When things don't work out as you'd hoped they would, take stock of your options. If somebody has given you their key and said, "Show up anytime, no questions asked," you know you can take them up on that. Hitting the open road again is an option. Sticking it out, even if it seems untenable, is an option. Sometimes, you can make the difference. Trying something entirely new, like forming your own group or company or adopting a new lifestyle, is an option.
Meanwhile, when you've finally truly let someone into your life, and you trust them completely, and they are willing to take care of you, let them. There is at least as much pleasure in giving as receiving. Maybe that's how they want to express their continuing love at this point, and maybe it's the only option you've left them.
Look at that key. Look at your ring. Listen to your heart. Be free and stay connected. There is no fundamental contradiction between those states. In fact, to be truly free, you may need to be truly connected.
Freedom, or feeling like you're free, can be a hard state to attain. There are always obligations and responsibilities in life, and burdens. Staying connected is even harder in this life. Breaking up and falling away is the relatively easy part. We all know how to do that (even me, apparently.) But holding on as long as possible requires a strength of will that is sure to sap a person in other ways. We only do that when our instincts tell us it is the right thing to do, (staying connected), as opposed to falling away.
Imagine a life where you are both as free as a bird but as connected as a child with a loving home. Fantasy? Why?
Just because you've never known it doesn't mean it can't happen. If no one ever tries to invent a new way, then all of the old assumptions apply:
Times heals all wounds. People move on. Everything changes. It has to. Everyone changes. They have to.
"Change is good," a mantra my fried Louis Rossetto used to repeat.
Meanwhile, back here, the door is locked but as long as you have the key, you can open it. A proposal remains on the table. You wear a ring. Now talk about a way to change the paradigm. Your old ghosts might never forgive you. All it takes is the courage to dare the fates. That would be the act of someone who has truly become free -- if her heart told her to do it.
I like your odds. But I'm a romantic. Tempting the fates is why I showed up in the first place. The only odds that attract me are the long ones. Playing it safe isn't an option. Trapping a Freebird isn't my goal. Flying free together is. Eventually, if I have to, I will follow the cliches, and turn my blue eyes on a new partner.
But there's still time to alter destinies, and defy convention. You, and only you, hold the key to unlocking that one.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
A party of one
Today, I read an article in Psychology Today that pointed out that there are 86 million of us single adults in America, and that we are emerging as the new majority, and also the fastest-growing segment of the population. Most adults now will spend more of their adult lives single than married; quite a different demographic pattern from that when I was growing up, in the '50s and '60s.
The article describes a single woman who took a big risk by following her passion, by taking a leap into the unknown, something she said she could never have done if she was part of a couple. This got me thinking about the tradeoffs we all make, following our passions in this, the land of the rugged individual. All writers and artists have to confront the question of how to be selfish enough to do our best work, while remaining responsible enough to care for those who rely upon us.
I've long supported the quest by those brave enough to reject the safe route, the status quo, and seek a more meaningful life, a "less-depressed" life, a more engaged life -- whatever you want to call it.
But you need your friends to make it through. There is no Superman, nor is there a Superwoman. We all need our network. You need to remember those you can trust, and what they need from you in return. The Beatles said, "All you need is love." Among the many varieties of love I have tried to write about in this space is friendship love.
No one can follow her passion without trusting in friendship love. No one can let go of romantic love without receiving friendship trust in return. Such is the nature of the circle of giving and receiving that sustains us all -- or sends us outside of the circle alone, alienated, isolated, confused, and yearning for the ineffable.
That-- not marriage, a questionable institution at best, though still special when it can work -- is our best hope once we are single. Friendship. And what is friendship, especially between men and women, if not intimacy, truthfulness, and trust?
Without it, all we have is the emptiness of a party at home alone. The fate of millions in America, never spoken, never referenced, not even on the Obituary page of your local newspaper.
But it is in there, between the lines. Don't stop connecting. The life you lose may be your own -- or that of your friend. Then it will be too late to do anything but romanticize the past, a useless exercise in a post-modern world where history has ended, and the future contains nothing but shock.
The article describes a single woman who took a big risk by following her passion, by taking a leap into the unknown, something she said she could never have done if she was part of a couple. This got me thinking about the tradeoffs we all make, following our passions in this, the land of the rugged individual. All writers and artists have to confront the question of how to be selfish enough to do our best work, while remaining responsible enough to care for those who rely upon us.
I've long supported the quest by those brave enough to reject the safe route, the status quo, and seek a more meaningful life, a "less-depressed" life, a more engaged life -- whatever you want to call it.
But you need your friends to make it through. There is no Superman, nor is there a Superwoman. We all need our network. You need to remember those you can trust, and what they need from you in return. The Beatles said, "All you need is love." Among the many varieties of love I have tried to write about in this space is friendship love.
No one can follow her passion without trusting in friendship love. No one can let go of romantic love without receiving friendship trust in return. Such is the nature of the circle of giving and receiving that sustains us all -- or sends us outside of the circle alone, alienated, isolated, confused, and yearning for the ineffable.
That-- not marriage, a questionable institution at best, though still special when it can work -- is our best hope once we are single. Friendship. And what is friendship, especially between men and women, if not intimacy, truthfulness, and trust?
Without it, all we have is the emptiness of a party at home alone. The fate of millions in America, never spoken, never referenced, not even on the Obituary page of your local newspaper.
But it is in there, between the lines. Don't stop connecting. The life you lose may be your own -- or that of your friend. Then it will be too late to do anything but romanticize the past, a useless exercise in a post-modern world where history has ended, and the future contains nothing but shock.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
What I love about people
This blog, over 50 posts strong now and a couple of months old, must read like an EKG of the (irregular) beats from my broken heart. It's mainly an attempt to be emotionally honest about what it feels like to go through a painful, unwanted loss of love at my stage of life.
But there is also, I hope, an undercurrent of hopefulness here, based on my respect for the courage of people to make big changes in their lives. (Previous posts in this vein include "Open Road" and "Free Bird.") Tonight, I am thinking about the courage it takes for a woman or a man to leave everyone and everything (s)he has known behind, and to go off in search of a new identity; and to do all of that in the context of helping others who are badly in need of her help.
Though they are a motley crew, for sure, the thousands of people who have poured down to the Gulf Coast in the wake of the devastation rendered by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita share something special. They all cared enough to show up. One of the leaders of an especially effective grassroots group down there told me in January that was his definition of being qualified to help in a disaster -- "showing up."
Think about it. Those of us who have a loved one down there, trying to help rebuild communities in ruins, are torn in that we feel we will never know exactly how much of what motivated them to leave us was running away from life here, as opposed to running toward embracing life there.
Most people in our country live and die, never having pushed themselves to a limit that forces them to confront who they truly are, by abandoning everything safe, and devoting themselves in a larger sense to the human community. Those who can use rhetoric claiming to do so (including all politicians, in my view) are frauds.
In reality, it is the anonymous individuals, sometimes fragile in ways no one newly around them could possibly appreciate, who have come from somewhere else to the scene of disaster to help for a while, also hoping to discover something essential about what is going on in their own lives so that they might go forward with a better defined sense of purpose -- these are the true heroes among us I celebrate tonight.
And, of course, I wouldn't be me if I didn't add that my biggest hero is also the source of my greatest pain. For every loss, there is the possibility for someone else's gain. For me, echoes and shadows and silence. For Biloxi, a lovely Angel, with grace, compassion, and a heart big enough to hold all of that community's pain, with an eye on its future.
They are so lucky to have her. That they do is one of the things I truly love about her...she had the courage to show up.
But there is also, I hope, an undercurrent of hopefulness here, based on my respect for the courage of people to make big changes in their lives. (Previous posts in this vein include "Open Road" and "Free Bird.") Tonight, I am thinking about the courage it takes for a woman or a man to leave everyone and everything (s)he has known behind, and to go off in search of a new identity; and to do all of that in the context of helping others who are badly in need of her help.
Though they are a motley crew, for sure, the thousands of people who have poured down to the Gulf Coast in the wake of the devastation rendered by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita share something special. They all cared enough to show up. One of the leaders of an especially effective grassroots group down there told me in January that was his definition of being qualified to help in a disaster -- "showing up."
Think about it. Those of us who have a loved one down there, trying to help rebuild communities in ruins, are torn in that we feel we will never know exactly how much of what motivated them to leave us was running away from life here, as opposed to running toward embracing life there.
Most people in our country live and die, never having pushed themselves to a limit that forces them to confront who they truly are, by abandoning everything safe, and devoting themselves in a larger sense to the human community. Those who can use rhetoric claiming to do so (including all politicians, in my view) are frauds.
In reality, it is the anonymous individuals, sometimes fragile in ways no one newly around them could possibly appreciate, who have come from somewhere else to the scene of disaster to help for a while, also hoping to discover something essential about what is going on in their own lives so that they might go forward with a better defined sense of purpose -- these are the true heroes among us I celebrate tonight.
And, of course, I wouldn't be me if I didn't add that my biggest hero is also the source of my greatest pain. For every loss, there is the possibility for someone else's gain. For me, echoes and shadows and silence. For Biloxi, a lovely Angel, with grace, compassion, and a heart big enough to hold all of that community's pain, with an eye on its future.
They are so lucky to have her. That they do is one of the things I truly love about her...she had the courage to show up.
Monday, June 05, 2006
How to Lose
So, our little league season ended tonight with a loss(10-4), as they always do -- except for the one team that wins the championship, which none of the teams I've ever coached or played on ever have. Baseball is a very tough sport -- physically, mentally, emotionally. It's always been my favorite sport, for many reasons, including its statistical complexity.
Among the players, coaches and parents who have gotten to know me as a coach these past few years, many assume I must have played in my youth. But I never had that chance. I tried to play, but an untimely illness made me appear to be, in my coaches' eyes, "lazy." It certainly was not their fault for interpreting my behavior the way they did. I had the ability but I couldn't execute. I'd start chasing a fly ball and then slow down. The ball would fall untouched by me.
It took two years for doctors to figure out why this was happening. After that, I spent a long time in bed, which gave me the chance to invent an entire world of fantasy baseball, not to mention memorizing every batting average that can occur under, say, 100 at bats.
The one thing, as a coach and a parent, I never want to do, is repeat the mistake that my coaches made with me. Tonight was a very tough night. My little red-haired, freckle-faced star pitcher has been feeling elbow pain the past few games. We don't know what this is about, but it could be as serious in its way as what was wrong with me five decades ago.
Yet he is, by far, the best pitcher on this team, so I had to make the call to send him out. I did, and he tried, but he couldn't really pitch the way he usually does, and the other team hit him hard. Finally, after an inning and two batters, he called me out to the mound and said his elbow hurt too much, and I pulled him out of the game.
As I said, we lost this particular game. My son, an athlete, knows something I don't know (obviously, to anyone reading this blog) -- and that is how to lose and move on. He can. I can't. Even if his arm is injured now, and he can't pitch ever again, he has the emotional strength to handle that. But I hope (and would pray, if I believed) that we caught this soon enough, and whatever is wrong can be repaired.
To players, I always say "it's not how you fall but how you bounce." He bounces, and I admire him for that. I don't, however. And that makes all the difference in how our stories play themselves out.
Among the players, coaches and parents who have gotten to know me as a coach these past few years, many assume I must have played in my youth. But I never had that chance. I tried to play, but an untimely illness made me appear to be, in my coaches' eyes, "lazy." It certainly was not their fault for interpreting my behavior the way they did. I had the ability but I couldn't execute. I'd start chasing a fly ball and then slow down. The ball would fall untouched by me.
It took two years for doctors to figure out why this was happening. After that, I spent a long time in bed, which gave me the chance to invent an entire world of fantasy baseball, not to mention memorizing every batting average that can occur under, say, 100 at bats.
The one thing, as a coach and a parent, I never want to do, is repeat the mistake that my coaches made with me. Tonight was a very tough night. My little red-haired, freckle-faced star pitcher has been feeling elbow pain the past few games. We don't know what this is about, but it could be as serious in its way as what was wrong with me five decades ago.
Yet he is, by far, the best pitcher on this team, so I had to make the call to send him out. I did, and he tried, but he couldn't really pitch the way he usually does, and the other team hit him hard. Finally, after an inning and two batters, he called me out to the mound and said his elbow hurt too much, and I pulled him out of the game.
As I said, we lost this particular game. My son, an athlete, knows something I don't know (obviously, to anyone reading this blog) -- and that is how to lose and move on. He can. I can't. Even if his arm is injured now, and he can't pitch ever again, he has the emotional strength to handle that. But I hope (and would pray, if I believed) that we caught this soon enough, and whatever is wrong can be repaired.
To players, I always say "it's not how you fall but how you bounce." He bounces, and I admire him for that. I don't, however. And that makes all the difference in how our stories play themselves out.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Listen to your heart (a woman's view)
(Below, I am posting a reaction to my June 2 piece from a reader and a dear friend.)
David, tonight's writing is a challenge. The gauntlet is thrown. What is the use of existence past the end of relationship because the pain of transition is so hard? And review of the pattern -- that three great loves each ended rather than continuing gives strength to the argument that love is a terrible tragedy, one that ends utterly without hope or any reason to go on at all. Right up against a wall, unable to negotiate change or adaptation or making it work together.
I think it is only in the past few years, in my 50s, that I came to understand that men are romantic and women are not. In our twenties, it was women who pined for men who always wanted space. Women wanted definition and assurance of continuance, development and progression. However, amongst the people I've known for decades, it is now the men who are reaching out and trying for more, with women unconvinced sitting on the sidelines.
I've wondered if this is partly due to the biological drive women experience in their 20s and 30s to bear children, seeking partnership and securing permanence. After everything is said and done, it now seems as though the women are more alone and partly content in that -- the reverse of how I remembered night after night after night as a 20- and 30-year-old, anguishing in what wasn't.
You talk of voice -- never before have I heard your voice as clearly as now.
You have always exhibited a huge sense of adulthood. You were always about perspective. And you have always drawn huge connections -- you spoke of patterns earlier on in your writing. I see the struggle with survival that drives your writing. Those of us with the highs and lows know about this and share the purpose of staying in being as opposed to any other choice. I support you and your continuing to define for the rest of us what not only affects you but many of us. You do us a favor by documenting the process of change and development. Your current transition is so gut level, and your rumination provides us with the platform for examination. I've always considered myself lucky to know you for many many reasons. This is even more true now.
Tamara
David, tonight's writing is a challenge. The gauntlet is thrown. What is the use of existence past the end of relationship because the pain of transition is so hard? And review of the pattern -- that three great loves each ended rather than continuing gives strength to the argument that love is a terrible tragedy, one that ends utterly without hope or any reason to go on at all. Right up against a wall, unable to negotiate change or adaptation or making it work together.
I think it is only in the past few years, in my 50s, that I came to understand that men are romantic and women are not. In our twenties, it was women who pined for men who always wanted space. Women wanted definition and assurance of continuance, development and progression. However, amongst the people I've known for decades, it is now the men who are reaching out and trying for more, with women unconvinced sitting on the sidelines.
I've wondered if this is partly due to the biological drive women experience in their 20s and 30s to bear children, seeking partnership and securing permanence. After everything is said and done, it now seems as though the women are more alone and partly content in that -- the reverse of how I remembered night after night after night as a 20- and 30-year-old, anguishing in what wasn't.
You talk of voice -- never before have I heard your voice as clearly as now.
You have always exhibited a huge sense of adulthood. You were always about perspective. And you have always drawn huge connections -- you spoke of patterns earlier on in your writing. I see the struggle with survival that drives your writing. Those of us with the highs and lows know about this and share the purpose of staying in being as opposed to any other choice. I support you and your continuing to define for the rest of us what not only affects you but many of us. You do us a favor by documenting the process of change and development. Your current transition is so gut level, and your rumination provides us with the platform for examination. I've always considered myself lucky to know you for many many reasons. This is even more true now.
Tamara
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