3 Little Relational Things I've Learned Lately

I’ve been thinking in the last few months about conflicts in relationships (of all kinds), partially because of my own experiences and partially because of the experiences of those around me. There are a few things that have occurred to me, and here I am, just processing. This is probably stuff that lots of books and other blog posts could tell you; it’s probably even stuff I’ve heard somewhere else before. But things become clear in a different way when you experience them more closely; when they are no longer abstract.

One thing I’ve realized: Long arguments with loved ones aren’t always all bad. I’m not talking about a tooth-and-nail fight here, one with sarcasm and raised voices and hurtful words. There’s rarely anything good about those. I’m talking about when two people are working to deal with a problem. It’s hard. And there’s no way to get around that in a lot of ways it sucks. But as the conversations go late into the night, or the emails are multiple pages long, remember that this person cares enough about you and what you think to go through the pain and frustration of this discussion, trying to reach some sort of resolution with you. Maybe it would help a little to remember that next time.

I’ve learned some stuff about forgiveness, too. Sometimes you get hurt, and, as much as we hate to admit it, sometimes you do the hurting. Whether you mean to or not; whether it’s through unconscious insensitivity or a purposeful angry jab. We all have, and we all will again. I’ve wondered sometimes why asking for forgiveness is so much harder for me in practice than theory. I don’t think it’s a pride thing, in the way that people usually mean it; in other situations I don’t have trouble admitting I was wrong. So why is it so difficult? I think it’s because it is one of the most vulnerable places you can be. Talking to someone about the pain you’ve caused them, and, in a way, putting your redemption in their hands. All at the same time you’re facing inadequacy (your inability to be the kind of person you want to be), the relinquishing of control (the outcome is no longer in your hands) and the possibility of rejection (while knowing that the other person would be within their rights to reject you). Inadequacy, lack of control, and rejection. There’s not much else we fundamentally fear on an emotional level. But this is what I think: I think that that kind of vulnerability is necessary to forge a truly meaningful relationship. Hurting someone is never desirable; neither is being hurt. But once it happens, the bonding and shared humanness that can come with an accepted apology brings freedom that is worth the risk of the question, “Will you forgive me?”.

The last little lesson is stuff about “fairness” and “selfishness”. When you’re very focused on the first, the second is an inevitable byproduct. You don’t have to allow someone to take advantage of you, but you should give freely of yourself what you can, no records kept. And then, don’t feel guilty about the times when you need someone to give to you; it’s not too much to expect a loved one to extend you some grace. That’s what we should do in loving relationships: maintain a constant, natural ebb and flow of giving and receiving. Sometimes more of one, sometimes more of the other, but always free-flowing between the involved parties. No conditions, no restrictions, no begrudging. Just grace.

That’s pretty much it, besides how delightful it is to make someone you care about laugh. That’s a good one, too.

I Thought I'd Grow Out of Rainbows, Too.

Last night I dreamed I saw music. Pale, swirling twisting tendrils like whitewashed wrought iron, caging me in safety as I lay on my bed. But when I woke up I thought of scary movies. And life. Lately I’ve been a little afraid of life, and intimidated by the vast expanse of things I don’t know. It is moving forward, life is, and a certain level of practical-mindedness is necessary. Not that I am unused to practical concerns. But sometimes I worry that in all my efforts to learn and grow up I’ll lose the sentimental romanticism that I’ve enjoyed as part of myself since before I can remember. Surely there is a place in adult life for whatever it is that possesses me to indulge in my own private candle-lit ceremonies, to dream of mystic cultures and customs, to climb out on the roof under the stars and hum tunes in minor keys. Surely there is room to satisfy my deep longing for adventure and magic? Or are those things to be grown out of? Honestly I’m a little embarrassed to write about my love of such things. At this point in my life it seems there are better things to worry about than the frivolity of enchantment.

Like scrambling to learn everything about life within the next five months. Or at least far more about it than I know now.

I don’t want to drown in practicalities. I want to sparkle. To glitter in elegant contrast with my surroundings and glow with the mystery of something ethereal. I like to sparkle literally, too. Chains around my neck and wrists, rings around my fingers, needles depositing crystals in my flesh and I am star-studded, twinkling in the nearest light. Sometimes I have to hold back; I tend to like too much of good things. When I was a little girl and we made sugar cookies, mine were always piled high with frosting and sprinkles. That hasn’t changed; last year when we made them at Christmas, mine were still globbed with icing and sugar. I go overboard with things that are meant to be subtleties. I always kind of thought I’d grow out of that. Maybe not.

I thought I’d grow out of rainbows, too. I haven’t, but I have grown in to a love of more neutral tones as well. I can’t decide which I like better. I like so many conflicting things and sometimes I think that’s a problem. But then sometimes I think it’s just appreciating the beauty in everything.

Lately I’ve been missing God. Not that He isn’t near; I really just haven’t been keeping up on my end of the connection as much as I used to. I’ve been focusing more lately on what I believe, which is good, but I haven’t been focusing as much on how I go about believing it, and I think I’ve been missing a connection. I seem to be forgetting that I don’t need to have God all figured out intellectually in order to connect with Him wholeheartedly. I’ve been analyzing the subject more than I’ve been engaging in the relationship, and both are so important that one feels lonely without the other. To me, anyway.

I feel sheepish sometimes, about my desire for an emotional connection to God. As if it’s a less mature procedure of faith. But maybe that’s where it can belong-—the romanticism, the enchantment, the mystery I’m afraid of losing from life. In a relationship with the Creator. Maybe religion can sparkle, and maybe it’s supposed to. Maybe that's silly. But it's an idea I'd be sad to grow out of.

The Proposal

I had a blanket wrapped around me on top of my coat, so I was cozy though I could feel the air’s crispness on my face. The stars were beautiful, as always, my hanging diamonds in the blue-black sky. He came around to face me and slipped his arms around my waist. The starlight had turned us to ghostly outlines of ourselves, our angles washed in a thin blue light; our hollows blended by the shadows like charcoal, artfully smeared. Heads bent to touch foreheads, we stared into the shadowed places we knew each other’s eyes to be.

“My girl is like the sky,” He began. I smiled as he continued, “When she’s dark, the stars shine through her…” A rhythm of silver words came then, soft and slow, weighty and enveloping. Rounded words, tinted-glass words; words containing brilliant light within a shroud of solemn dignity and grace. Velvet were his articulated thoughts, deep and rich and inviting.

I nearly interrupted, opening my mouth to ask where they came from, but thankfully he continued on and I was silent.

“…the Father of Lights rains stars down after, for He knows she likes sparkly things.” He concluded.

In his hand something glinted faintly. For a moment I stood staring, unsure of what it was. I don’t remember if I said anything the moment I realized it was a ring. I remember my heart leapt; I remember putting it on my finger immediately so that I wouldn’t lose it in the dark. I was speechless. I felt as if it were a star dropped from the sky and onto my hand, like in his poem. My heart bounced off the walls of my chest and he knelt down. Thoughts like a hundred pinballs ricocheted around inside my head. Is this really happening? This is too good to be true. This is really happening!

Then he asked, “Elise, will you marry me?”

“Yes!” My voice was high-pitched and excited; my stomach flipping, my heart in my throat. The blanket fell from my shoulders as I tried enthusiastically—but only half-successfully—to hug him while he was still kneeling. The logistics of a proper hug had escaped me in my desire to be closer to him. The man I love—my fiancé—rose to his feet to wrap his arms around me, and the night blazed with the concept of forever.

Are you imperfect too?

I know I’m far too timid. It’s like I want to check with the world just to make sure it’s alright if I exist. Breathe air, walk on the ground, take up space, that sort of thing. I get down to weighing my own costs and benefits and I forget that Someone created me and that He actually wants me to breathe the air and walk on the ground and occupy some place in the universe, and He wants me to enjoy doing it. It sort of blows my mind, that Someone would actually enjoy giving their resources to me just because they want me to exist with them in their space.

I’m not underestimating my value as an individual. In the broader scope of things I know that I have worth as a person and that my needs are valid; that I have lovable qualities and a legitimate voice. Just like all of us.

But I know that sometimes, in the nitty-gritty everyday, I can start to feel like a thrift-store human being: shabby, worn out, broken, maybe not quite full-price value. Sometimes I feel at home in outlet stores, with other things that don’t quite make the cut anymore. So I tend to try to stay quiet and out of the way.

But then I remember that there’s no cut to make. I am one of those Greek sculptures with missing limbs: maybe not exactly the way I was when I was new, but still a priceless piece of art to which my imperfections add a depth that no flawless thing could ever hope to achieve. So there's no reason for me not to live as vibrantly as I know I have the potential for. There's no reason for me not to boldly occupy my space in the world.

Hey, you: are you imperfect too? Oh please, please be flawed with me! And don’t try to hide your flaws, either. Don’t try to be perfect; I cannot abide perfect people. Please let’s get over that whole pride thing and just be imperfect together. I’ll promise not to judge if you promise the same, and then we can just be. Come sit with me in the bargain aisle; bring a bottle of wine and we’ll talk long into the night here on the Isle of Misfit Toys. I’ll say stupid things and you might too, or at times we might not say anything at all. I’m ok with that, if you are.

Cause things might not be perfect, but I bet they can still be wonderful.

Just a Thought

My own smallness is thrilling. By the crashing ocean or in a driving Kenyan thunderstorm I am this tiny thing and I matter so little that it is amazing; that I forget why on earth I operate with any sort of caution or careful behavior. I can live and love and laugh and hurt and cry and be and die and I can do it all at once, and it is amazing. It is amazing because it doesn’t matter to the rest of the universe. I can do anything and not hurt it. Anything can happen and things will go on and that is so freeing. I can go climb a tree and break my leg and the worst it can do is hurt for a bit. I can throw my heart at people and they can drop it splat on the ground, and the worst it can do is cause me some temporary pain. “Temporary” could mean weeks or months or even years, but what is that in the scope of infinity? How much worse is it for something like me, with ultimately so little to lose, to just sit here and do nothing? Invest nothing, feel nothing? I can do anything, because I am nothing. Bring it on.

Do you know what that means? That means what I am right now doesn’t matter to the infinite universe! I can, in this particular moment, be selfish or lazy or arrogant or overly-analytical, and I am not hurting the universe. I can be free to have my flaws, try to change them, to fall flat on my face in failure and the universe doesn’t care. I can feel anything right now—-I can feel angry or sad or unattractive or pissy or bored—-and it matters so little to the rest of the world that how much can those feelings actually mean? And if they don’t mean all that much after all, how much power do they really have over me?

Look, guys, we don’t matter and that is awesome. Maybe when you realize how little your pain or failure really counts in the grand scheme of things, it gives you freedom, and maybe that freedom provides you with the potential to do something that actually does matter.

Maybe others might not see it that way, and of course there are times that call for meticulous thought and care, but I know I tend to take myself too seriously and that inhibits me from doing things and being things and investing in people, from taking risks and living my life. And I get tired of that, of being so careful and worrisome. There’s freedom and thrill right there for the taking; all I need to do is chill out. Stop overthinking everything. And know that if I do chill out and stop overthinking, it’s going to be ok. Really, it is. Cause it’s not as big of a deal as I’m making it.
Embracing that is easier said than done, but something I need to remember.

State of Being

I’m staying awake these last few nights but I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I’m waiting for something to happen, I think, waiting for a forward step, for the stakes to be raised just a little more. How, I don’t know, but I feel I am on the edge of something. I listen again in my mind to some abstract subtleties and the shapes of big words going clunk clunk clunk on their way down my ear canal. Halfway down they are interpreted and I can only hope I construe them accurately. Sometimes I need things spelled out for me. Sometimes I misunderstand the words, sometimes I misread the context. Sometimes the combination of the two confuses me, and some times I am afraid to assume one thing over another.

If I were a letter and all the world some ancient alphabet, I would be that rune with five different, fragile meanings, defined not by itself but by the symbols that come before and after it. What do I mean? I don’t know, it depends on what you mean. You go first, then maybe I’ll be able to tell. I am something all my own and yet I am defined as well by my context. How is anything it’s own thing unless contrasted against it’s surroundings? Isn’t it context that establishes the relevance of anything? How could I possibly be defined without it? Would I exist apart from anything if everything was the same? I could be, certainly, but would I be anything in particular? So my context changes and thus what it means to be myself also changes, while simultaneously I stay exactly the same. Somehow they are separate, what it means to be, and the being itself. At least it seems so to me sometimes.

I fall into such musings because of some personal conundrums of mine. For example, it seems to me that who I am in essence exists differently within the context of my body than it might if it dwelt in a different body. While I believe in an integrated, whole-person philosophy, sometimes it seems that my body and I are separate entities tied together by unfortunate circumstances. I am lively, adventurous and active. I love to run and move and climb and explore; I love to see and do new things. But my body likes to sit inside, though, and frankly be rather boring. The two of us are often at war; we care about such different things. I care about people and relationships and experiences and understanding and involvement in the world. My body cares about rest and storing energy and avoiding the discomfort of fatigue and pain. We seem to be two different people grafted together in skin and bone and brainstem. We are conjoined twins with very different dreams, but we’d never survive the separation surgery. At times it feels as if we exist begrudgingly toward each other; a loveless marriage of body and soul. There are times when we get along and I feel free of its weight, but the separation is always there, a rift between us somewhere inside.

It makes me wonder, what is it that makes me? Am I what I feel I would be separate from my body, or am I the two of us combined? Is my true self a boisterous and fun-loving person because that is the way I was before my body made me more subdued, or has my true self become a more subdued person because that is how I have now been forced behave? Who am I, in essence: my “soul” alone, or an integrated combination of my physical self and immaterial self? I know this is somewhat of a classic question, but the contrast seems all the more bright to me. In theory I would say that an integrated body and soul makes one who they are (to put it very simply), but in practice it is difficult to apply the concept to myself, considering how very different I seem to feel from my body.

But we compromise, my body and I, and we do alright compared to many other body/soul relationships. We are dysfunctional, we admit, but we have seen worse. Many bodies are far more frustrating than my own, and in that way I am lucky. But I still wonder: does my body hide and suppress the “real me”, or has it become part of my true self? Can I exist apart from the context of my body? Or has that context become a defining feature of my true, essential self?

Answer me, all ye philosophers and seekers of meaning. Tell me who I am.


.

Let Them Eat Cake

Lately I’ve been wishing I was more philosophical; more intellectual. I’ve been thumbing through books that I hope will make me smarter; grasping at strands of abstract thought that I hope will give me answers so that I may give them to others. So that I may use them to be more sure of myself. I’ve been both drawn to and intimidated by those more intelligent than myself, hoping wide-eyed that I might steal in on the heels of one of them to become something of a shadow in their world. I listen furiously to what they say, even the things I don’t understand, trying at least to tuck some bit of information into a wrinkle in my brain. Surely I will absorb through osmosis whatever I immerse myself in? I can only hope.

Because sometimes I feel like I have exhausted every good thing in myself. Like I have nothing left to give the world, nothing left with which to impress. When I am out of creativity and light, I can only hope that the Creator will help me make something beautiful, help me to draw beauty to myself and reflect it back into the world like the glint of a broken mirror in the sun.

An eternal effort can be exhausting, but when I turn it over to the rhythm that the Master drums within me, the experience is rich and it is called life and I eat it up like chocolate cake. That isn’t to say it is easy, even after the letting-go bit is done. Chocolate cake isn’t just all the tasty stuff put together, you know. It’s mostly bland flour, really. There’s sour baking soda, there’s bitter cocoa, and the oven gets so miserably hot. It’s not all sugar and vanilla and comfort. As a child I was mortified to learn that there was salt in the cookies, but Mom said they made the cookies taste better so then I was ok with it, but it was still strange to me that not all the components in something so tasty were tasty by themselves. A five-year-old’s first lesson in “The whole is greater than the sum of it’s parts.”

But altogether cookies and cakes are delicious; I find that even the bad ones have some redeeming qualities. They’re being served at the party in the Now suite on the eighteenth floor of Mortality, and they’re for me; they’re for everyone. For all the would-be magicians and the planners of plans, dreamers of impractical dreams and the artists under the bridges with their cans of spray paint; spray-on anger, spray-on angst. You Picassos, you; you Michelangelos and you don’t even know you’ve made the overpass your Sistine Chapel. For the used-car salesmen and the sk8r punks; calling all the thumb-suckers and the overbearing mothers. Come you pseudo-scientists who love to experiment with the boundaries of life, calling all time-wasters and procrastinators. Calling all attention-addicts and all you nerds from your basements; calling all thrill-seekers and adrenaline junkies, all you hippies with unwashed hair. All the intellectuals and philosophers, creators and consumers, criminals and congressmen, ladies and gentlemen, tramps and gypsies. Calling everything I’ve ever wanted to be, everything I have ever been and everything I have tried desperately to avoid becoming, everything it has never occurred to me to be. There’s cake for you and cake for me, because every day is Eternity’s birthday and we’re invited.
Just so you know.