FLYING: Confessions of a Free Woman

I was raised to be an independent woman; to be free and responsible for my own life and to achieve these things through my own work and study. Somehow, in the course of my pursuit of all these things, freedom became the most cherished value of all to me. It acquired several meanings throughout my life. It meant, first of all, to be able to discover the world, to meet different people, to experience different cultures, different things, to learn more, to hear, read, write or dance. It meant an incessant search for all things that were real and true.

Second, it meant being able to make my own choices, to be able to be the one setting the course I wanted to follow (even if, of course, support from others was needed much more often than not). It also meant being economically independent which this led me to invest heavily in my studies. I always believed this to be my way, the only way I could pursue my dreams and still be faithful to the things I believed in. It was the closest I could get to the way I felt as a woman and as a person. Hence, this pursuit of freedom deeply defined who I am today. It was both liberating and exhausting. Actually, I should say that it was liberating for many years and it becomes more and more exhausting as time goes by.  

There is something to be said about what freedom really represents.  (This is why and where Flying entered my life in such a wonderful and surprising way…) The pursuit of my dreams and my independence has led me to study and work in different European countries. What a wonderful experience this was and has been…. To get to know different cultures, traditions, people, languages, how to live with and in them; to find more about myself and about my own boundaries when facing different challenges or speaking different languages. Moving around can be extremely enlightening and fulfilling at so many levels, many more than I could have ever imagined.

However, what I did not foresee when I made these choices, is what freedom, in the sense I have experienced it, really means. It is a bittersweet thing. Indeed, while the thrill never really went way, many things became burdensome. Home became a rather undefined word to me and although I still believe Portugal to be it, I often feel at home at many different places and on the downside… nowhere at all.

Relationships also became difficult to take to the next level, what is the next level when I keep moving around, and what is the present if it almost always implies some distance? Work became a collection of challenging and interesting projects that are usually temporary and thus never see the light of a new year, that never see continuity or growth. I will not even mention the possibility of motherhood… 

The choice of freedom above all things, thus, has its perks and its burdens, as any choice has anyway. What I didn’t know when I made it was that there would be a day where it would be too late to choose to stop, to belong again and to come back to the place that I left behind and still find it and feel it as my home (and vice versa).

An article in The Economist last year about being a foreigner said it beautifully: “The funny thing is, with the passage of time, something does happen to long-term foreigners which makes them more like real exiles, and they do not like it at all. The homeland, which they left behind changes, the culture, the politics and their old friends all change, die, Forget them. They come to feel that they are foreigners even when visiting “home”. Jhumpa Lahiri, a British-born writer of Indian descent living in America, catches something of this in her novel, “The Namesake”. Ashima, who is an Indian émigré, compares the experience of foreignness to that of “a parenthesis in what had once been an ordinary life, only to discover that the previous life has vanished, replaced by something more complicated and demanding.  Beware, then: however well you carry it off, however much you enjoy it, there is a dangerous undertow to being a foreigner, even a genteel foreigner. Somewhere at the back of it all lurks homesickness, which metastasizes over time into its incurable variant, nostalgia. And nostalgia has much in common with the Freudian idea of melancholia—a continuing, debilitating sense of loss, somewhere within which lies anger at the thing lost. It is not the possibility of returning home which feeds nostalgia, but the impossibility of it. Julia Kristeva, a Bulgarian-born intellectual resettled in France, has caught this sense of deprivation by comparing the experience of foreignness with the loss of a mother. But we cannot expect to have it all ways. Life is full of choices, and to choose one thing is to forgo another. The dilemma of foreignness comes down to one of liberty versus fraternity—the pleasures of freedom versus the pleasures of belonging. The homebody chooses the pleasures of belonging. The foreigner chooses the pleasures of freedom, and the pains that go with them.” [The Economist, 17.12.2009, “Being Foreign”]

What if I would have known what I know now back then (the old question…)? Well, that goes without saying… I would have chosen freedom anyway. After all, as a wise woman in the film says, being free is a luxury that many people don’t have.

            This is the most I’ve felt of anything, other than anxiety and stress, in a long time. My dog passed away and I feel like my heart has been ripped out.

            Born on January 25th 1997 my little Toby had 13 years of a fantastic healthy life. He came into my life when I was in 7th grade, when everything in my body was changing and the toughest years of my life were ahead of me.

            Toby began as a fluffy happy go lucky toy and quickly became one of the most reliable companions I had in my life. Obviously, as a 7th grader, he taught me responsibility and made me aware that I was not the only person in the world and that it didn’t revolve around me like I once thought.

            As time passed, my love for the critter grew and grew. I went away to school and missed him so, but would always hear stories about him from my mom and dad. He was the baby of the family when I left.

            When I got sick with the eating disorder I left college and I spent time at home trying to get better. It was really hard. I didn’t realize how much Toby helped me through that time. He was the only one in the house I gave full access to my life of secrets and lies. He was the only one who could walk in on me and make me stop- he was like the little brother that kept me honest. Toby brought me peace and comfort during the most impossible moments in my life.

            My mom called me at 1:30am 2 days after he passed. We stayed on the phone for 45 minutes talking about him. Remembering his spirit and the joy he brought to us. He was so dedicated, obedient, and loving. He had so much respect for us, and as my family and I look back, we realize how much respect we had for him.

             Both my parents have been devastated by the loss as they were there for him on his last night here. He was sick and in so much pain they made the decision to put him to sleep. It was obviously difficult for them, but they couldn’t imagine having him feel like that any longer. My mom held his little body as they pushed the syringe. I can’t even imagine where her mind takes her when she remembers him.

            Unfortunately, for them, their memories are very painful, and for me, they are clear. Of our last walk together, down the same roads I played on with him during my childhood, but clouded by the pain of my parent’s suffering.

            It has all given us a chance to reflect on how we live and how grateful we are of life. My father has been feeling guilt for not having taken advantage of Toby’s peacefulness and joyful life. I assured him that whatever time he spent with Toby, Toby enjoyed and thought of nothing beyond that moment, as I did when I was a child.

             Even if my father was very busy making ends meet with his business all the time, I never noticed that he wasn’t there, but only when he was. The quality of our time together was so satisfying there was nothing left to desire.

            While I feel like I’ve lost a little brother, and my father feels regret for not spending more time with his son, I think my mother has been hurt most deeply.

As her 2 daughters left the house to live their own lives 3 years apart, she was left with her baby boy.

            She cared for him like no one else. She was so dedicated to him and spent so much time with him, it’s incalculable to even try to compare it to someone else.

She groomed him weekly, bathed him and trimmed him, spent one whole day of her 2 days off each week totally devoted to him and his needs.

            The respect between the two of them was immeasurable. True love, but with Toby gone, my mother will need to find new things to occupy her time with. She had a weeks vacation before Toby died to spend with him in which she began to exercise regularly, long walks with him. She lost her mother 2 years ago and, seemingly, lost the will to take care of herself. Now, with Toby gone, I feel like she will revive her strength and move on for both of them.

            Thankfully, my family and I were reminded of loosing a loved one with the passing of our 13-year-old shitzu who had a happy, satisfying life. My father, reminded to cherish every moment, my mother, to live each day with passion and strength and myself, to be grateful of everyone who has helped me conquer obstacles and get to where I am in my life, career and beyond.

“Meaning makes a great deal of things bearable—perhaps everything.” Jung

            Yes, this was a dog, but can you ever really say, “just a dog”? He was a companion with a slew of nicknames and stories. All that is gone is his little bark and soft fur. What remains are the powerful life lessons and hilarious memories that, when we are ready to share again, will never die, but only bring us closer together. Isn’t that what a family’s pets job really is?

To Toby:

The best “Investigator”, “Inspector”, “Protector”,

“Sock Thief”, “Little Brother” any family could have ever asked for.

The Guardian reports that a new drug, originally tested as an antidepressant, has been shown to increase sexual desire in women.

Women who took the drug during the six-month trial reported more satisfying sexual encounters and higher libidos than those who were given a placebo.

Doctors involved in the study said the drug may prove to be an effective treatment for low libido, a problem they estimate affects between 9% and 26% of women, depending on their age and whether they have been through the menopause.

The drug is flibanserin, and was tested in Germany as an antidepressant. Turns out, it was a lousy cure for depression, but women taking it reported a wonderful side-efffect: an increase in sexual desire.

The new drugs raises several questions for me.

1. How quickly will it be approved by the U.S. FDA?

2. Will insurance companies pay for this drug the same way they currently pay for male ED treatments?

But I have other questions, too. If both men and women go through periods of diminished sexual desire, (assuming that this is not a permanent condition), then can’t the decrease in sexual desire be seen as a natural rhythm in the life cycle? Are there times when nature simply doesn’t want us to have sex?

My most important question is this, however. We already have a horrible time in this culture accepting that women have sexual desires. We still categorize women by either the “girls-gone-wild” hook-up culture or the “Purity ring-wearing not-until-I’m-married” group. We think we’ve made progress on this, but evidence suggests otherwise. How quickly are women condemned for deviations from the sexual norm? How quick are we to label sexually active teens girls as somehow wrong in what they’re doing (even if they are being responsible and using birth control).

And what about the ultimate form of punishment: The withholding of contraceptive knowledge from sexually -active women as a form of social control. We insist on teaching abstinence-only education, try to limit young women’s access to contraceptives, and make it a crime to transport a woman under 18 across state lines to get an abortion. Given that there are few states left where one can get an abortion, we’ve de facto made it illegal to help young women get abortions unless it’s their parents who are directly involved. (And how come these same people who believe that these young women are too young to make the decision to have an abortion are therefore old enough to make the decision to bear a child?)

The same problems faced by young women are also faced by those women who do not have the financial means to travel interstate, or who do not have the money to pay for this medical procedure. And, if they do have the money to pay for the medical procedure, how much shit will they have to endure to get into see an ob-gyn who still performs abortions?

My point is that, once again, our culture will send mixed messages to women. Now, those whose libidos are going through a temporary cool phase will be told to get with the program and take a drug. Those who want to heighten their desire and take advantage of the drug will be seen as “loose” women for wanting to enjoy sex. And, while insurance companies may pay for women to have sex, they won’t pay for the consequences of sex.

What a mad world we live in.

 It was Monday morning and I woke up to prepare my kids for school, when I noticed that Busi was still sleeping.  So I went outside to Bongiwe’s room to wake her up.  To my surprise and disgust, Busi had slept in the same room with Bongi- her boyfriend- and Lugelo, Bongi’s daughter.

The thing about Bongi’s boyfriend is that he is a convicted rapist.  He was just released from a 15 year jail sentence, for gang raping a girl from our neighbourhood years ago.  And I was against the affair, but also knew that I can’t tell her how to lead her life.  But, again I thought it was not fair that Lerato has to see the guy all over again.

I humbly asked my sister to go meet with her lover some place not at home, and we had a fight.  After sometime I asked her not to sleep in the same room with her daugther and the guy, and we had a fight again.  Then I decided to take a back seat.  After all it’s her life and her daughters.

Oh my god!  I really lost it when I walked in the room to find Busi and the boyfriend.  I couldn’t even control my anger.  We had a heated argument that turned physical.  Truly speaking, I hate the fact that I was born into this family.

My mom and gran believe that I am wrong and Bongi is right.  They think this guy learned his lesson and he won’t do it again.  But I say a leopard wont change it’s spot.  As for Bongi, what is she teaching her young sister?  How can she sleep in the same room with her boyfriend and Busi? As for my parents, why cant they separate wrong from right?  In our culture it’s wrong, immoral and disrespecting for a boy to sleep in a girl’s home.  I don’t understand how a woman can date a man who has no regard for another woman’s feelings.  A man who violated, humiliated another woman’s rights.  A man who took away something special and unique from this girl, something that he can’t take back.  Not even a jail sentence can erase that awful day.

How can my sister fall in love with this animal?  How does she really feel when she makes love to an ex-rapist?  How can she bring this man in our lives for god’s sake?  We also have baby girls.  Isn’t there a chance that one day the devil can start whispering to him?  I don’t want to be there when something like that happens.

I’ve gone back and forth between entertaining the idea of having children and shunning it completely ever since it first occurred to me that I might someday be a mother. Being the youngest of three whose ages span three separate decades, I’ve got next to zero experience handling kids. If I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t dive in. So raising children has never been too serious a consideration.

There are two sides to the coin, as I see it. On one, you’ve got an adorable, inquisitive, toddling creature who absorbs knowledge like a sponge and has all the potential in the world inside of them. A delicate treasure toting stuffed hippos. Cuddly. On the other side, you’ve got a screaming, stubborn, volatile creature who has a megaphone built into its throat and a propensity to make its mother and father gray-haired, exhausted, and sexless. Red-faced, fists clenched. Not cuddly.

But when I spend enough time admiring well-behaved and glowy-cheeked children in the supermarket as I shop for whichever variations on pasta I will make for that week, I start to say things like, “aw.” Or, “what a cute baby. Look at the baby!” Or, if it’s serious, “I want a son first.”

Now, this last one is a sentiment I’ve held for years. If, in fact, I can get over the idea of labor, epidurals, my maternal family’s multiple brushes with death during childbirth, and the very scarring things I will probably say to my future husband in that window of time between water breaking and infant wailing, not to mention the whole experience of having an alien life in your belly (okay, I know, not belly) for almost a whole year and all the special experiences I’ll have as a super-duper hormonal pregnant lady, and if my future husband can get over those things too…well, if all of those things align, the idea of carrying new life is miraculous. A journey I’ll be blessed to take in the distant future. And I do, in fact, want a son first. Why is that?

I realized it Sunday night while driving home from a friend’s house. We’d had a long discussion about our experiences as artists, our hopes and purposes. Earlier that day, I’d eaten grilled hamburgers with other friends from my church and went swimming. Earlier than that, I’d played djembe for a couple of hours at church, pounding into the congregational music. From the beginning, it was a good day.

But in between each event, I felt like a soda can shaken to the point of explosion. My boyfriend was busy with his own activities, and less communication than usual led to me filling in the blanks with all kinds of misconceptions that were not in my favor. The storm was brewing in my chest. Apparently you don’t need to be pregnant to be super hormonal.

Maybe it was because of this, or maybe my mind just wandered and the dots really aren’t connected. But I realized for the first time, indirectly, why I want a son.

I don’t know how to be a good woman.

I had the idea that I could shape a son into a good man. That I could explain life from a woman’s perspective, and that he would grow to be a defender of the more often marginalized and objectified gender. Or maybe, if I’m honest, that I want to fix everything about men that hurts and agitates me. Zing.

But what on earth would I teach a daughter? I thought through the many ways I feel inadequate, the negative ways that I perceive my body and my soul. The ways I react out of those skewed perceptions. I thought about the way women are told that their power lies in sexuality while advertising mocks us for unending insufficiencies; how those who no longer allure per our culture’s very narrow definitions are discarded. Do I really want to bring another woman into such a raw deal? I wondered about my daughter’s ability to believe in herself when I don’t believe in myself. Could she learn to reflexively fight for her dreams when I decided mine were unrealistic? Could I teach her to be whole and independent when I feel like shards of glass searching for someone or something to glue me back together? And now, on the familiar verge of reacting to imaginary threats and spreading misery, do I really think I can teach someone what love is?

I used to think the fear of a daughter came from my relationship with my own mother, the ways I resented her unfairly, and knowing that my daughter will resent me, too, whether fairly or not. It’s a defeating thought, but even more defeating is the idea that I don’t even know how to be my own person, or one in which I take pride. I’m twenty-four years old. I know there’s no time limit on these things, and life comes in stages, but it’s frustrating to look back and realize I had a better sense of self four years ago than I do now. Life’s parameters were different, sure, and I was in that hopeful and free-spirited period of assembling my future. I chose detours and deconstruction, gradually relinquishing my joy in exchange for empty promises. I still fixate on the idea of retrieving my old self, but besides the fact that my naïveté is overly romanticized, it is an impossibility. I have to rebuild the structure. With energy I don’t fully possess.

A couple of things propel me. First, the memory of how happy I felt one sunny afternoon in college after a dance class. Walking over to my bike, I felt strong and very present. I knew myself and I liked myself. Though I was already in the process of traveling a path I now recognize as a long detour, for one moment, away from addiction, I felt good in my skin.

The second motivation is my relationships. I cannot love people when I do not love myself. I’ve tried, only to watch myself burn bridges in frantic self-protection.

Perhaps someday I’ll be a good mother. Before that, the life I mold is my own. And when the time comes, I hope that my first months of expectancy are filled with the calm of solidly knowing I am a good, steady, and whole woman, even in my imperfection.

Maureen Dowd is mystified as to why Elizabeth Edwards felt it necessary to pen her memoir, Resilience.

John told her a little about Rielle a few days after he announced in 2006, and she told him to drop out to “protect our family from this woman, from his act,” she writes.

She said she cried, screamed and threw up when she found out. But she ended up going along, helping sell the voters on her husband’s character as a truth teller and charm as a loving husband and father. She had put so many quarters in the shiny slot machine of their mutual ambition. It was hard to walk away.

Just as it’s hard to walk away from her desire to prosecute her husband and his former girlfriend now in public, while still taking the marriage “month by month.”

Ms. Edwards also mentions how frustrating it was to be married to a man who appeared much younger than she, and she blames his charming, good looks for the pass that was made at him by Rielle. If she hadn’t made the pass, Edwards would have been a good boy. Like Dowd, I call bullshit.

I don’t know John Edwards personally. (And as a point of disclosure, he was the person I supported early in the primaries, until he fired Amanda Marcotte as part of his staff because of the feminist stuff she wrote on her blog.) But I’ve known the John Edwards of the world. Young, handsome men who marry women who are ambitious, maternal, nurturing, smart as hell, and someone who, in another life, might have been their mother. In such a marriage, a man like Edwards gets to remain the child, always being taken care of by his wife.

In the case in my extended family, the man in question let his wife work menial jobs to put him through law school, and then a year later, after she should have been enjoying the good life with him, he impregnated his legal secretary, walked out on his family, and refused to accept responsibility for the children he had had with his first wife. And he’s still a charming, handsome man who has hit on me in the past. I just saw through him.

But, back to Maureen Dowd. I know she’s a smart woman. But I don’t understand why she doesn’t understand why someone needs to write about their pain. Maybe Ms. Edwards is trying to embarrass her husband–it’s not as if he doesn’t deserve it–but perhaps she’s trying to exorcise her own pain.

We’re writers here. Many of us deal with the most painful things you can imagine by writing about them. And we don’t just write them in our journals and forget about them. We post them, because we need someone, anyone, out there, to get why we’re hurting.

It’s part of being human. We don’t have the extended families and communities where such matters might have been resolved by many nights of tears and friends and their comfort. Now, what many of us have is this need to reach out to strangers. To say, “this happened to me.” And to know that someone will read the essay/book/poem who has been through the same thing, and somewhere in this universe, a connection will have been made.

Dowd is smart, but when she writes something like this:

Asked by Oprah in a taping for Thursday’s show whether she’s still in love with her husband, she replied, “You know, that’s a complicated question.”

The really complicated question is what she hopes to gain from this book.

I want to ask her the question. WHY do you write. Is it a purely intellectual exercise? Do you not hope to make a connection with someone out there?

The way to our hearts is not always through our brains. If Elizabeth Edwards needs to write out her pain, regardless of whether anyone buys the book, who am I–or Maureen Dowd–to tell her not to do it?

The only thing I wish for Ms. Edwards is peace. If the book helps her get there, than more power to her.

 I love turkeys not only because with their Crayola-box-of-eight-fat-crayons plumage and their plump brown bodies they’re just plain majestic, but, well, because turkeys are stupid. And they’ve proven their stupidity to me so many times that I anticipate the dumbness when I see them.

A flock has taken up residence in the field not too far from my house. Probably 12 birds in all. Two toms and 10 jennies. As usual, the jennies are my heroines: their focus is on finding tiny things to eat in the freshly shorn corn fields, bits of corn stalk still visible among the newly turned-over soil. Too early to plant–this morning’s snow proves that, but the birds are patient, scratching for a bit of something.

The males are idiots. Two of them this year–I’m not sure how long that situation will last, at which point one of them will hang his tail down in disgrace and go off into the woods to lead a bachelor’s life for the season–but currently, it’s tail wars. Thursday–right before my flight over the handlebars of my bicycle–they were at it. The strut, I mean. Tails erect, each feather splayed, the two birds pranced and performed for each other. I wondered at the weights of their tails, how carrying those feathers must throw their balance off. Tiny little turkey heads atop round-ready-for-the-turkey-baster-bodies and those tails attached. I imagined the weight of kindergarten hands, tracing fingers with fat crayons to be cut out and magneted onto the fridge. Male turkeys never look quite real–they are always mediated through the eyes of my elementary school self, who came to see the turkey tail as an icon of November, and somehow sees those tails, still, made of construction paper, waxy with the rubbings of thick Crayolas.

Anyway, the real turkeys, not those from my childhood, preened for each other. As far as I could tell, the females never looked up, just continued with the real business of trying to find food, and hoping that when the males had sorted it out, one of them would come soothe the ache in her groin that told her it was spring and that it was time for life to begin again.

Death and destruction were everywhere this weekend, but I have excised them from my memory. I am worn down, and have made a conscious decision that for a while, at least, my focus, our focus will be on nature, the natural world, and not on the world of guns.

If you do not live in a land with seasons, you may not know that spring is an aural experience before visual evidence exists that life is returning. On my bike ride on Thursday, I had been listening to my iPod, but as I passed the swampy no man’s land between the road and the gulch, a piercing noise made me stop my bike and take the earbuds from my ears. Peepers. In full voice. I couldn’t see them, but it made no difference. If the Peepers were calling out their love cries, spring really was inevitable.

As my friend Jo said upon sight of the snowbells in Central Park last week, “Fuck you, winter. I won.”

Sometimes, that’s how it feels here. I can write odes to the stark pulchritude of a winter’s day, but often, I write those things to prove to myself that I can find awe in the awful. Seven months of winter wears one out. Thursday’s sun, its warmth, the Peepers, the turkeys, even my frickin’ bike accident, were signs that winter was receding. Even in years when it has snowed up until Mother’s Day, winter eventually goes away.

So this morning, it is snowing. I could tell before I even left my bedroom. Getting out of bed, the apartment was chill, which could only mean that the temperature had dropped precipitously overnight. The snow is temporary. The grief of this weekend’s events is temporary. Life is temporary.

But those turkeys? Those are forever. I give them the last laugh, and I bow in the general direction of their enduring power.

Strut on with your bad selves.

If I die, where does time go? – Kurt Elling, “Esperanto”

When people ask me what I’ve been up to lately, I usually know how to answer. “Oh, I’ve been working full time at a music licensing company.” If they’re not from my church, I’ll add, “And I work part time directing the band at my church.” Explaining work accounts for the bulk of my time, and I figure that’s enough explanation for most people. But lately, when asked what I’m up to, my real answer has been creeping through more often: “I’m not really sure.” After offering my somewhat true but lame excuse of being kept busy by my jobs over and over and over, I notice myself shifting into cruise control as pre-programmed words spill out of my mouth. This could be for a variety of reasons. Perhaps you and I have not had that moment wherein we earn a place of intimacy in each others’ lives, and so divulging my uncertainties about my identity and direction are like hefting heavy bagging on an unsuspecting passerby. Sometimes that’s a gamble I take, and sometimes I’m met with a surprising response of understanding and/or the gentle voice of experience. More often, however, I receive blank stares, uncomfortable stammering, or self-appointed advisers launching into a bank of Fix-Alls–their own pre-programmed speeches. During any of the latter three, I retreat with regret and the recurring notion of pearls going to swine.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that people bother to ask and that they care to some degree about me. However, “what have you been up to?” is often little more than a slightly personalized variation of “how are you?”, which is to say that people probably aren’t looking for me to respond “probing the potential and uncharted courses of my life”.

In any case, if I have exposed myself enough to allow “I’m not really sure” as a response to your question, it’s probably because I’m too tired or wary to offer an explanation, but I might also trust you more than the people to whom I say “oh, working.”

‘Cause Lord knows, I don’t feel like I’ve been working.

Work is like a dirty word to most Americans, conjuring up all manner of corporate hells in the mind. But work has vague promise in it, the possibility of not being for naught. I feel like there is work to be done that would connect me to the planet, to its inhabitants, to myself. For the most part, that type of work doesn’t pay. Is that important? I don’t know. I’m American. Money is another form of oxygen.

Otherwise, it actually is difficult for me to discern where my time goes. I used to keep professional-looking Franklin Covey planners at the ready, but rarely opened them. So I figured this year I’d keep with the tradition of not opening a planner by simply not buying one. Unfortunately, I missed some important events in the nascent months of 2009, so I started printing free weekly and monthly schedules from the Internet and filling in the blanks. An alarming portion of my weekdays is filled in with grey boxes representing “work”. The red boxes on the weekend are for church rehearsals and church services. And then a flurry of little boxes sectioned off with tasks left undone for several weeks to several months’ time. So, good. I’m getting organized. But where did those several months go? What have I been doing for the last few years? Or even worse—the last seven years since I graduated from high school?

Toward the end of high school, I made one seemingly innocent move that affected me for all the years after and into the present. I dropped a class. It was something I had never considered as a possibility. I quit soccer when I was 5 years old, but that’s because I was not cut out for athletics (I could often be found on the other side of the field from the action, sitting in a cluster of dandelions and confusedly detached from whatever it is that soccer players do). But by junior high, when I was the superbusykid who wanted to do everything from leadership council to jazz band to cheerleading and more, I somehow stuck with each activity to the bitter end. And I learned in high school that no matter how long I procrastinated, work somehow got done (yes, my own work). My mom would sit at the dining room table with me every night until I either started or finished my work, often sleeping at the table to keep me company. Her dedication inspired my own. So I internalized the “it must be done” ethic all the way up until my math class senior year. I was barely getting by, slipping further away from understanding with each passing day, anxiety mounting. And so, to avoid a year of many hate-filled equations, I let go.

Realizing that I could drop a class and still graduate with honors set a perilous precedent. I would repeat this formula again for university classes (and even post-grad classes) and still graduate magna cum laude, which was terribly important to me at the time. Dropping a class is no crime, but the habit of pulling back due to fear of failure is, in the end, self-robbery. Even outside of school, I’ve ceased to attempt things that I’m not positive I can more than handle. No risks. No failure. Or so I thought.

The play-it-safe mindset has cost me, surely. I’m not sure if it’s something I gravitate toward with my own desire for security, assurances—or if it’s learned behavior that the world keeps confirming with a little nod as they wave me past. Either way, I know there’s more. So why am I not doing it?

I started to think about it more after a few too many bouts of “I don’t know” in response to inquiries of my present preoccupations and/or accolades. And I noticed that a good amount of the time, I’m doing nothing. Nothing. It’s my prerogative, right? And it’s like Office Space (one of the most accurate movies ever made, in my opinion): if given the option to do whatever I want, I choose to do nothing. But in my case, it’s not because I want to do nothing. On the contrary, I usually feel pretty gross about it. I used to fill up most of my spare time with shopping, because it diverted my attention from the pain of loneliness. It was a shiny temporary fix, except that I was spending a good deal of the money I was earning, which deepened my dependency on the dollar, which in turn sponsored my ability to self-medicate rather than save and direct my money toward some more meaningful purpose. And therein lies the present story of my life. It’s easier to watch movies and browse the Internet and update my Facebook status for all of my online acquaintances’ perusal—so I’ll still feel connected, but in a distant and self-stylized way—than it is for me to face the fact that I’m unhappy, I’m not growing, and I am in fact wasting myself. Worse, I feel that I’ve earned the right to do nothing after paying my dues by shuffling papers during daylight. This was supposed to be the prize. I scaled the ladder of academia to find employment, and there it was, ergonomic chair and all. The long essays on topics I didn’t care about, the 3 a.m. cram sessions complete with Red Bull, the internal fire of stress; it was all for this, the idea that I’m safe. I worked hard for that idea, and I’d like to take a breather. But years are starting to peel away, and I’m still not sure what’s next.

Despite my disillusionment, I know that having a job is a good thing, especially in such trying economic times in the States. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not going to run away and find myself in the woods in order to break my shackles to empty reasons in Los Angeles. I do fantasize about that, but I won’t yet do it. It’s more than the nature of having a job that is keeping me down, it’s my own mentality quelling the small sparks that light me up. So I think I’d like to wake up now and find that I’m still there, and that I can move, and that I won’t always fall. Or that I don’t have to be afraid of falling.

Can equality ever really exist any any relationship or partnership? Does the balance of power shift, however slightly, in each and every situation…? Is every interaction a negotiation or a blow stricken in the interest of making things proportionate…? Perhaps because as I am certain we’ve all been told life is so unfair, our interactions within our chosen relationships, partnerships, friendships are struggles to achieve or to maintain balance and justice.

I do not understand how it is that one relationship can be compared to another, even if the comparisons are made by someone that is in or has been in both relationships… People are capable of change, circumstances change - what is there to compare, really?

On occasion, my husband likens our relationship to the relationships or marriages of others whom he knows. The fact that he does this makes no sense to me. I do not compare him to other husbands and I certainly do not wish to be compared to other wives. Sure, from a distance, we may judge that the circumstances of someone else’s relationship are not right for us, but we really have no place to judge whether or not they are happy or whether or not their relationships are healthy or right for them… Only the people in the relationship can make those decisions for themselves.

I can’t help but wonder if relationships are, essentially, a constant power struggle. Not just “romantic” relationships - friendships, business acquaintanceships, partnerships of any nature (particularly those between people of the opposite sex). Certainly, every act cannot be a compromise or a metaphor for the control that one person has over another, can it…?

After five or so years together in some capacity or another, my husband and I seem to be arriving separately and almost daily at the same seemingly inevitable conclusion: we prefer to do things so, so differently from one another. One might think that after so much time together, people would have already realized such things about each other and probably managed to accept it or let it go. However, we seem to take more opportunities each day to point out to each other just how we would have done things differently and why, in our respective opinions, the other’s way of doing something is wrong. This makes me kind of sad, mostly because I was so excited when I first began dating my husband because there was nothing I wanted to change about him and that was a rare thing for me. I have often taken up with people as either friends or as lovers who had visible cracks and flaws - I wanted nothing more than to be used as a life vest or repair person. Those situations never worked, and likewise it never worked for me when people attempted to repair or shape or mold me - I always felt somewhat powerless in those situations - as though I was being looked after and cared for and parented rather than cared about. 

For a very long time, my husband and I did not argue. We had heated debates about a great many things, but we did not have arguments. When we finally did have an argument, it was over something silly (laundry, I believe) but it was a welcome relief to me that the argument was actually about laundry. I had become used to utilizing passive-aggressive communication in past relationships that would then escalate into a seemingly never-ending series of volatile arguments. It was a pleasant surprise to me that my husband was able to talk just about the subject at hand and that he did not attempt to bring up irrelevant things or things from the past.

While he and I were only dating and prior to us deciding that we were seeing each other exclusively, he did his best to respect my privacy (it didn’t seem to take him any effort at all) and never asked me questions to which he did not want to know the answers. I, however, have probably volunteered more information to my husband than he ever wanted or needed to know. Then, I made the mistake of expecting him be more similar to me and to communicate in the same manner that I did, so I asked him a great many questions, regardless of whether or not I wanted to know the answers to them. I sometimes got angry or insecure for reasons not his fault, and accused him of withholding information from me or not being completely honest with me. I managed somehow, in my attempts to communicate clearly, to not make it clear to him at all what it was that I actually wanted (or didn’t want to, as the case sometimes was) to know.

My husband has been an incredible understanding and tolerant man, throughout the course of our relationship and our marriage and I have taken this for granted and pushed tested the boundaries of his patience and tolerance on more than one occasion. He has done a very good job of never holding my past against me, regardless of what information it was that I shared with him. I, on the other hand, have had a very difficult time not holding my past against him.

I notice a lot of inequalities in my marriage, and most of them I feel responsible for. I allow my husband to take care of financial matters - to pay bills, to budget and to generally be accountable for how our collective income is distributed, used and invested. I imagine that this can be overwhelming for him, but when I have offered help, he has not seemed interested in accepting it.  I sometimes feel as though I should have more of a say in the handling of our money, but I suppose that it is not very fair for me to express my qualms with that when I am more than happy to let him take responsibility for all of our debts and when I take no action to do so myself.

My husband has been very supportive of me when I have been between jobs or when I have been terminated or when I have chosen to look for other work because I was miserable in a position or, sometimes, for no better reason than the fact that I was restless. I have never expected him to take care of me, not financially certainly, but he has done so and been willing to do so more often than I ever would have expected (or asked - I have a lot of difficulty requesting help - I guess that in the past I generally preferred to manipulate and to feel as though I was using people because that made me feel like I was in control and taking charge of my destiny and not a victim or a charity case).

I have somewhat recently begun to resent the characteristics of tolerance and patience that my husband possesses because they inspire me to question whether or not these are personality traits that I require in a mate. I fear that a less patient and less tolerant person would have told me to shove off by now. I am almost certain that this is the case. I know that I am not an easy person to deal with or to live with. I fear that I have the kind of personality that begs for some to be patient with me and to tolerate me.

In my marital relationship, I have noticed a general lack of impartiality and some imbalances across the board. If my marriage were the scales of justice, for instance, I guess my side of the scale would be holding more weight. Neither my husband or myself go out too terribly often without the other, but I definitely spend more time away from him and from home than he does. I have more male friends than he has female friends and he is perfectly alright with me spending time with them alone. I have encouraged him to go out to do things without me, but he has this sense of accountability that I think I must lack. I have encouraged my husband on at least an occasion or two to go spend time time with one of his female friends, albeit this may have been after some hesitation or on my part or possibly after an argument that I may have initiated.

While I like to think that I am self aware, it probably wears on my husbands nerves that I am honest with him and myself about my insecurities but that I refuse to part with them when he’s given me no reason not to trust him and when he’s given me all of the verbal and non-verbal reassurances that he can think to provide. Surely he finds my tendency to run away from situations that I do not like, my tendencies to avoid confrontation, to step aside and allow others to take the reigns and to complain about the decisions that they make, to turn my back on things that do not immediately come easily to me and my tendency to project my anger towards men onto him and to take things not his fault out on him and to generally be unreasonable aggravate him. Certainly, my often misguided or misdirected rage and temper are difficult for him to deal with.

Recently, we’ve found ourselves in an unfamiliar position - one in which I am the primary wage earner and provider for our family. This is a stressful situation for both of us. I have recently received a promotion (this is the first time in my life when I have managed to move up in a company where I have been employed) and I feel myself getting restless in my new position already, after only 6 months. I imagine he feels somewhat emasculated by the situation - whether he is willing to admit it out loud or not, he has some beliefs that I find somewhat old fashioned. One of those beliefs is that a man should support his family (and probably be the primary wage earner).

I admire this man for a variety of different reasons and one of them is that I know he has been willing and at least mentally prepared on more than one occasion to provide for my daughter and I. I do not know if he intrinsically thinks that this should be his role as the male in the relationship or if it is more a sense of obligation, but I appreciate it. I have not ever asked for it or expected it or taken advantage of the fact that he would fill this role, but I have been appreciative of his willingness to do so. I wish that I were able (willing?) to be as supportive of him finding & mapping out his own career path as he has been of me.

I know that it is not  a situation that he finds ideal, either - one in which he was not only the primary bread-winner but the only one earning a wage and bringing in money to support our family. I once brought up to him, after he made one of those comparisons that I so despise between our relationship and the relationships of others that we know, that I knew at least two women whose husbands were willing to go out and work two jobs so that their wives would not have to work, so that they could stay home with their children rather than have them raised by some anonymous third party.

I am not certain why I even said it. As much as I enjoy being a mother even though it was not planned and were I to do it again, I would go about things differently, I have never pictured myself as someone who could tolerate being expected to be only a mother. I would likely feel trapped and I would probably have quite a few complaints were I expected to stay home and keep house and look after the children. I would probably feel quite lonely and under appreciated. Besides, even with feminism and womens’ lib, how many men realistically have an expectation to by financially supported by their wives or female partners? In all fairness, why don’t we expect some men to have similar expectations of their female counterparts by now?

I think I hurt him a little when I said told him that in response to him stating that he expected me to contribute and to provide for our family as well. It is only fair for him to expect such a thing. I think his statement was a reply to my question of whether or not he’d be supportive of me trying to make a living as a writer.  I know that he wishes he made enough money so that neither of us really had to work to earn a living. I’ve also seen him work towards achieving this goal. I just have not seen him put as much work into it as I would expect someone to if they wanted to realize such a dream and make it a reality. It has, on occasion, been frustrating to watch. I imagine that when I voice this frustration, he finds it discouraging. I just do not know how to motivate him to make of himself what he wants to make from where I am at - I have tried different approaches - I have tried to be encouraging only to be resentful of offering encouragement later and I have tried to tell him to step back and to look at things more realistically only to have him resent my negative tone.

While waiting for my daughter’s ballet class to end one Saturday morning, I recall overhearing a conversation that echoed so many complaints I’d heard before, countless times from numerous other women. I leaned against the wall and watched my daughter practice pirouettes and listened as a woman beside me described to her friend her frustration with her male partner. She was talking about the few household chores for which he took responsibility and how disappointed he became when she failed to notice him doing something that she considered small and something that she expected from him when she herself kept a job and took responsibility for the vast majority of housework and never expected strokes or received recognition for it and while she looked after their children, as well, so that he could work. I laughed to myself not because the situation was amusing, but because from most of my female friends who have children and who live with men, this is a nearly universal complaint (even regardless of whether or not she works outside of the home because, as most mothers will tell you, motherhood itself is more demanding and more of a full time position than most other roles one could possibly tackle).

It makes me wonder if fatherhood is. I imagine that it is, to a degree. But probably not in the same way. I think that intrinsically, women have a more maternal nature when it comes to their children because of the umbilical chord. I imagine the physical acts as a metaphor and contributes to the way that each sex parents. I have this theory that a lot of biological factors figure into male/female relationships. I don’t know that it makes me any more accepting of certain behaviors and I think that it these biological factors may themselves be kind of lame excuses for such behavior, but I like to investigate and to research the possible reasoning behind things and to, eventually, feel as though I’ve arrived at my own informed conclusions about such things.

On several occasions, in some form or another, I believe that I have begun the very composition that I hope to complete now. I’ve been somewhat introspective recently, and writing can sometimes help me to further explore topics upon which I am already reflecting. More often than not, however, writing leads me to ramble and to talk in circles and I am left with no conclusion at the end of a sentence, paragraph, or composition.

Sometimes, I realize that the subject matter is much bigger than I, that it could not possibly be figured out in during one hundred brain storming or free write sessions (let alone one) and I am left with no answers. At times, I end even more bewildered than when I began.

All that being said, I am thinking quite a bit currently about the nature of relationships and the way that we as people allow human interactions to shape us, our identities…

I cook quite a bit. Once upon a time, I even entertained misguided dreams that I might one day become a chef. Since, I have come to the more realistic realization that I am not organized enough to work in a kitchen as a professional. Besides, if I were to do that, perhaps I’d not enjoy cooking any longer.

I did not begin cooking because of any expectations associated with gender roles, nor would that have any bearing upon why I still do it.  I cook simply because I enjoy it, because it allows me to create. Just as when I write I experiment with different combinations of words, while I cook I experiment with different combinations of flavors and seasonings until I come up with something that suits my tastes (and hopefully the tastes of those for whom I cook). Chances are, the combinations of flavors that I am “creating” have been attempted in the past - just as with the words that I choose to manipulate.

Cooking is as well, I have decided, one of the ways in which I try to get people to like me. Maybe, just maybe, if they like food that I have prepared, they will see something worthwhile within me. Since I realize this, I suppose I am doing this on at least a semi-conscious level.

I also noticed (or at least I thought that I did) that people used to tend to like me more when I was drinking. So, I used to imbibe spirits and feed others in order to lift theirs and to feel as though I was liked. I am certain that I still do this now, I just try to do it a lot less.

Close to a year ago now, I spent a weekend in Las Vegas for a friend’s wedding and I was nervous about going without my husband. I knew that I would most likely drink too much and I worried that I might do something stupid. I know that I have never told him that and I don’t think I divulged my fear to anyone else, either. Aside from drinking too much; however, I avoided doing anything else that I would have considered stupid. I have faith that my husband would agree.

I don’t know that I am happy about that. I don’t know that I am happy about my decision to put myself in a situation which, in the past, has led me or influenced me to make some poor decisions. At the time, it was a struggle for me to be comfortable with my husband’s trust in me. In general, I sometimes struggle with the the amount of trust that my husband places in me (a lot). I’d like to think that I have the same trust and faith in him. However, the situation has yet to be reversed.

I like to think that I am honest to a fault with my husband, but this is probably not the case. I often do not let him know of my intentions even when I am aware of them ahead of time. Often times, I am honest with him about things that occurred in the past. This kind of honesty feels to me the way that I imagine going to confession would feel.

I sometimes attempt to tell him things that he seems to have no interest in hearing or it is not an opportune time to bring up certain things with him (while we have a pretty honest relationship, I don’t know that I would continue to be so truthful, if I would want to, or if he would want me to, were I to share particular things in front of an audience) and so by the time I actually do end up sharing such things with my husband, he feels as though I’ve hidden something from him or that I felt I could not tell him before. I suppose this is true, but only to an extent.

I have, at times, suggested to my husband that we have an open relationship. I have noticed this trend in the other open relationships I of which I have been aware - that it seems one party feels as though they owe it to the other to have such an arrangement - it seems as though they feel their partner has had to “settle” for them, so rather than lose them, they allow their partner to explore whatever other options may be available to him or her. I imagine fear is part of it - a fear that one of us may not always measure up to the others expectations or meet their needs. It is as much of a fear that I will succumb to having my “needs met” by another as it is that I will face rejection of some sort because my partner has needs that I cannot meet.

So, what is the point of marriage if two people are to have an open relationship? I am not certain that I have a definitive answer. I struggle with this myself on occasion. I do not think that the act of sex should be the be all end all of a relationship. That seems quite silly to me. Besides, when people date or when one is not seeing someone exclusively, do they not often utilize several different people to meet their needs? Is there not someone to feed them, someone to entertain them, and someone to hold them? Why should we limit ourselves to just one person to be everything to us? Is such an expectation realistic or natural? Do relationships entitle us to have expectations of others?

I am not certain what is reasonable to believe or to have or to strive for. On the one hand, I believe that what I said above is true - many people occupy different places and play different roles to us at different times all throughout our lives. However, doesn’t more than just the act of sex exist between a couple? If what they share between them is “more than sex” why would either of them seek anything less outside of their relationship? Why go elsewhere just for sex? If it is more than just sex that one seeks with someone outside of his or her relationship with another person, will they have enough love or energy or desire to still share with their partner? What if the desire or focus shifts? Is it fair to their significant other(s)?

Do not get me wrong, if two people can find everything that they need only in one another, more power to them. I am willing to admit that such a possibility exists. To me, however, the prospect of soul mates is a myth, likely manufactured to encourage monogamy (at least on the part of women who were and may still be considered property - but that is, perhaps, to be explored in a later blog.)

I am not certain that I believe in romantic love. I have thought about it logically and the conclusion to which I come is this - romantic love is the same as the compassion that we feel for each of the people about whom we care, there is just more weight or a different weight placed on it because it is combined with a passion or lust or desire that we do not possess for the others about whom we care. I definitely do not think that”romantic” love can exist without jealousy.

For a very long time, I did not consider myself a jealous person. I have insecurities though that I definitely allow myself to project onto others in the form of envy. I have a friend who seems to logically understand jealousy and who states that she does not suffer from it. I am envious of her ability… I have another friend who states that he does not hold peoples’ faults against them and I’d like to have a better understanding of that ability as well.

Since arriving at the conclusion that I am actually capable of suffering from jealousy and behaving in a jealous manner and realizing that I do, in fact,  do so from time to time, I have noticed myself feeling envious less often. However, now I find myself envious of the simplicity with with some people seem capable of loving & living - people who are content just to be whether themselves or with someone else.

I have a friend who has been in a relationship with his girlfriend for ten years. He says, almost as though it is a justification, that it has been off and on. I think that most people would think that being in a ten year relationship is commendable and not in need of justification. Together, he and his significant other have two children. He refers to her simply as “his girlfriend” (which apparently annoys her to no end). He seems to justify the situation further by saying that he is “not an easy person to be with.”

Upon hearing this the first time, I thought to myself, “Who is easy  to be with?”

However, upon further introspection, I think that if we were to simply “be” together, regardless of the kind of relationship, to focus on the enjoyment of one another’s company and nothing more, to not place place too much unnecessary or irrelevant attention on “commitment,”  or to place too much weight or emphasis on our own insecurities or failures or too much on our own needs, then perhaps it would be easy simply to “be” ourselves and to “be” with one another…

…(if you’d like to read a far more eloquent post about this topic and you’ve not yet done so, you should read L’Dawn’s most recent blog posting, “Choosing Love”)…

potential - from the root word potent - powerful - effective - able to perform (not necessarily sexually) - able to impregnate (normally masculine - see impotent)

As much as I may despise this particular word and its origins, I despise my own - my possession of this “trait” or whatever you may want to call it, even more…

I awoke at just before 5 A.M. on a Saturday morning (nearly three weeks ago now)… to make cookies. I figured while my meringues were drying, I would finally finish one of my blog posts. (I had three that were “in progress” at that time.)

It is never more evident to me than on days like that, when I wake up incredibly early to finish something at the last minute or when I am scrambling to meet a deadline, that I lack discipline.

Procrastination: it is something that I thought I would outgrow, perhaps even magically. It is not something that I can do without effort. I still have a lot of growing up to do. Apparently, I still have a lot of changes that I need to implement into my life as well.

I was fumbling around the kitchen on this morning, making three different types of cookies, making coffee and then I thought to myself that I should maybe start breakfast, too. No one else was watching me, so perhaps it would not be evident to them that I lack focus (or discipline, for that matter). I would perhaps share this information later in the day. Perhaps by that time, the fact that I was juggling baking, composing a blog, and cooking breakfast would have translated into an amusing anecdote - perhaps not.

Even as I was composing this blog entry, I found myself toggling between different windows, still seeking to be distracted from the issues at hand - I have a propensity for seeking distraction. I knew that it had not yet been anywhere nears three quarters of an hour but I found myself getting up from the chair to repeatedly check on the  meringues.

Why can I not just finish one thing at a time?

It is obvious to me, if not to anyone else, that I have commitment issues. I fear it as though it were the plague, but in a manner that is somewhat backwards, I suppose. When it comes to imperative life changes, I tend to embrace those - to jump in with both feet (if not to dive in head first). When it comes to little things, I fear that I cannot trust even myself to know what I will be doing from one moment to the next.

Recently, I was referred to as a professional adult. Just hearing these two words used to describe me, let alone in conjunction with one another, made me want to snicker aloud. For fear of being found out, for fear that someone would discover that I was doing my best to pretend and to play the roles of both professional and adult, I fought the urge. I can’t help but wonder how many other adults feel like they are just faking it and playing along and feel like they struggle with the responsibilities of day to day life? I wonder if they, too, fear being found out.

I am inspired to question myself, too,  about whether or not this feeling will ever go away.

I find excuses, justifications, reasons constantly to avoid things that I do not want to do. “Why,” I ask myself. “What will it amount to?” And then when it comes to things that I want or want to do, I ask myself the opposite. “Why not,” I say, “What will it hurt?”

I thought that with adulthood, with responsibility, there would also come a defining sense not only of self but perhaps an instinct concerning consequences, an intrinsic adoption of accountability. I sat here, typing, getting up from my chair - a perfect metaphor for my habit of running away from things just as I approach the truth - often refusing to finish things when they become too difficult or (even worse) just when I lose interest and I wait to inherit these traits of  accountability.

Thinking about how things begin, the way things start and they way that I behave when I begin things or approach things - whether it be a new friendship or relationship, a new responsibility, a new position, a new project - I realize that I often begin things with enthusiasm - with passion and fervor and a sense of urgency; I often complete things late or at the last minute and in a manner that is less than excited if I even see things entirely through at all.

I am not certain that I believe in new year’s resolutions, but I do not discount them entirely. It seems to me an awakening of sorts - what better time (however arbitrary) to attack something with both hands, to attempt to adopt new and better habits than at the beginning of a brand new year. We could perhaps begin our journeys to becoming new and better people at the start of the earth’s new journey around the sun.

Instead of measuring myself against others, using similarly arbitrary standards like age for instance, perhaps I will have a new measuring tool or unit of measurement - I will be able to see my success by counting short term goals I’ve actually managed to achieve, or tasks I’ve managed to perform and complete, things I’ve managed to ACTUALLY accomplish.

The final sad irony of this composition is not that the one thing I completed on the day that I set out to begin, to do, to accomplish so many things was that the one thing I completed was my blog post about not finishing things; it was, in fact, quite the opposite - it has taken me over three weeks to complete this blog entry… How sad is that?

So, regardless of how commonplace or cliche it may be, I am setting out to change myself - not to become a brand new person - but to develop a new discipline. I am vowing to finish things that I begin, no matter how tumultuous or tiring they may become. I believe that I owe it to myself (and probably to other people as well) to put my best foot forward and to tackle one thing at a time instead of doing several things all at once with less of the effort than I should be exerting - to minimize distractions and to truly focus. Perhaps I will discover new passions - perhaps I will attain a great sense of accomplishment from actually completing tasks, no matter how mundane they might have seemed at the time during which I was completing them. Maybe I will discover things about myself.

The new year is young and my resolve still adolescent at best… I have seen the futility of things that fail to endure - of accomplishments, of human life itself. Perhaps one is just giving in and giving up, throwing in the proverbial towel and resigning one’s self to mediocrity at best when they fail to even try to disprove the futility of their own efforts, which are at best human.

I do not yet know how my exercise will turn out. I do know that I was once described as having a laziness that was almost masculine and that I found that funny at the time. Over time, however, I have become disenchanted with others who I have witnessed display so much potential and so much passion as they begin something, only to abandon it later on… It almost hurts me to watch because, while I hate to admit it, I am very likely doing the exact same thing myself.

I had noticed a difference between them. If I were to name it, it was a precious melancholy. As if, they were saying good-bye before the other was gone. A conscious reverence like one might have when they know the other is terminally ill—making sure to honor every moment in the sacredness of it.

I saw it when they held each other’s eyes a beat longer, or dropped the other’s gaze in the avoidance of a sure truth.

But those revealing moments passed, and they would reengage in the play that was so much a part of their interaction. This was what I chose to focus on, forgetting what I saw before as my lovely daughter Kait ruffled Byron’s already wild hair or gave him quick pats on the belly. Gleefully calling him “Dorian,” an endearing humorous name they both called each other over the past four years.

But then one evening as Kait was speaking to Byron on the phone, her voice collapsed. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I waited to hear her voice rise again. But it never did.

A tragic stillness, I left the bathroom and peeked into her bedroom door. Lying on the bed she turned her tear filled eyes away from the wall and towards me. I pushed the door open, “Are you okay?”

“No.” Tears swelled out her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, “Byron and I won’t be seeing each other anymore.”

Instantly my heart grieved for her and his loss. I crossed the room and sat on the side of her bed next to her. Fingering her long dark Raphaelean curls I said, “I’m so sorry,” as my eyes and throat began to burn with sorrow.

Sensing my need for a reason she offered, “Everything is fine between us. Everything is going well. It’s me. I don’t know why now…but I just need to.”

Nodding my head, I stroked the back of her hand in understanding.

When I was her age, influenced by my Mormon upbringing and the larger Judaic/ Christian culture that wrote the fairytales of Cinderella, I subscribed to the belief that there was the one and only true love. Like the classic songs of Sinatra, Streisand, Porter…filling my head, I knew there was someone out there, waiting. He was the other half of my whole. And when united, he would complete me.

I nearly proved this to be true. Meeting my husband at eighteen, we were like two balls of mercury being pulled toward a gravitational pull that joined the other seamlessly. Married eighteen months later, for twenty years we shared this destined fairy tale love. Star struck from across the room, when our eyes met they glistened and danced as soft smiles formed our lips. When not together, the other was beautifully present inside warming the heart.

Never did I think he would not be in my life. In fact, the thought of him not in my life made me gasp for air as if I was dying. But, then, suddenly he was gone. After twenty-some-odd years together, he left my life. And I did die.

And, yet—the death was sweet as I was born into someone I never could have been had we stayed together. I was born into a woman that was whole. Two lips touching, my lips—I had always had the potential to be w/holy of self. But as long as someone was between those two lips I would be split apart, never knowing the magnificent completeness of my own being—the love of self.

Now, I understand as my Shoshone ancestors did. The individual has to be known through quests of understanding. Relationship is part of that quest towards being more fully human. Perhaps the relationship is for a lifetime. Perhaps for only a time.

But to put the focus on the relationship’s endurance is not natural. It is a construction created for the profit of a system—whether the system is inspired by religion, philosophy, or economics.

Rather, the relationship is part of life—is part of living. There could be one partner that is good for a new love, another for the fathering of children and family-life, another as a lover, another from mother into the grandmother, another… And maybe, in the case of the women in my tribe, two partners or more are needed at the same time.

As a matriarchal society where the woman owned the teepee, this change in life was symbolic of “to split the blanket”. In this change the belongings of the male partner were set outside the teepee door. Man given the same rights as woman, there was (and is) no taboo in it. It was life. Life constantly created. Life changed. And change was what kept the people well.

Kait, having the privilege of being raised without the dogma of religion or social mores, has not been burdened with believing relationship as a lifetime commitment. In her beliefs, to institutionalize relationship by putting rules and laws of right, wrong, good, bad is the opposite of the love relationship espoused. Where, in reality, the control and appropriation inherent of these rules and laws limits or kills off the life-force that is the love.

The idea is to honor the life-force that both partners are a reflection of and in union create life-forms with. Essentially, to honor the love.

Tears streaming down both our faces she said, “He is so good.”

Kissing her small Victorian hands I said, “Yes he is…and so are you. Both of you—so easy to love.”  With the presence of them both in my heart and chest, “You are love.”

I had been to South Africa many times for work and I often told people that, “I had fallen in love with the country”. But what I never explained is that I had also fallen in love with a South African man and perhaps that affected the way I saw the country. As the saying goes, “love is blind” - a phrase I hated when I was younger. But, as the years pass and experience accrues, I see it more and more as true. So when I fell out of love with my South African man, and all the beauty I had seen in him seemed to shrivel up and evaporate in the parched continent’s sun, it happened that on my seventh trip to that country I felt like I was suddenly arriving in a strange land.

Forgive me South Africa, because it is not your fault that my love for you died. In fact, you didn’t change at all. All along those three years I visited you, your terrain was rampant with adult rape, car jackings, robbery, murder and even something I had only learned about because of you - baby rape. Your skin was crawling with black against black violence, white against black violence, and black and against white violence. You had always been a dangerous place hidden behind a severe and blinding natural beauty. It’s just that one day the sun went down in my eyes and in the shadows I fell over the other South Africa, the “picked over skeleton with the skull locked in that horrible scream of death” South Africa.

Before this trip, I remember having a conversation with a woman who worked for an NGO – a non-governmental organization – in Johannesburg where I usually stayed for work. She was an extremely bright Indian woman dedicated to helping end poverty in South Africa. She was running a program that was creating alternative job training for the masses of jobless youth in the African population and she wanted to discuss with me the possibility of helping her create a film training program for teenagers. As we sat and had coffee in a quaint little bistro in an even quainter little town called Melville, where I was staying in a beautiful guesthouse with a pool and palm trees and a four-poster bed, she told me that there was 50% unemployment in South Africa that year. I remember my eyes popping out, yet a warm glow in my gut, thinking that this kind woman would be helping to eradicate that horror.

When I asked how long it would take to reduce unemployment, she looked at me blankly and said, “Oh no, there is no hope of reducing the unemployment rate in South Africa; there will never be enough jobs for the population. Everyone knows that.”

I stared at her with a kind of shock: “But then why do you want me to help create a film training program? Don’t you hope these kids will be able to get work afterwards?”

“No,” she said blithely. “There will never be more jobs in the film business here. We already have way too many applicants for the slots. We can only hope to keep these young people busy for a few weeks…”

I tried to fathom what she was saying as she asked for the check, but I promptly put her words beyond me. You see I was still in love — with the guy, with the dazzling sunshine, with the idea of democracy and a rainbow nation, with people’s ability to argue about politics (something Americans had lost until recently with our new elections.)

But on my last trip to the country, the guy was gone. And it was not a good break up. I suppose you can say I am still picking the shards of glass out of my weak flesh even now, years later. Back then I still didn’t know how much love would cost me, but that is another discussion. Now, I had returned to film a friend of mine Khosi, who lived in Soweto, for the FLYING series I was still in production on at the time. This would be me my last trip to the country for the project. I had filmed Khosi before and what I would record this time never made it into the film, but perhaps was more important than much of what did.

I am trying to explain how the terror rose in me that trip like a snake silently coiling its belly around your spine until it is facing you and looking in your eye. Why you never felt the snake in the first place and why you were standing in a place that had poisonous snakes slithering through the grass is another question that could be asked and should be. For the moment, suffice it to say, up until then I had been too stupid to be afraid.

When I arrived to my little guesthouse in my lovely little town of Melville that I always stayed at, I was still feeling fine; I still thought it was the same country I loved even though the guy was missing. I could do this, I thought to myself, nothing had really changed. But in the middle of the night I got a call from Khosi crying. I tried to ask her what was wrong but she wouldn’t say. She only said that she couldn’t see me the next day as we had planned for filming. I told her – no, begged her – to please let me see her any way, we didn’t have to film, but then the phone cut off. When I tried to call her back I understood she had run out of minutes on her cell phone, something that I had gotten used to happening in South Africa where many people couldn’t afford a permanent plan and bought their time sparingly.

I had no way to get to Soweto alone, so I had to wait until morning, when the driver I had used on many shoots could pick me up and we could head over to Khosi’s new home.  Before leaving, I texted her that I was on my way; she must have bought more minutes, because she texted back, “all right”.  I gave the driver the new address in a poor part of Soweto, which I am telling you because, unbeknownst to foreigners, there are wealthier, middle-class parts of Soweto too. All she had told me on the phone when I had spoken to her from America to set up the meeting was that her life had taken a different turn since I had seen her the last about two years previous. She had moved out of her grandmother’s house and was living with her new boyfriend.

We found the address on a dirt road lined with square one-room government-issued box houses that had been created during the apartheid system. She stood in front of this new house I had never seen before, much like I had left her before in front of her granny’s house. She was wearing a white halter top and jeans, as beautiful as always – and looking about 13 years old even though by now was 22 or so. It was only when I got out of the car that I saw what was wrong, one side of her face was black and blue. She was smiling as always and saying things like “don’t worry Jen” and “I am so sorry I called you last night” and “everything is fine really”. Then she took me by the hand and led me to her home, a one-room shack behind the house I had arrived at, which belonged to her boyfriend’s sister. As we passed, many neighbors came out of other shacks and homes to get a good look at Khosi’s white guest.

Once inside, we sat together on the bed that filled the room, which was neat and covered with a paisley comforter. There was also a wooden dresser and a plastic cooler for milk and food, filled with ice. Between us played Khosi’s new baby girl, now about nine months. She made me tea on a little portable stove in the corner of the room and sat down again.  Khosi explained that when she had become pregnant with her daughter, she had to leave her first child, the three-year-old boy that I knew, with her mother and grandmother because her new boyfriend felt jealous of having another man in the house. Her little girl had been born with a hole in her heart, and a cleft lip, but miraculously they had been able to give the girl open-heart surgery at three months and save her. However, she still wasn’t healthy and Khosi spent her life going back and forth to Baragwaneth Hospital, the only hospital in Soweto, which was a huge ordeal. Khosi didn’t know how long the child would live.

She told me how her Gram had kicked her out of the house when she got pregnant with her second child, calling her “slut” and “whore”, even though this boyfriend was only her second in her life. Her first boyfriend and father of her little boy was the first man she had slept with – and by him she immediately became pregnant. The first guy had beaten her terribly and often, but she had managed to escape. Now, this was her second boyfriend, who at least had a job in the South African army and therefore some money. He was ten years older than her – and she immediately got pregnant again. She swore to me that he rarely hit her and that he was a good man, but that they had gotten into a fight the night before at a party, where he accused her of flirting with another man. She had told him to “go fuck off’ and continued to talk to the same guy, but her boyfriend couldn’t stand it and he had immediately started to beat her. She wouldn’t back down, she said, and so she hit him back, but of course he was stronger than her.

Now she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to stay here, but she couldn’t go back to her grandmother’s after she was treated so badly. Her grandmother hated her and preferred her sister. Today, her boyfriend was back at the base, but would be home again in a few days. Anyway, how could she support her child if she left him? She wasn’t able to find a job no matter how hard she tried. Then she began to cry. And I started to cry too. We were hugging each other and crying. You see, we had known each other a long time, since my first trip to South Africa. We had made a film together about her best girlfriend who was HIV positive; we had been through a lot.

“How can I help, Khosi?” I asked softly.

“There’s nothing to do Jen….” She was wiping her tears now.

“Look, what if I can pay for some training…?” I said, wanting to be practical, “I mean if you could get a job, you wouldn’t have to live here…  Is there something you want to do…?”

She looked at me with sadness and shook her head. “I don’t know Jen….”

“Alright…” I said weakly. I was surprised; she had always wanted to go to school before. “Let’s just think together. I am here for you…”

There is nothing like being a stupid foreigner. I knew all too well that what Khosi was facing was so complex and beyond my understanding, that I could only bear witness and pray for intervention. It is a horrible feeling for a person like me, raised on the concept of agency and the ability to change one’s fate if only one works hard enough, to learn that the truth, for many people, in many parts of the world, is that little can help. I knew also that my “being there” for Khosi was relative; I would go home and be safe, and she would not be. So much for being the big, white American savior.

“Jen, I’m scared,” she said.

“I am too, Khosi…” And I was, even thought I didn’t even know exactly why yet.

“I am scared some days what I might do to my child… Sometimes I get so angry, especially with my little boy, that I can’t stop hitting him….” Khosi looked me in the eye to see if I understood what she was saying.

I thought I understood. “You know Khosi, when I was a kid, I saw my mom get so angry at me that I thought, ‘I can’t have children, because I will look at them like she looked at me.’ I was so afraid that I would pass that anger down and hate my own kids that I never wanted to have a baby myself….”

“Yes,” she said, “my Gram was like that to me. She beat me so much; I hated her…. “ She took a deep breath. “But now I am afraid. Jen, some days I am afraid I might kill my children… I love them so much… But I don’t know what to do.”

There was silence in the little shack as we both listened to her baby’s breathing, now asleep on the blanket between us.

“Jen, can you help me get therapy?”

I hadn’t expected her to ask that. I was happy and surprised by the request. But seven trips to South Africa had made wiser to the obstacles I would have to deal with:  “I can try Khosi, when I go back to the guesthouse, I will make some calls…”

”You know I’ve tried going to the social workers that they give you at the hospital, you know like when my father was murdered, or after my sister died of AIDS, and now since the baby was born, I went again…but they all say the same stupid things, like I am not being ‘positive enough about my life’. That ‘I have a bad attitude…’”

Hearing that someone had the audacity to tell Khosi that she wasn’t ‘thinking positively’ enraged me so that I myself wanted to kill someone right then and there. I hated this psychobabble - used again and again by people who really needed some help. And it was rampant in South Africa for some reason, like they’d watched too many episodes of Oprah.

I told Khosi what I thought. But I also asked her if she thought that she needed to be away from her children for a little while. I was worried deeply for them. She said she had strategies of what to do when she felt that way, neighbors she could leave her daughter with; thankfully her son was at her mom’s, but the problem was that when she saw him, he behaved so badly because he was angry at being left there, that she got angry back at him. We talked until the darkness fell and the air turned cool again

When I left Khosi, we hugged for a long time. I would see her several more times on that trip, and I would find her a good therapist, whom she went to see once, but after that session she stopped going (although it would take a few months before this became obvious). The problem was that it took her all day to go back and forth to the good therapist in the fancy section of Johannesburg, actually only 20 minutes away if she could have driven there straight. You see, there is no public transportation system in South Africa – another legacy from Apartheid – so you have to take a series of “Combis”, which are mini-vans driven by private drivers. Each driver packs his van fill of people on a specific route. So it might take her five or six Combis to get to the closest stop to her therapist and then she’d have to walk a half an hour. Who could she leave her baby with? How could she take a whole day just for therapy? Suppose she had a doctor’s appointment for the baby on that day? How could she pay for the transportation? But there were other obstacles too, like when the second appointment came time, it rained, and she didn’t have an umbrella or a raincoat and she was afraid to catch a cold, so she didn’t go.

I tried to solve some of the complications: I had to give Khosi money for the combi rides, but I couldn’t wire it to her directly because she didn’t have a bank account. Meanwhile she couldn’t keep a lot of money on her at any one time, because she could get killed if someone thought she was getting extra cash from a foreigner. So I had to find someone in Johannesburg who would agree to receive the money, but then they had to arrange to get it to her. Then, another fear started to haunt me: What if me trying to help meant her leaving her baby home alone or with a stranger– and then something happening to the baby – like was happening all over south Africa, where mothers had to leave their babies to go to work and gangs of men were coming and raping these tiny beings.

I drove away from Khosi that night, the air ripe with the smoke of kerosene from the gas stoves being lit across the valley of Soweto.  As we passed kids playing kickball in the flickering shadows of bonfires on the dirt lanes, I sat in silence. When I arrived at my guesthouse, the driver let me out and drove off. One of the young car parkers that roamed the street making small change by helping people get parking spots – a job that was created by the government to help unemployment – approached me and asked for some money.

I looked at him surprised, and shook my head, “I don’t have any change…”

“You owe me” he said his eyes menacing. “You haven’t bought me a soda or tipped me and I know you are staying at this guest house. I have seen you come and go….”

“I don’t owe you anything,” I said angrily; somehow Khosi’s story had enraged me against all men. “I don’t have a car and I don’t need parking.”

I marched up to my guesthouse door and pulled out my key. He was standing feet away staring at my back.

“Next time you better bring me something!” he yelled at me and spit on the pavement.

I turned around and gave him the finger. Then I slipped inside and shut the door, which locked behind me.

Once in my room, I sat on my elegant wooden four-poster bed, with the curtains that had little bows holding them back in the middle, looking into the golden-tiled bathroom that was the size of Khosi’s shack. I was breathing hard, trying to catch my breath, furious at the young parking punk from the street, at Khosi’s boyfriend, at the current government that left no hope and no jobs, at social workers who pretend to heal, at the god damn apartheid system who had destroyed a nation and created this mess so complicated it would take a hundred years and so much luck that I couldn’t imagine it to undo the harm that had been wreaked upon this most beautiful country.

I wanted my blessed South Africa back, the one I fell in love with. I started to cry. I was seeing South Africa for the first time and I was gripped with fear - for Khosi, for my black friends, for my white friends, for the strangers I had met, for everyone - and yes, I am ashamed to say, for myself too, because I didn’t want to become one of the twenty-five to fifty percent of the women (depending on the region) who were raped in South Africa that year when I left my gated guest house in the morning. It was easy for me, I just had to make it a few days more to get on the plane out to beat the odds of violent crime, but Khosi couldn’t escape like me. I sat there, engulfed in something I had never felt before, something that was so big, I couldn’t even name it.

Khosi and I remain friends today. She still lives in Soweto but has moved back with her daughter to live with her grandmother, mother, son and other extended family. You can read about her life on her blog here. To date, I have not returned to South Africa.

Two years ago, I realized that my identity had been stolen. Credit card debt had silently been accruing under my name for a couple of years on purchases I never made. It was terrifying to face the possibility of being held accountable for thousands of dollars (which I didn’t have), but even more terrifying to accept that someone could assume my identity. Which, in this case, meant my reputation in the American system of credit, a system built on invisible people. Who was Angela Vicente then? A series of numbers, a couple of faulty security questions and someone else.

Really, in the age of computers, we have all become invisible people. Consider the personas we take on behind our monitors. We can re-imagine ourselves, calculating our personalities and exploring our extremes. We can say the things we’re too afraid to say in person. We can experience a wide range of interactions, visuals, sounds, and information, and all entirely anonymously, our public identities untouched by our words and activities. Sometimes I think that this level of detachment and hiding brings out the worst in us because we feel hidden. Is that who we really are, when no one else can see us?

A few days ago, my boyfriend asked me whether I thought his identity was my perception of him or his own perception of himself. Thinking of how different eyewitness accounts can piece together truth, I proposed that our identities are the sum of our own and each others’ perceptions. But what if our perceptions are both wrong? Even if this is how we perceive identity, what is it that defines the truth of our identity?

Throughout the course of my life, my defining characteristics have been “musician” and “Christian”. But as of late, these names don’t fit comfortably. My roommate, also a jazz vocalist, wondered at my listlessness and asked me, “You have fun when you’re singing, right?” And I paused for a moment before I realized out loud, “No.” To be clear, I love singing. I love the physical and spiritual aspects of sound. But for a long and frustrating period, I’ve heard sound fall flat without meaning. Spiritually, I feel the same disconnect. So I’ve slowly backed away from actively practicing both music and Christianity. To call myself a “musician” and “Christian” feels dishonest at this time. But when these things are taken away, am I less me? Or just different?

I look at my body in the mirror. I spend a lot of time shopping for clothes with a particular cut that will hide the parts I don’t like. After twenty-nine months of office work and dwindling activeness, my body has changed. I scrutinize the stretch marks and round belly. When did my chest start looking that wrinkled in the morning? Why is my face suddenly older? For two years, I didn’t use a full-length mirror. Returning to this view was startling. I remember the distinct feeling that I was no longer living in my real body, and that if I could chisel away the excess, the real me would be found underneath. Vain as that all may sound, my body represents me. Inwardly, I feel the bewilderment of a six-year-old, but I just turned twenty-four, and my body feels the fatigue of a much older woman. Which one is really me?

For my sister, ethnicity is an important part of her concept of identity. We are multi-ethnic, but we’ve had different experiences with that reality, having grown up in different decades. Our parents were married in the early ’70s when mixed marriages were less common. My sister recalls being a kid and running into some skin-heads who taunted her with, “Don’t you wish you were white?” Confused, she thought to herself, “But I am white!” Conversely, when I tell people these days that I am part Filipina, half of the time I hear back, “I thought you were just white.” While I didn’t grow up as immersed in Filipino culture as my sister did, the judgment usually has less to do with consumption of traditional foods and more to do with my skin color and eyes. But without the characteristic physical features or any involvement in the Filipino community or culture, how much does–or should–the technicality of bloodline count? Is it that my grandpa was Filipino but I am not?

The day after Obama’s election, my sister called me. “Guess what! Obama is multi-ethnic,” she reported. “Everyone talks about him being black, but he’s really multi-ethnic.” He hadn’t been her candidate, but she now feels a kinship with our new president over the experience of multi-ethnicity. It is the very first time in history that our country has elected a person of multi-racial heritage to represent and lead us. How apt for a country as diverse as America. We are still figuring out our identity, in so many ways.

Me, too.

I was having a chat with my girls a few days ago… one of the girls had her heart broken and she was crying. She’d just found out that her boyfriend was seeing someone, and that the lady is expecting his child. She was really heart broken - they’ve been dating since primary school,and they’ve been through ups and downs, break-ups and make-ups, but they always find their way back to each other.

All the other girls were so judgemental and made her feel as if she deserved it. I thought that was not going to help. I said to her, “My friend, you know that I love you and I care deeply about you and your feelings. You know me - I wouldn’t say anything to hurt you on purpose, and I wouldn’t tell you who to date. You have to make your own decisions, choices, and mistakes and learn from them. But, I can see your problem - you don’t understand men and women and how they think.”

I asked her, “Try and remember a time when you were still a young girl; remember your mom would buy you a baby doll and a motor bike for your brother. What would you notice?” She said she would notice nothing, and so did all the other girls. I told them, “We would wash our dolls, dress them, and even go as far as sewing clothes for them. Even when they’ve lost their legs we will still love them, and we wouldn’t allow others to play with our dolls. And the boy will be excited about his motor bike and he’ll let all his friends ride it. After a day or two he’ll just move on to the next toy. And that’s how men are - that’s the way God created things and we can’t change them.”

I told her, “I don’t blame you for hanging on and thinking that things will change. But girl, you can choose to let go and give others a chance to play with your doll, or hang on and be that other toy. The choice is yours. I know it hurts like hell, but just suck it up.”