want and need

I wore a little silver (fake) crystal bracelet today.  It isn’t an expensive piece of jewelry.  I bought it because I like clear stones and I love bracelets — they look so delicate and feminine as they hang just so on the wrist.

I was driving to lunch when the cuff of my jacket fell away from my wrist and my car was dappled by colorful, dancing light.  The crystal acted as a prism and bent the sunlight into the myriad colors of the spectrum.  The swinging of the beads about my wrist strobed the light across the dash, the ceiling, my shirt, my face.

No matter how many times I read about refraction and reflection and dispersion and the speed of light, it still seems magical and mystical to me.  Someday I shall have a bedroom with a picture window and I will wake to dancing light every morning.

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A “real-life” friend and I recently had a conversation — really more of a heated, emotional discussion — regarding want vs. need.  She told me she doesn’t need me.  She doesn’t really need anyone.  Not her husband or children.  Not her friends.  “Oh, sure,” she said.  “I want my husband and children and friends and family.  I’d be devastated and hollowed out and there would always be a sadness in me without them.   But I don’t need them to go on living.”

I had a very emotional reaction.  Who wants to believe they aren’t needed?  Especially by someone that they need, themselves?  If I am not needed by the people I love the most, what’s to stop them from walking away and never looking back?  And leaving me wounded and alone.

“I need my friends and family.  I need you,” I insisted.

We agreed to talk about it further when we were both feeling a little less emotional, a little less misunderstood.  She talked to her husband, I talked to mine.  We both talked to the friends through whom we filter our ideas during their early evolution.   I sent her a video of Barbra Streisand’s People.  Clever, no?

Twenty four hours later and she conceded that maybe she just tries very hard not to need anyone and is loathe to admit she’s not fully self-sufficient, independent, and bullet-proof.  I admitted that I’d understood, to an extent, what she meant but had made the discussion especially difficult for her because I was hurt.

What we haggled over, at the core, was the meaning of the word need.  She believes need implies physical survival.  She won’t die if she doesn’t have us.  She will wake up every morning and keep walking and working and surviving.

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I consider myself to be like a ray of light.  I’m not worthless or without beauty, all on my own.  But I’m pretty normal.  Pretty invisible, most of the time.  The people I need, they’re prisms.  Just by sheer virtue of knowing them and loving and being loved by them, I am bent, manipulated, and transformed into something more beautiful, more colorful, more lovely.

Because of them, the ordinary, least developed parts of my character and personality are developed from an entirely different angle.  My tendency toward sensitivity and sadness is refracted into compassion and empathy.  My rather infuriating sarcastic tendencies are diffused into a gentler observational humor.  My clinginess transforms into a steadfast loyalty.  My leanings toward reclusivity are thwarted when friendship and light, goodness and love are strobed across the canvas of my life.

No, I won’t die without the people I love –even if I want to.  That’s not why I need them.  I need them because of who I am because they are in my life.  I need them to help polish my character and transform the parts of me that could be harsh and less than desirable into something soft and pleasant.

I need them to bring me outside of myself, to make the light I shine onto the world softer and gentler.   I need them to help me dapple the world with dancing light.

I need them.

writing and living

I want to write.  I try to write.

I smile indulgently when the 10 year old Googles the lizards he finds in the backyard to see if the climate in his terrarium might be right for them and I consider writing about his inquisitive nature and his strong sense of responsibility and the pride he takes in caring for his critters, one of which is a chameleon that he purchased with his birthday money.

I contemplate topics while eating Green Chile Stew with cheese melted over the top while our snowman stands squinting forlornly at the patches of grass exposed by the melting snow.

As I soak in the jacuzzi, reading a book by the light of my milk, honey and oatmeal scented candle, I ask myself if I should try to write something witty or something meaningful or something vague and obtuse that has meaning only for me and a few others who know me well.

I wonder, as I step onto the heated tile floor and dry myself with a toasty towel pulled from my newly purchased heated towel rack, if I should write about how comfortable and plushy my life is and how I know I am lucky — I really do.

I lean against the headboard as the 6 year old leans into the crook of my arm and reads his library book with a quiet determination and I think I should write about how I am still struck with love every time I study the roundness of his pink cheeks or the way his eyelashes fan across them when he sleeps.

I prop myself against all of my fluffy pillows and watch a movie on the flat screen TV mounted on the wall across from my bed (that was an early Christmas present for my husband) and I think I might write about how much I love the climate in my bedroom–the textures and deep colors, the high leather headboard, heated mattress pad, the ceiling fan with its remote control that dims the lights and controls the fan speed.

Then, I tuck my kids in to bed and kiss them good night.  I curl up on the couch next to my husband and he casually rubs my feet, strokes my leg, plays with my fingers as we watch Heroes.

Later, I crawl back into my queenly bed, thinking I will take a few minutes to write something –anything– before falling asleep.  Brad scooches over and drapes his arm across my stomach.  I lightly scratch his back and we murmur little things about our day to each other.

And I close the lid to my laptop.  Writing can wait for another day or another handful of days.

Living can not.

those little records are called 45s

Sharon sent me a CD the other day.  Twenty songs she likes that she wanted to share with me.  It’s an eclectic mix of country, jazz, classics and even silly songs.  There’s Enya, Mazzy Star, Rod Stewart, Harry Connick Jr. and Anne Murray to name a few.

She said to me, “I remembered that you liked Snowbird.”  I answered, “No, it’s Anne Murray that I like.  I’d never heard Snowbird until today.  But you’re right — I do like it.” I told her the story of how much I loved Daydream Believer by Anne Murray when I was a little girl.  I recounted, “It belonged to my mom.  It was one of those little records that had a single on each side.”

Sharon said, “Those little records?  They were called 45s.”  Then, with a heavy sigh, “I’m very old.”

I giggled because, well, it’s just funny.  But I brought it to her attention that she always tells people that she is seven years older than me when really she is only six years older than me.

“What’s up with that?”

She explained, “You’re about the same age as my brother and I am seven years older than him.  I remember running home from first grade just to hold him.”

And it is funny sometimes, the age difference.  I tease her that she’ll have a personal nurse to take care of her when she’s old since her best friend is so much younger than she is.  But, funny though it may be, it distresses me that so much can be made of the age gap– sometimes by her, sometimes by others.  We’re friends.  We’re so sympatico most of the time it’s not even funny.  A little six year age difference is nothing — unless we make it something.

I mused that the age difference only seems significant when we consider that I was in fourth grade when she was in tenth grade and so on and so forth.  When we were kids, the age difference would have been significant.

But I asked her to remember instead that we were getting married to our husbands at the same time (exactly two weeks apart, actually) and we were having babies at the same time and we are raising children who are close to the same age.  I may have been learning to write cursive when she was going to school dances but, overall, our life experiences have been, and continue to be, similar.

I might be well-advised to remember that the same is true of many women.  Most of us have joined lives with someone we love and experienced all of the growing pains that come along with a young marriage.  We’ve slept in the arms of one we love who also loves us.  We’ve whispered secrets in the middle of the night. We’ve fallen asleep with our lover’s scent on our skin.  Nearly all of us have had romantic rendezvous with our spouses interrupted by those same little miracles who are the product of past rendezvous.

Many of us have pushed babies into the world and held them to our breasts, feeling overwhelmed by love and responsibility.  More than a few of us have snuffled as we wave to our children on their first day of school.  We’ve leaned over our freshly scrubbed little ones for a kiss and a prayer at bedtime.  We’ve hurt along with them when they are teased or excluded at school or when they are disappointed in themselves.

We’re all remarkably similar and incredibly unique all at the same time.  We all love and we all try and we all live our lives the best way we can.  Whether there’s six years difference in our ages or sixty years– we love, we live, and we try.

And if we’re lucky, we meet best friends along the way who love us despite our age, understand us despite our differences, and send us mix CDs in the mail so we know we are not forgotten, despite the distance.

My friend Jellyhead called me tonight. She’s away on a two week vacation thus we’ve not been chatting almost daily as per our usual routine. I’m suffering greatly. I think she may need to take me with her on her next holiday. I’m just sayin’.

I told her, “I almost hacked into your blog to write a guest post but wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it.” She answered, “Aw, that’d be okay so long as you don’t reveal anything about me.” I giggled, “Girl, I am gonna tell alllllll your secrets.”

Then she said, in that lovely Australian accent, “You DO know how much power you have, right? Knowing so much about me?”

I assured her that I’d never tell her secrets to the world. After all, she knows my secrets too. I also let her know that I don’t feel powerful — only lucky to be her confidante.

But I’ve been thinking tonight about how right she is. In my opinion, learning to love and trust someone new is an act of unparalleled bravery. We have to screw up our courage in order to let ourselves be seen and known — the good and the bad. We have to emotionally disrobe and stand naked and shivering before we can be wrapped in the warmth of friendship and love.

Jellyhead’s right. We hand over immense power when we decide to love someone new. And then we have to pull the soft cloak of friendship tighter about us and pray that no one walks away with our heart.

*cross-posted at Jellyhead’s blog*

emotional work

It’s been pointed out to me on rare occasions that I am prone to do serious emotional work over nearly every single thought that passes through my brain or feeling that passes through my heart. And when I say it’s been pointed out to me, I don’t mean that I was being complimented. More like accused of being tiresome by extremely exasperated friends.

I don’t blame them. I get it. I know it can be grueling to deal with me when I am trying to figure something out. I tend to fixate on feelings until I can figure out why I am having them. When I am hurt by an offhand remark, I can’t just chalk it up to me being extra sensitive or the person making the remark being grumpy and mean-spirited on any given day.

Nooooo, I have to ask myself:

1. Why did the remark hurt my feelings so?
2. Was there any truth to the comment?
3. Was it personal? Or did I just take it personally?
4. Was the remark meant to hurt me? Or was it meant to be constructive?

See? Tiresome. Grueling. Exasperating.

I know.

I am not sure how to defend myself when reprimanded for my exhaustive cerebral tendencies. All I can really chalk it up to is the year of therapy I had when I was nineteen.

I started therapy–or counseling or whatever you want to call it–because I was deeply depressed. I couldn’t get along with either of my parents and I cut off contact with most of my friends after high school. I lived alone in a tiny apartment which I kept immaculately clean and preciously decorated.

(On a side note, every time I get disgusted because I can no longer keep up with the housekeeping, I remember that spotless little apartment and thank my lucky stars that I keep my life in order now and to hell with the house rather than vice versa.)

I didn’t start therapy for any of the usual reasons. I didn’t have a painful childhood. I was not neglected or abused. My childhood was the opposite of all that. I had it good. Trust me.

The events leading to my depression were pretty normal. My high school boyfriend broke up with me and was blissfully happy dating my dear friend. I moved to another town to go to college where I didn’t know anyone and was too shy to meet anyone. I moved in with my dad only to move out within six months or so. It was just traumatic for me to go through so many changes. I didn’t deal with it well.

do my eyes forget themselves . . .

In the car today, I sang along to this song:

Look at how he looks at her
Will someone ever look at me that way-
Full of all the feelings and the soft unspoken words
That lovers say?
I thought that I knew every single look
And sweet expression on his face,
Yet this is one that I don’t recognize.
Although I’ve sat and studied him for hours.
But now I see how love completely occupies
A pair of eyes.

See the way they gaze at her,
Like slaves they follow everywhere she goes.
Do my eyes forget themselves
And do I ever look at him
And smile in such a way
That what I’m feeling shows?
Sometimes I have the feeling
Everybody knows.
And even though it’s crazy,
Still I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever
Live to see the day
When by some miracle of miracles,
He’ll turn around
And look at me that way!.

And it reminded me of a (very bad) poem I wrote many years ago:

when you watched her
you had a look in your eyes
that i have in my eyes
when i watch you
and he has in his eyes
when he watches me.

Ah, unrequited love. A miserable feeling, that.

self-preservation

I’ve been doing some gardening lately. Last Spring and Summer, I was busy traveling to Seattle, Florida, Ohio, and West Virginia and my flowerbeds were neglected simply because I was always away on a trip or preparing for a trip. So, this year I am working twice as hard to make the garden look half as good. A neglected flowerbed is a spiteful creature.

I spent a considerable amount of time last weekend simply pruning some of the existing plants that were looking a little peaked. I had to cut out a lot of undergrowth from a sage-y type bush (that I’ve forgotten the name of) because it had turned brown and died where the sunlight was blotted out by the new growth. I spent even more time and muscle pruning two huge oleanders growing at the back of the yard.

The thing about plants is that they will expend all available resources to try to keep an ailing branch alive. No matter how healthy the plant, if there is one sick or dying section, the entire plant will eventually die from trying to sustain the life of one small, insignificant branch. To prevent this, a gardener must perform amputations of the dead or ailing limbs so that the plant as a whole can flourish and bloom and provide beauty.

So, while pruning away dead limbs and yellowing leaves, I thought perhaps Nature had taught me an important lesson: Always Self-Preserve. It makes sense, doesn’t it? If there’s an area in your life, perhaps a relationship, that you’re always pouring energy into and still it only seems to suck the life out of you; amputate it. Always put your own well-being first because no one else will. Cut away the sick branches of your life. Self-sustain. Don’t be a hero.

Oh yes, I felt smug and giddy with my newfound wisdom. Except then I moved on to pulling weeds.

Weeds, unlike oleanders and roses, could care less about any extraneous offshoots of foliage. Weeds self-preserve at all costs. When you try to pull a weed, they are designed so that the leaves pull away ridiculously easily while the core of the plant, the root, stays deep in the ground, safe and snug.

At first, I thought that weeds are the most brilliant of the plant species. Why sicken and die for the sake of one branch when it is so easy to sacrifice it and live to flourish? Why should any of us inconvenience ourselves for the sake of anyone else? Long live the weeds!

Until it occurred to me –nobody likes a weed. Nobody needs a weed. People expend great amounts of energy trying to rid their yards and gardens of weeds. What good does it do the weed to survive if there is no one who cares? Surviving in the dank, dark ground is not exactly what I’d call living, after all.

But blossoming, fragrant flowers and shade-providing trees? Everyone wants them. Everyone loves them. They feed the soul. Gardeners spend time and energy feeding them the perfect mix of nutrients, patting the soil around them to determine if they need water and harvesting their blooms in order to bring beauty into their homes.

Suddenly, the thought occurred to me that maybe the plants we tend most lovingly are beautiful because they are willing to put in the extra effort to save even the tiniest sickly stem. Perhaps God granted them beauty because they are willing to pay a price, even unto their own death, in order to nurture beauty and health in their sickest branches. Perhaps they are beautiful because they recognize the value of each and every extraneous shoot-off of the main root.

I think the lesson that I learned in my garden is that it is always best to err on the side of kindness. It’s always best to give the benefit of the doubt. That relationship in your life that feels like a sickly branch, it may flourish and bloom with enough nurturing.

In turn, it serves to make you more beautiful as well.

roles we play

When my husband and I became engaged to be married many, many moons ago (in the dark ages, if you ask my children), I was very reluctant to give up my maiden name. I wanted to keep it or at least hyphenate my last name. My husband obviously felt this was an affront to his manliness and we had quite a row over the subject. Eventually, I softened and decided to embrace my married name. But I still remember crying when I got the first piece of mail addressed to my married name after we got home from our honeymoon. All I can guess is that I was afraid that losing my name meant losing my identity. Which, of course, it didn’t.

I never wanted to be defined by my role as wife, mother, or anything else. I’ve always stalwartly refused to be pigeonholed. I remember once in college when I was sitting in one of my classes and I was dressed smartly in a very preppy outfit; slacks, t-shirt, vest, and loafers. I answered a question out loud and the teacher made some remark about knowing I was smart just by the way I was dressed. The next time I attended his class, I wore torn up jeans, old sneakers, and a faded t-shirt with my hair scrunched messily. I showed him.

For years after I married, whenever someone referred to me as Mrs. —–, I replied, “Mrs. —- is my mother-in-law. My name is Heather.” When people used to ask me if I was Brad’s wife, I would reply, “No, he’s Heather’s husband.” Once he started working at the hospital, I got, “I didn’t know you were Brad’s wife!” alot. I would ask, “Would it have made a difference?”

Yes, I am quite argumentative at times.

But tonight I had to smile at how time has mellowed me. Probably, time and maturity have helped me to realize that it doesn’t matter who anyone else thinks I am so long as I am absolutely certain who I am. And I know without a doubt that I am a strong, intelligent, compassionate and competent woman who can face any challenge thrown in her path.

My mother-in-law is spending the night with us and she took us to dinner this evening. She and I were standing at a soda fountain when my husband said, “Mom, can you come over here?” and she and I both looked toward him and set off walking before it occurred to us to ask which one he was talking to. (In case you are wondering, Brad often addresses me as “mom” when we are with the kids.) Also today, the vet’s office called and, when I answered the phone, asked, “May I speak with Mrs.—–?” My answer? “This is she.”

Funny how I’ve settled into the very roles and titles that I worked so hard to shun, isn’t it? But what’s even funnier is that I am okay with it. I am Brad’s wife and Bump and Crash’s mom. I am Mrs. —–. And I am okay with that because I know, even if others don’t, that I am also so much more.

echolocation

I read an article today about a teenage boy who has been blind since he was two years old. Rather than using a cane or a seeing eye dog or even feeling his way around, he uses echolocation to navigate. Just like a bat or a dolphin, he makes rapid clicking noises with his tongue and listens for the echo so he can get around without running into things. He said that he can tell the difference between wood, glass, metal, and plastic just by clicking his tongue. He can tell the difference between a truck and a car from several feet away. He rides a skateboard relying solely on echolocation to avoid collisions. It was an amazing and inspiring story.

It made me start thinking about how all of us use a sort of echolocation to navigate our lives. When we reach out to another human being and wait for their response, isn’t that essentially the same thing as echolocation? If we offer our love or friendship and it is met with resistance or scorn, we are likely to abandon that path and seek out another one. If we offer up a part of ourselves through a shared confidence and it is met with warmth and understanding, then we know that the path ahead is most likely safe. And sometimes, the echo is a little bit garbled and we choose to proceed, but with caution. Or we decide that it isn’t worth the risk and turn around right then and there.

That’s all. Nothing deep. Nothing profound. Just thinking.

How was your day?

I’ve recently reconnected with an old friend and we’ve been exchanging e-mails. Tonight, as I sat down to write to her, I was thinking only to write about my day but ended up writing several abstract thoughts that events throughout the day had inspired.

For instance, I told her about a song I heard on my iPod that triggered a memory of an evening long ago when I played the same song for an ex-boyfriend and it moved him to tears. I told her that I worked out this evening at the gym with a girl who’s been a close friend of mine since the 7th grade and I found myself thinking that I should get to know my sons’ friends over the next several years because you never know which one of them will become a permanent fixture in his life. For example, my husband was a good friend of mine all through high school. And you can’t get anything more permanent than a marriage. At least, we hope that’s the case.

When my children told me about their day over dinner and said they spent the afternoon swimming in an above ground pool, I remembered the pool my stepdad set up in our back yard one summer and how much fun we had in it. My neighbor’s granddaughter spent the summer with her and we swam every day and my favorite thing to do was to glide around at the very bottom of the pool and then surface very slowly and feel the water sheet off of my face when I broke the surface. That’s the same summer that I dropped a bottle of red nail polish on the neighbor’s carpet and cried and cried because it left a stain and I couldn’t stand thinking she might stay angry with me. She gave me a big hug and told me, it’s only carpet. It’s not important. And then? It turned out that the stain came out of the carpet, after all.

It would appear that I am never going to be the type to define the day by how many tasks I accomplished. I will always be the dreamy, head-in-the clouds type who has to link her present and past together in order to make sense of the future. I will always be more of a thinker than a doer. But that’s okay because it takes all kinds to make the world go ’round.

So, how would you answer if I asked, “How was your day?”