Searching for Salvation

For awhile now I’ve been in an existential crisis. It traversed the extreme awhile ago, and has now settled into a dull ache for something missing in my life. Friends and family closest to me think I’m silly and dismiss it as “early mid-life crisis” brought on by my acute awareness that what has defined my life for most of my adult life (sole responsibility for my daughters) is changing.

I like to think of it as my quest for salvation.

Merriam Webster defines Salvation as “deliverance from sin,” “liberation from ignorance or illusion,” and “preservation from destruction or failure.”

I’m glad, because I was afraid it would only be about religion. And my quest is not for religion. Nor is it religious in any way at all.

Religion: Institutionalized set of attitudes, beliefs and behaviors.

Yup, that’s not what I’m after.

True, some who know me best might say that deliverance from sin is the marker for this moment, but THAT is silly.

It’s more “preservation from destruction or failure.” Or at least it was during the darkest days of the crisis. That’s when I thought what I was after was a burning purpose in life, a mission, a vision, or some other official thing I could plan, strategize and deliver. But truth be told, Gentle Penguin, the more I searched for that, the more depressed I became. I don’t have that. I don’t even want that. Too much of my life has already been planning, and it’s one of the things that annoys me most.

I want to live!

I don’t know how, but somewhere in the midst of my “preservation” planning, I came across this idea of savoir vivre. It seemed compelling so I read up on it, I tried it, and I liked it. It brought me right back to my passion for etiquette and femininity and the hidden meditations in hanging laundry and doing dishes and cooking and sweeping. It also brought me to another phrase—joi de vivre.

Joi de vivre took me to vineyards, and the spa, and to coffee shops, and to my living room for naps on the weekend, and to my writing desk, and even to a fashion show in NYC. It also brought me to the French.

Who knew their women had so much to teach me!

But I’ve learned so much from them so far, not the least of which being that my search for salvation somewhere along the line has switched from “preservation” to “liberation from ignorance or illusion.” The illusion, it seems, is the propensity to focus on money and work; the ignorance is that there is no other way nor other importance.

Slowly, my search for salvation hints that life may really exist where the focus is joy and pleasure. And perhaps it’s nearer and dearer than I ever thought.

This switch, though, has also made me realize that this quest is never-ending. And where that thought would’ve sent me straight back to bed with covers pulled overhead before, now I’m thrilled by it. Today, as part of my search, I learned to make the orange scones I adore from the bakery just up the road. And they taste like heaven fresh from the oven. I wonder what my search will turn up tomorrow?

Welcome to my world

Epiphany!

I don’t recall how the conversation started or what twists and turns it took to get us to that moment when suddenly I understood the problem with every single one of my failed relationships…romantic, friendships, etc. “I bet you’ve been invited into other peoples’ worlds often. And it feels lovely, until you realize, they’re never going to visit your world.”

THAT’S IT!

Yes, I’ve been invited to many, many, many peoples’ worlds and most of them are lovely. Some of them are like walking through Spectre from my favorite movie Big Fish…in appearance, perfect, but actually really disturbing. Regardless, a person can only live in someone else’s world for so long before having to return to their own. Just as Edward Bloom discovered about Spectre.

Or maybe a person can stay in someone else’s world, just not me.

I used to see it as escapism. From the work, the drudgery, the responsibilities. Like a little vacation when I could join the friend or romantic interest in their world. But in fact, it never really got me away from working, drudgery or responsibilities. They just appeared different in the other person’s world. And after trying to manage them in two worlds that never would meet, it got old. And I began to resent it. And eventually I had to take leave of their world to retreat to my own.

My world is pretty awesome. I wonder why others don’t see that. Or care. Perhaps it’s my fault.

This same friend who helped me discover this epiphany had also said to me awhile back “you’re a difficult person to really get to know!” I’d heard that before. And I’ve thought a lot about it. Right or wrong, I think it started when I became a single mom. Somehow I established two lives…mother and other. And I’m not sure the two have ever coincided since. I let people get to know the “other” me, but kept the “mother” me to myself…and my children.

Perhaps that’s why my brother is one of my best friends—he knows both me’s. Or perhaps it’s because he comes and visits my world. Or perhaps he visits my world because I invite him to because he knows both me’s. I don’t really know. And maybe it doesn’t matter.

Regardless, it’s only a matter of time before my kids are out of the nest and I will only have the “other” me around. True, I’ll still be a mother, but not really on duty. And I realize the error of my splitation. So I take a brave bold step (at least for me) and invite a few more friends to know the “mother” me.

To all the mothers out there…and especially to the single mothers because I understand that these things happen!…Happy Mother’s Day! And Happy Other’s Day too.

Sex

Yes, I want to talk about sex today.  Not tips nor technique.  There’ll be no titillation here.

I want to talk about how it is that this world has become so freaked out by a natural part of humanity—no! a natural part of LIFE—that it has warped life itself.

We’ve been told that a lot of the differences around gender evolved with our hominid ancestors, that women stayed at the camp and gathered berries and things because they were the weaker sex and needed to stay behind to tend to children while the men went out and killed things and propagated the species.

However, anthropologic research from all over the world shows that men and women both hunted while the elderly took care of the camp and the children.  It wasn’t until the invention of farming that such a division in labor appeared, primarily due to efficiency.  And from there, it seems to have gone down hill…when property rights became the way of the world, and the rights belonged only to men.

Now don’t anyone get excitable.  I’m not preparing to persuade anyone to burn a bra or debate the shaving of legs (I’m an AVID believer in wearing a bra and shaving my legs), and I don’t subscribe to the “woman is better than man” nor the “woman can be man” schools of thought.

I’m still a traditionalist and romantic who believes women have different attributes than men and that the two compliment each other nicely.  I believe in marriage.  I believe in mothering.  I believe in female friends.  And I believe promoting women shouldn’t negate men.  But I can’t help wondering when the world became so misogynistic.

In many cultures women are not supposed to have libido.  In some cultures girls are poisoned or allowed to burn to death in schools because men believe they shouldn’t be educated.  In some cultures, they’re presented to men while they’re still children solely to be beaten and tortures…because they can.  And in a few cultures, they’re aborted before being born because when they marry, they leave home and don’t stay to help out.

Why?  I don’t understand how it ever got to this.  Nor do I understand why women as an entire gender take it.

I realize I write this from a position of freedom.  I can do what I want, drive, vote, be educated, own my own business, say what I want, raise children, and do it all single and unmarried.

And my experiences with misogyny are limited to much of my experience with Catholicism and an ex boyfriend who believed that all women were trying to trap him.  Right…because he was such a winner with his unemployed, mooching, superior, anger management, bipolar neuroses…  Still, I fell for it.  I thought I could help him see what I see about women.

Mainly, that we’re human.

We might have physical differences, and perhaps even some emotional differences, but we have the same goal as any other human…to survive, to live as well as we can, to make a difference, to be remembered, to be loved.

So why are we treated so differently?  I haven’t figured it out yet.   Perhaps it’s the influence of religion.  Did you know that most of the world’s religions were created by men and in their teachings, women are subservient to men?  I’m very certain God/Allah/Yahweh/Vishnu/Brahman/etc. never said “women are inferior to men; therefore, abuse them and hate them.”

And in these religions we’re told that women are evil or bear the essence of evil because men can’t control their sexual desires.  What?  Really?  REALLY!!!!!

Perhaps it has to do with our ability to bear children.  It’s the outcome of the sexual desire, right?  This is how the loser ex boyfriend felt women trapped men.  Nevermind that he abandoned his own children and felt mine (who were NOT his children) were nuisances since they weren’t boys.  And might I point out that it’s by-and-large women who end up “paying” for having children, providing for their care and many times for the expense, while the man flits off to find fun or a new wife.

Perhaps it has to do with competition.  For resources, for attention, for power.  For power.  And so subjugating women removes any chance for competition for power.

So why aren’t women standing up?  Why do mothers hand over their daughters to abuse?  Why don’t women challenge the norms?  Why don’t women speak up?  Are we that afraid?  Do we lack that much self confidence?  Do we really think we’re supposed to be treated with disdain rather than the kindness and respect with which we expect others to treat all other life on Earth?

Perhaps my audience in Westernized countries won’t understand this.  As I already mentioned, I have been given the best chance any woman has received since the dawn of the human species.  But it exists in full force today.  Tomorrow.  Maybe not here.  But elsewhere.  And sometimes here.

I leave you with this thought…and perhaps an answer:

“In every society where women have power—whether humans or primates—the key is female bonding.” (Christopher Ryan)

Roles

It’s not that my time as a mother has exactly flown by, but the closer I get to being an empty nester, the more I wonder where the time has gone!

When I first got pregnant, I wasn’t ready.  I mean, I knew the basic stuff, like diapering and feeding and care for the physical baby.  But what about all the stuff I needed to teach them?  How was I going to know what I needed to do and when?  What about myself?  The thought of doing battle with a two-year old scared the crap out of me, quite frankly.  I refused to even let myself think about battling a teenager!

So it was that my role as “Mom” began both excitingly as well as terrifyingly.

The “terrible twos” came and went, then came again immediately upon the birth of my youngest and lasted for the next five years.  We all survived, perhaps a little wiser for the wear.  Perhaps not.  Regardless, I blinked and the teenage years were upon me!

Now my oldest can drive, has a car, is getting a job.  She has dinner ready when I get home, and no longer needs to be told to start the laundry (though, truthfully, that might be because most of the clothes are hers).

In two years, she’ll be heading off to college.  And I still haven’t taught her essentials!  Like why hanging laundry on the line is superior to using the dryer.  The proper way to clean house.  How to grocery shop.  How to manage money.  How to reattach buttons or mend seems.  The joy of having a garden, even if it’s a small container garden.  The importance of voting and being involved in your community.  And so much more…

Why didn’t I start these lessons sooner?  How am I going to ensure she has all this knowledge before she goes?  And why, all the sudden, do I feel like clinging to my youngest?

I ask my mom and she gives me a sad, understanding smile.  ”They’re growing up, Monica.”  She says it gently as if she’s telling me something I don’t want to hear.

Truthfully, (and as mean as this sounds, I cannot deny the truth),  I had always been counting down the days until they would be gone and I’d be free to go define my life.  I was a mom young, and it was hard to ignore that many of my friends were off doing the things I thought I’d always do like travel, and party, and have carefree days doing what I pleased, and exciting careers.  Meanwhile, I was potty training and singing lullabies and suffering guilt for disappointing my boss because I called in sick to work when a child had the flu and having guilt that I felt guilty about work when my daughter had the flu.

I know, it’s the path I chose, but it sometimes left me feeling like my life wouldn’t begin until my kids were gone and I could fully explore who I was meant to be.

Now, as they get closer to leaving every day, I see the folly of that logic.

Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m wrapping up several projects all at the same time and will need to move on to new clients and projects…all at the same time in the near future too.  It’s not that I’m worried about moving on.  But it makes me wonder if this is the start of “redefining.”  Afterall, with each day closer to the girls moving on and to the end of my projects, I gain a little freedom from so many of the roles I used to play.  I get a fresh start.

But it feels more like a quagmire.  Afterall, who am I meant to be?  And if I haven’t figured it out so far, is it possible it’s too late?

How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something, but to be someone.  Coco Chanel whispers in my ear.  I used to wonder what she meant.  I mean, that’s easy for her to say—she was Coco Chanel!

But perhaps that’s exactly what she meant.  She wasn’t a seamstress.  She didn’t grow up dreaming she’d become a fashion mogul.  She didn’t have a vision statement nor a personal mission.  She didn’t study at the best fashion schools or care about the anthropology of jersey.  She didn’t labor over books studying the science of perfumery before creating the most famous perfume of all time.  I don’t know that she understood her core competency.  She just……..was.

Perhaps I should embrace the way of Coco and watch for opportunity, follow my interests and passions and not worry about labels and roles, stop spending time trying to “define” myself and just let myself BE.

Quite frankly, it sounds exciting, but terrifying.  Perhaps, just like I felt when I took on my first adult role as “mom.”

Adolescence

Somehow I always thought I’d already experienced the breathtaking exhilaration and heartbreak that is adolescence.  First love, first freedom, first true balance of commitments (work and education), responsibility to family and authority with the burning pull of independence.  I know I didn’t make it through unscathed, but somehow, I ended up alright.  Somehow I assumed that was it.

But over the past few weeks I’ve found myself in the midst of adolescence far more acutely than I ever did the first go round.

My oldest is 16, she has her license, she has a car.  She goes places when I’m not with her, drives from my house to her dad’s nearly an hour away…sometimes at dusk!  She jumps at the chance to go to the grocery store, just to get out of the house and be on her own.  She complains that we never leave her alone.  She wants to start wearing high heels and short skirts and serious makeup.

I remember that feeling.

So why is it so hard to step back and watch her drive away.  I wonder which path she’ll choose, which store, which radio station.  Does she enjoy the wind whipping her hair around with the windows down the way I do, or because her hair is long, does she keep the windows up and the volume higher?  Does she take the long way like I used to just to have more time alone?  Does she feel completely unbreakable?  She’s not.  And I wish I could give her just a little of that caution.

But caution is for “old” people like me who worry that taking the long way will upset either demanding clients on one end of my trip or demanding children on the other end.

My oldest has a friend…actually, she’s a friend of a friend who we see around the neighborhood a lot.  Recently, we discovered that her grandma goes to my ballroom.  And one Friday, she brought this young woman along.  She’s a sweet girl, uncomfortable in her height and apologetic about her weight, faking confidence, but so unsure of herself she won’t look me in the eye.  She looks somehow past me when she talks to me.

I’ve taken the time to show her a few easy dances and watch as she tries so very hard to please me.  So much so it makes my heart break.  I’m pleased that she even tries!  And she’s doing well.  I tell her I believe in her.  And the look she gives me is so awkward, I don’t want to look her in the eye.  Maybe I’m embarrassing her.

But she races out or over to say hello every time she sees me in the neighborhood.  She asks me dance questions.  She pets my dog and she’s starting to ask questions about the niceties I insist upon.  (I once scolded a group of teenagers when after I thanked them for helping me pick up trash that blew out of my neighbor’s overturned trashcan, they all responded with varying degrees of grunts or “whatever”s.  ”Stop!” I said sternly, “The proper response when someone tells you ‘thank you’ is ‘you’re welcome,’ not ‘uhhhhh’ nor ‘whatever.’ Understood?”  They’ll probably never help me again, but hey, my revolution is savoir vivre and I’m not about to let a bunch of sully teens win the battle with grunts.)

I also see her hanging out with a group of teens in the alleyways smoking, hiding from their parents. I wonder what choices she has ahead of her.  Will she be confident enough to say “no” when she needs to?  Will she be strong enough to stand up for herself if push comes to shove?  Will she believe in herself enough to expect more from life than a string of boyfriends who treat her like dirt and put her down?  She’s so worried about boys it makes me afraid for her.

It reminds me of myself.  Not that I was so worried about boys, but truthfully Gentle Penguin, I have my moments of wondering what it’s like to have a boyfriend again myself.  Sometimes the feeling is almost desperate as I flip off the radio angrily as some woman or man croons on and on about having someone to kiss and hold and rely on and be with and support and be supported by…”Oh shut up!” I holler crankily.

I know I wax on endlessly about romance, but truth be told, even though I’d love to have a relationship again, I seriously shake in my dance shoes the minute a friend tells me that the guy across the room is asking about me.  I avoid his gaze.  I avoid his presence.  I avoid dancing with him.  Why?

The truth is ugly, Gentle Penguin.  Brace yourself.

The truth is, I feel undeserving and unattractive because I’m overweight, I feel afraid because I’m a single mom who doesn’t want to be rejected again because I have kids, I feel ignorant and awkward because it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a relationship.

There you have it.  I’m just as bad as I was when I was an adolescent.

Lost art of listening

There are times, Gentle Penguin, when I feel like I must be misplaced in life.  What seems obvious to me seems oblivious to others.  What logic seems straight forward and fine seems lost and bewildering to those around me.  And what language I speak must surely be foreign.

But it’s not just me.  Time and again I see it.  Someone goes to the trouble of voicing their thought, their idea, their opinion and rather than being met with interest or even acknowledgement, it’s banished to the great void of “that which shall not be heard.”

I used to think people were too busy to listen, but now…I’m not sure it’s that simple.  Don’t get me wrong, I highly doubt any of the ignoring and lack of listening is maliciously intended.  Worse, I think it’s indifferent.

Perhaps our minds are too full of the news we read on Facebook and Twitter, the thoughts and ideas that appear seemingly endlessly on our phones and computers that we’ve forgotten we’re dealing with people.

People, no less, who are standing right in front of us at the very moment they speak.

A Buddhist monk once said, “This moment right now is the most important moment in your life. The person in front of you right now is the most important person in your life. And the words you are speaking right now are the most important words you will ever say.”

But that’s not how it feels anymore.  It feels like I’m a distraction.  Worse, sometimes I feel like I’m invisible.

Now, I realize I’m an idealist, a romantic and even someone who should’ve been born in a different time.  But my goodness, I’m not ready to be invisible.

I mentioned this to a philosopher friend of mine who pointed me to a mutual psychology friend.  ”It’s called FOMO,” she said matter of factly as she puffed her cigarette serenely under a clear sky as we huddled in our woollen coats at a cafe table in a deserted patio.  ”Fear of missing out.  It’s actually affecting this nation worse than the plague in the Dark Ages.”

Apparently my Crackberry is about to haunt me because the symptoms are an over-obsessed preoccupation with anything that might be bringing some other message along.  And it’s all been made possible by technology.

Don’t worry, Gentle Penguin, I love my laptop and my iPhone and my iPod as much as the next person, but after my recovery from the Crackberry, I swore I’d reduce my dependence on it.  Some days are better than others, but then just when I fear I can’t overcome the Fates intercede on my behalf.  For instance, the other day, while walking across campus at one of my client’s, I was busily reading my e-mail on my iPhone when I heard a faint “ppppppoooooooouuuuuuuuufffffffffffffffffffff” over my left shoulder.

My mind immediately recognized it and sent shockwaves to my neurons in hopes of stimulating my attention away from the phone.  Which it did, thank goodness.  Looking up just behind me was a bright blue hot-air balloon skimming over the tree tops in an equally bright blue sky.  People looked over the edge of the basket waving.  My smile had to have been visible to them even from the tree tops as I reached up to wave back joyfully.

To think it had been that close and I almost missed it.  Because I was too busy worrying about missing out on some important e-mail or other.

Tell me, what e-mail could’ve been more important than that?  If it had been truly important, it should’ve warranted a phone call.  And even then, it likely wouldn’t have been more important than noticing a hot air balloon hovering over you in a clear blue sky in the middle of the afternoon in the midst of winter.

But it wouldn’t have warranted a call because people are almost as likely to call anymore as to write hand-written letters on paper and place them in addressed stamped envelopes.  They’d rather text with their improper grammar and spelling…and I’ve gone completely off my soap box…sigh!

I simply want to bring it to your attention that what we’re missing out on are actually the most important things in life—relationships with real people right here in front of us, small miracles in nature, serendipitous moments like balloons over your shoulder…

It makes me think of Marsha Brady’s episode of “something suddenly came up.”  I’m glad she ended up sorting it out and going to the dance with Charlie.  I know it was difficult and probably awkward to work through that, but she honored her word and I admire that.  Actually, I thank her for the example on how to do so.  I want to live up to my words too…even if no one is listening.

“This moment right now is the most important moment in your life. The person in front of you right now is the most important person in your life. And the words you are speaking right now are the most important words you will ever say.”  

Cleansing

For nearly two hours today I emptied my e-mail.

I threw away e-mails I intended to read, but never did; e-mail notifications about blogs I can read online; e-mail confirmations for books and music purchased throughout the life of my e-mail; e-mails I sent to myself to turn into blogs or wrote into my journal; e-mails from volunteer events that happened months and years ago; e-mail alerts of calendar events.

I threw away e-mails from Martha Stewart and Jackie Wicks and Diana Pemberton-Sikes.  I threw away e-mails with details about dates and karaoke nights and parties long since passed.  I threw away e-mails from teachers and coaches and Spanish instructors and choir directors and band leaders that have all faded into our history.  I threw away travel deals and expired online statements and library notices.

And then I was left with personal notes from friends, family and people who once meant something to me but have also faded away.

I admit, it was exhilarating to be rid of those messages—nearly 2,700 of them.  But when I saw I was only left with a little more than 700 that actually meant something to me, I felt oddly annoyed.  It seemed a bit out of proportion.

But what to do with these remaining 700?  I started at the back of the list, the ones for whom the most time had passed, and I began to read them.  As my heart rose and fell with the different messages, I began to wonder if I could actually delete them.  I mean, no one would need to know.  It wasn’t a crime to delete old messages.  But it somehow felt like when I’m standing in my closet examining the clothes and knowing deep down, even though I’m never going to wear some of them again, I should leave them hanging there for the thought.

Curiously, though, this past go round in the closet, I chucked all those clothes.  Somehow, the fact they were hanging in the back and never gave me thought except when I pulled them out year-after-year to determine whether to keep them didn’t seem compelling enough anymore.

What if I did the same to my e-mail?  I never reread these messages.  I had no reason to believe they would provide any handy reference to something important.  Why not just delete a few.  I held my breath and selected some then hit delete.

Silence.  No lightning strike or even a thunder rumble.  I selected several more.  Delete.  Still not a sound.  I stood up to refresh my tea and came back.  Nothing had gone amiss on my computer either.  So I selected an entire swath of e-mails and hit delete again.  There!  All my ex-boyfriends and dates’ messages were erased just like that.

I closed my eyes and waited for an emotion to tell me whether it was the right decision or not.  Nothing.  I went to the trashcan and deleted the whole lot…because I knew they were there still.  Then they were gone.  I waited again…and I felt……………..freed!  Freed from the weight of carrying around the history of failed relationships.  Freed from ever again spending hours over-analyzing the past.  Freed from the emotional baggage they represented.

I was eager to see what remained.

E-mails from my daughters alternately made me smile and cry for their charming sweetness.  Those I’d keep.  E-mails from my parents and brothers and sisters made me laugh out loud at the fun nonsensicalness we often find ourselves in the midst of.  I always needed a good laugh, and boy these were doozies!  And there…there was my pen-pal.

Gentle Penguin, have I ever told you I have a pen pal?  It’s not a real one in the sense of writing handwritten letters on paper and placed in addressed, stamped envelopes.  But for the past seven years, I’ve communicated on a regular basis with a person who I’ve only met once in person.  We actually met online as part of a professional communicators’ focus group when social media was just starting to take off.  Despite age, situation, and geographic differences, we seemed to be on the same wavelength and have been talking on that wavelength ever since.

Don’t get any ideas…nothing romantic ever did nor will happen with this friendship.  We’re not Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  We’re merely Monica and Jeff.  And we’re pen pals.  We talk about our work and our hobbies and our goals and newly sharpened pencils.  We bolster each other in times of despondency and celebrate in times of joy.  We rant and rave, whine and go off on tangents, we compare notes about music and movies and are always recommending books that drive the other to new interests.  I know about his wife, his sons, his father and his brother whose been missing for two years now in Roatan.  He knows about my girls, my dog, my business dealings and my dating life (or lack thereof for quite a while now!).

Re-reading our e-mails is like reading the story of my life.  How many thoughts I’ve written him have ended up in my blog.  How many questions I’ve sent out into the Universe that have subsequently been answered.  How many pieces of advice he’s given have come true.  It’s all there in that written history stored in my Gmail.

And I can’t delete it.  I won’t.  Leaving me with 473 e-mails.  It seems like a lot, but knowing the value of what they contain makes me feel like a rich woman!  And knowing I’ve rid myself of more than 3,000 e-mails that don’t bring me this kind of value…well, that my darling Gentle Penguins is cleansing.

Searching for your touch

It’s beginning to look a lot like that time of year when the world falls in love.

Every song I hear seems to say, “I’ve been searching for your touch, unlike any touch I’ve ever known.”

The lights seem warmer, my house cozier, even the fabrics I lay close to my skin seem more sensual and soft.  I have a sudden, overwhelming need for touch, warmth, closeness.

I rally myself to go out into the city—my city.  An art show.  And there staring me in the face are paintings that beg to be caressed.  I literally have to hold my hands together to keep from touching…a feeling I remember from another time and place and art show.

That time they were glass and clay sculptures, smooth and sleek representing various sea creatures.  It was the sting rays though that attracted and kept my attention.  So silky looking it was hard to believe it was clay.  So shiny it was hard to believe they weren’t immersed in water.  So sensual looking it brought a blush to my cheeks.

Then, I had hoped my date wouldn’t notice.  We were both recently divorced and both tentative about trying new romance.  But he had noticed and soon grasped and held one of my hands.  He must have known the desire to touch was overwhelming me.

Unlike the sculpture, his hand was warm and soft. And filled with electricity that raced up my arm to my already blushed cheeks and down to my heart to increase the rate at which it was beating.

That night as he drove me home we saw the aurora borealis.  In Ohio.  I wasn’t surprised, which surprises me now looking back on it.  It seemed perfectly fitting to the rest of the evening…and our near five-year romance that followed.

But we moved in two different directions with two very different goals and so, as is fated in instances like this, we parted ways.  He to a new life and a new wife.  Me to…life up to this present moment where I stand pondering these things while staring at the Temptation of Adam.

Row after row of apples just waiting to be touched, buffed on a soft shirt sleeve and eaten.  They’re all shiny and red.  I bet their skin is smooth and silky.  Not waxy like those you get in the store these days.  I bet their roundness would touch every bit of my palm as I wrapped my fingers around it.  I bet they would be cool to the touch.

My mouth begins to dry, my palms to itch, and I need to make connection with some kind of texture.  The painted brick wall, the old hardwood floor, a glass filled with white wine….something.

I settle on pulling out the smooth coolness of my crackberry—just to cut the urge.  It doesn’t feel nearly the same, but at least it’s something.  I stare at it.  It’s so ugly.  It reminds me of Darth Vader—filled with evil and malice.  Why haven’t I noticed that before?  I don’t like it.  I begin to think of how often I reach for that darn piece of wires and plastic when looking for connection…for touch.

Truthfully, I had lectured myself about it just that morning when, upon waking, I spent nearly half an hour just perusing the contents hoping something would encourage me to get up and start my day excitedly.  Meanwhile, my dog eyed it suspiciously and tried to nose it away several times until he gave up on getting his morning walk.

And later that day, as I drove to a meeting, my curiosity at the flashing red light on the crackberry nearly distracted me enough to go right through a red light.  Did someone need me?  Was I wanted somewhere for something?  Perhaps it would be something exciting to turn the humdrum day on its ear.

It was, of course, none of those things.  Just my ex-husband telling me that he and his new wife wanted to switch around the kids weekends so they could go on a romantic cruise to the Bahamas.

No one waiting with something important.  No flirtation or reminder that I’m thought of, or missed or wanted.  No promise of warmth, or comfort, or caress, or touch.  Not for me anyway.

It feel like an idiot.  And then, just as suddenly, I put the phone away.  I don’t want my connections, my touch to be electronic.  I don’t want to live online.

I want to live simply, honestly, fully and well.  I want to live beautifully.  In the real world.

Hopeless Romantic

Once upon a blog, Gentle Penguin, I told you that no one has caught my eye, or touched my heart in any romantic way for a long time.

But, I must confess, that’s not true.

For the past six months, there has been a man whose path crosses mine on occasion and not only turns my head, but makes me giddy like a school girl.  I wonder if he’ll notice me, and blush embarrassed when he does.  I smile too brightly, giggle too eagerly, trip over my words and feel like alternately playing with my hair and twisting in my stance.

Then he talks and my heart races, it melts, it thuds loudly so that I wonder if he can hear it too.

It’s not so much that he’s cute (he’s so very handsome) as he’s thoughtful—both in the “let me carry that heavy bag and get the door for you” way as well as the “I was reading a book by Schelling the other day” way.

I lose all track of time when he’s near, when he talks.  And when he smiles, I feel like someone has turned off the gravitational pull of the earth.

I ran into him this weekend and suddenly wondered…is it him that I’m drawn to?  Or the excitement of the chance encounter and flirtation?  Or the emotions and physical reaction I feel when he’s near?  It makes me feel alive, and young, and beautiful, and charming, and smart, and funny…and desirable.

He bumped my shoulder with his and shot me a sly smile while another acquaintance of ours was talking about something I had mentioned to him at our last chance encounter.  He tucked some wild curls behind my ear as the wind puffed them in my face repeatedly.  And best of all, he put his hand on the small of my back and guided me over to a secluded cafe table so we could chat some more over a cup of tea.

“What are you humming now?” he asks laughing lightly.  ”Oh!  I’m sorry, I don’t realize I’m doing it.  I was humming a Christmas song.” I say wondering if it sounds as silly as I fear.  I try to extricate myself by talking more and faster.  ”I don’t know why, I’ve just been in a holiday mood already.  Maybe it’s the fact that it’s getting darker sooner.  It just feels cozy.  You know?  Like time to curl up on the couch with a good book or something.  I think Christmas is the coziest, most romantic time of year.  Don’t you?”

Even as I say it I can feel the inner me slapping my forehead like an idiot.  And as I hear the question asked at the end of my little speech, I wish I could swallow it back.  For I know the answer already.

“I don’t know.  I don’t celebrate Christmas since I’m a Muslim.”

I blush 10 shades of red, each darker than the other, lower my eyes and practically whisper “Oh…I remember…sorry.  I just got carried away…”

He laughs and grabs my hand, placing a light kiss on it.  The world brightens. And my smile returns unbidden.

“You know, Monica, if we were ever able to make a go of this, our kids would have to celebrate holidays from my culture too.”

And there it is.  This beautiful statement of hope sealed likewise with our doom.

My smile suddenly feels fake and all the beautiful emotions and physical excitement exits just as quickly as it came.  ”I very much enjoy learning about and sharing different cultural traditions…[should I say it?  Must I end this beautiful flirtation again?]…”

“…but no more kids…I remember.”  He finishes the thought and statement for me kindly, still holding my hand.

Then, truthfully, I love him more for the hopelessness of this romance that will never be.

 

I know you’re out there somewhere

“…so then when hurricane Ike came through and we lost power, well, it was probably one of the worst days of my life.  I didn’t have e-mail or internet or TV.  I couldn’t even listen to the radio.  I felt so disconnected from the rest of the world.”

“Well, with every year that passes, it’s indicated that people develop a greater dependency on technology.”

“I think at some point someone’s going to realize we need to do something about it…like create an energy source that doesn’t rely on electricity or something.”

“That’d be great!  I think we should consider creating a different internet framework too.  What do you think, Monica?”

I have to admit Gentle Penguin, I thought the answer was obvious.

“I find it ironic that you’re disconnected from the world when you lose power.  What does that say about your world?  Is it real?  Don’t you think if the problem is we’ve developed an unhealthy dependency on technology that perhaps we should learn to reduce our dependency on technology?”

“How would I manage to get the amount of communication done in a day that e-mail allows me to handle?  I can’t do all that on paper or through a phone!”

“And what would you suggest we do to know what’s going on around the world?”

“Or how am I supposed to relax and unwind in the evenings if not for my TV shows and sports?”

“Well, first of all, I’m guessing if you had to handle communication through written and phone, you’d reduce the amount of wasteful communication you handle in a day.

“Second, I’m going to be wild and crazy and say perhaps not being able to watch revolutions in the Northern Africa and Middle Eastern regions might force you to pay attention to what’s going on in your own community…where you have more at stake, where you have more impact.

“Third, did you know that people who don’t have flesh-and-blood social support are at equal or greater risk of developing health issues than people who smoke?  Television, by the way isn’t flesh and blood.”

Apparently, the answer isn’t that simple.  I was labelled ridiculous at the end of that conversation.  (But I admit I told them I still hang laundry on the line and write honest-to-goodness-hand-written-letters-on-paper-sealed-in-an-envelope-with-a-postage-stamp-on-it.)

The Muses appear to be schooling me on this topic lately.  Earlier this week, I had a random encounter and long conversation with the gentleman who started Meetups, new research appeared in my e-mail about the effects of internet dating (not good), a podcast on cafe culture played in my music shuffle, and my copy of Bowling Alone dropped unexplained from the second top shelf of my floor-to-ceiling wall of books onto my head as I was cleaning up after dinner.

It opened to the page that told me since the 1960s, people in the United States (primarily, but other countries soon following) have begun a retreat from society…to the detriment of people and society.  But why?

Unfortunately, the cuprit seems to be (are you ready for this astounding news) technology.  TV specifically, but transit technology that makes it easier for us to travel farther distances from home on our daily commutes, the internet which has developed to the point where we can do virtually everything from shopping to having sex online, and even telephone technology which now allows the user to spend most of their time on the phone not even talking.

Did you know that the cell phone technology was largely invented for people who need to communicate over large swaths of land, such as military troops and nomadic reindeer herdsmen in Finland?

I personally think it makes more sense for a Finnish reindeer herdsman to have a cell phone than me.  But I’m ridiculous.

“What would happen if you were kicked off Facebook?” asks a 40-something woman next to me in line at Boston Stoker coffee shop while my tea steeps.

“I’d probably be forced to find some real friends.  All mine are virtual,” jokes the other woman.  They laugh.

Do you know why I travel so much, Gentle Penguin?  It’s the same reason I go to Boston Stoker for my tea (I’m perfectly capable of making my own tea).  It’s the same reason I volunteer for causes in my community.  And it’s the same reason I agreed to go to the dinner where the conversation that started this blog took place.  To meet interesting people.  To connect.

It’s hard to do.  You just don’t see people out anymore.  The pubs that used to be filled with regulars are nearly empty, except on Friday nights.  The cafes have been replaced by drive thrus where people don’t even get out of their cars.  And Meetups…well, I can guarantee you based on my conversation with the creator and my own experience…they’re Meetups online only.

I don’t want to spend any more time with a computer.  I want to spend time with people.  Where are you?

I think I know the answer already though—at home with your technology.