding horses or playing in tide pools. There was a heavy fog, but I liked it. Sometimes it's better not to see too much; seeing my next step or two was enough.

After I checked out of the hotel, I drove north and visited my father. He was planting another tree when I arrived. We went out to lunch at a new Mexican restaurant in the small town where he lives, and then he showed me what he's done with his land since I last visited. I stayed with him for a few hours, talking about little things, and then I drove home. Before I left, though, he supplied me with too many veggies from his garden: a garbage bag full of swiss chard, a bag full of cucumbers, a bag full of green beans, and a bag full of beets. Unless I throw a party, I'm not sure I can finish eating all of it on my own. They are delicious, though.

All in all, I'm glad I took that spur of the moment road trip. It was good to get away. Even though I didn't truly get away from myself, I was at least able to gain some clarity. I was able to relax, and to be a bit carefree again. I needed that.


Kites and sea stacks at Cannon Beach

 

Getting It Right

Does it ever feel -- with all of your experiences -- that you've lived many lifetimes, but not yet the right one?

 

What Are You Being?

At the supermarket the other day, I overheard a conversation between a father and his little son. The boy sounded like he was whining about something.

"Are you being a bad boy?" the father asked.

"Um been hobby," it sounded like the boy said.

"Hm?" asked the father. The boy repeated himself, and the father asked for clarification. "You're being happy?"

"Ya. So hobby," whined the boy.

"That's good," said the father. "You be happy."

It was an odd exchange, I thought. It's an odd thing to say that you're being. I'd like to say that I'm being happy; instead, I just whine.

 

Black & White

Today I learned a new word: Manichean. It's defined as the tendency to see things in black or white. There are those who would use this word to describe me.

I'm told that things are either good or bad for me. Either on or off. That it's always all or nothing. That there's no negotiating or compromising with me. If I can't have everything just so, then I'll forgo it altogether.

While it's true that I have these tendencies, I wouldn't describe them in such simple terms. I see things in vivid colors, and not just two. When I feel a certain way, that feeling has weight. It has substance. It has characteristics and properties that allow it to do things to my soul.

A feeling can be fashioned into many different weapons. A feeling can also become a vessel that transports me to different levels of bliss. Is there an in-between? Certainly. The in-between is like the din of everyday life. There is no such thing as silence. My poles are like the difference between elevator music and joyful laughter. Like wanting to puke my guts out versus hungering desperately for something. The in-between isn't necessarily a place of indifference -- but it's not something to strive for, either. It's a place void of strong desire. If all I meant to be was carefree, then the in-between is where I would go.

And honestly, sometimes I think that might be the way to go. Why not live in the gray twilight? It's certainly easier than either wanting or rejecting wants. Maybe just being accepting is the path to true happiness.

But that -- to me -- is like not wanting anything. And what kind of way is that to live?

Yes ... okay, I see how this could be construed as a black and white view. Manichean: That's me.

 

Banking And Beer

Today I ate lunch at my favorite brewpub, a Mcmenamins location called Six Arms. It's been a long time since I've been there, which was evident from the change in beer selection. On tap was a new beer called "Bernanke's Dream", which was the third and final brew in a series called "The Big Bailout". The first two in the series were no longer available; I can't remember what they were called exactly, but they were named after Paulson and Geithner. It's too bad I missed out on trying them. The "Bernanke's Dream" was quite good. Malty and hoppy, it also had some seasonal spice flavors (i.e., nutmeg and cinnamon) and a fine finish. If this is the type of thing the banking crisis inspires, I might require more crises in the future. Yum.

 

To Be Complete

Everyone is broken. Each of us has been shattered by life in some way or another, crushed or wounded beyond repair. A part of me is comforted by the broken parts in others. Somehow it helps to know that I'm not the only one, and I guess looking for those broken parts in others has become automatic for me. Rarely do I come across exceptions, and it's difficult to trust that it's not there in some people.

There is one couple whose broken spots I still haven't located. I've known my boss and his wife for more than eight years, for example, and they still seem complete in a way that others are not. I've seen them stressed and angry and I've seen them bicker, but they work it all out. Their lives are what normal should be. They're more normal than normal -- they're beyond normal, super-normal, perhaps. They're both funny and popular and they always turn the things they say into the right things, even when they're not. Their lives seem touched by fortune and untouched by whatever it is that breaks the rest of us. They don't let the world bother them too much. I must be missing something, though, even after all this time. I mean, is it possible for anyone to pretend that well, and for that long?

Being broken isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's just that I sometimes find myself wishing I were whole. The scars aren't what make us incomplete; it's the broken parts, the gaps and poorly glued-back-together pieces that ruin us. To be whole, I would have had to withstand the crushing forces, to beat them or, at the least, not surrender to them. I don't want to be fragmented. I want the choices I face to be clear. I want my intentions to be focused. I don't want to waver or hesitate at the precipices inside my broken self.

See, to be whole isn't to have it easier; it's to have certainty about who you are. With certainty comes a kind of power and freedom: The kind of power that allows you to be deliberate without faking it, and the kind of freedom that protects you from all of the wondering and questioning about potentials.

I imagine how much more straightforward life would be if I were whole. And then I wish there were a way to repair myself.

 

Writing Stuff Down

Every now and then, I'm tempted to start a new journal, one that I can touch and feel and make marks in. I miss writing stuff down on paper, especially stuff that doesn't have to make sense to anyone else but me. I miss using a pen and hearing the scratchy sound that it produces on paper. There's something very comforting about it. But maybe this is a sign of old age, like someone missing the way it feels to write with a quill and a bottle of ink.

Mainly I miss getting stuff off my chest and having it seep into the paper, like blood. As much as I enjoy pounding on a keyboard, the act lacks seepage. No matter how hard I hit those keys, the feeling I put into it will never be more visible. Maybe word processors should be more like pianos; if they were touch sensitive, all of the letters could look different from each other and compositions could be more expressive; some words would have more flourish, some would look splattered onto the document. That's actually not a bad idea, but it would still be missing something.

That something could be the inherent adventure involved in avoiding paper cuts. It could be in how definite or permanent it feels to make an actual mark on something real, something that was once living, and in knowing that deletion isn't possible. It could be about the relationship with the notepad, having carried it everywhere and turned it this way and that during the writing process, having left some sweat on the paper and having been given some ink stains in return.

Whatever the reason, a journal kept on paper just seems more personal, and sometimes I think about starting one again. Maybe one day.