And so tomorrow a journey will begin...
"My only witness is the open sky"
-Jack Kerouac
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 19, 2010
To Gain A Loss
Success is wagered not in what you achieve from your resistance to fail, but in what you achieve from your failure to succeed.
Jul 10, 2010
A Moment, Out Of Reach
There is no moment -- no minute, nor second -- that can supplant the moment of human touch/For this is the air by which our flesh breathes/And by which our vitality is restored anew/To be alone is to suffocate/To recycle the depleted substance of our familiar refrain
Jun 27, 2010
I Am, Therefore I Think I Will Be
Why is a sunset beautiful? Is it because it's a reminder of where we are from -- the stars? The cooled remnants of the big bang billions of years ago, we are but the products of creation; we are but the continuing process of creation, a perpetual echo reverberating through every cell, every organ, and every emotion. The Universe is our Universe -- our Universe within. The Creation, or perhaps The Creator, is no more external than the air we breathe or the food we eat. For instance, a wandering photon from tonight's sunset may have found its way onto a receptive soybean leaf, from which that leaf will synthesize one more molecule of sugar through carbon fixation as a result -- requiring a carbon atom that settled onto Earth roughly 4.5 billion years ago from a cosmic dust cloud orbiting our nascent sun. This carbon molecule may then be harvested, processed into soymilk, and eventually undergo immense biochemical transformations within my body one morning, whereby with a little luck, play an integral role in comprising the final, albeit necessary amino acid of one more neuronal receptor in my brain. This one extra neuronal receptor may be just enough to allow this would-be quiescent neuron to reach depolarizing threshold and fire a noisy action potential to generate just one more thought -- the thought that wonders why the sunset is beautiful. The external has indeed become the internal.
The sunset is beautiful because it is our creation as much as we are its creation. Beauty is the way two lovers hold hands; the way amorphous reflections shimmer on the Puget Sound; the way the moonlight sings lullabies to insomniacs at night; the way a child in a passing stroller gazes into your eyes with curiosity; the way laughter infects even the most melancholy; the way music makes any culture move, the way leaves crunch in October air, and yes, the way a Portland sunset inspires the muse.
This is not to say all the extant is beauty; creation has its share of ugly, no doubt. But what value would beauty have if it did not have a comparison to something ugly? Hence, there must be ugly to value beauty. It is the same way that the colors black and white must both exist for there to be contrast. And so to truly value beauty is to know ugly, but to choose to embrace beauty. The Creation within us has given us that potential; in fact, it is that potential. To embrace beauty is a choice, but not always an easy one. Perhaps we don't choose to embrace beauty because we are intimidated by it. We may feel powerless in our lives, as though the Universe has its external, inexorable grip on us. After all, I cannot stop the sunset -- it will progress despite my best efforts. But if I were large enough, withholding enough gravity embodied within my atoms to equal more than the Earth, I certainly could stop the sunset. For I am but the same substance as the Earth and stars, just less of it. But not an insignificant amount. The Creation that embodies us has its own gravity by which orbits are obeyed. And while I may not be massive enough to pull the strings of celestial bodies, I am certainly on par with humans, plants, animals, keyboards, and ideas. These are the orbits I can create because in relative terms, I am as massive within as those with which I interact on the planet. This is my creative power -- my power to choose to embrace beauty.
The orbits that surround me can be ones of friendship, of love, of compassion, of forgiveness, and even of moonrises and sunsets (by seeking to view them and let them inspire me, for example). This is my creative power bestowed to me in every dynamic atom within my body -- the same atoms by which our cosmos orchestrates its magnum opus. These are the orbits of beauty I can choose -- we can choose -- to embrace just as much as we can choose to embrace ugliness. And in fact, I have done my share of embracing ugliness with good results: with each embrace of ugliness, I better understand the value of beauty. So long as we seek beauty, it is free to take. And it is all around us...
Jun 24, 2010
In Still Life
As the solstice wanes and the full moon waxes, time perpetuates the cosmos, yet somehow suspends the broken heart. Heavy with hurt, the broken heart's inertia is too great for even time to budge. Unlike the planets suspended in space, the broken heart is suspended in time, passing minutes as days and years as aged as the pockmarked moon. It is the impossible time of "forever," perhaps; forever to collect the dust of memories, falling like an ash plume echoed from vibrant days -- days of ebullient and kinetic love. Indeed, the broken heart lies in motionless pieces, obstinate to time's plea despite the alacrity of celestial bodies. Time, then, seems to be a Janus of both hero and villain: the hero promises the broken heart that someday it will flutter once again, yet the villain steals that promise and places it at the asymptote of "forever".
But alas, the broken heart does not lie in forever alone. Hope is by its side; hope that with so many moving bodies about the Universe -- so much perpetual dynamic -- that, despite the infinitesimal probability, a falling star may just find its careless orbit careening through the unlikely window from which the moon peers and this particular broken heart lies, whereby then a collision with just enough kinetic will animate these static pieces. Kinetic energy is, after all, how the Universe relieves its energy of potential. It always has. And it always will. Forever.
From Caitlin Cary and Thad Cockrell, a song to suspend even the heaviest of objects:
Please Break My Heart
Please break my heart
Say it's forever
Then I'll remember
How you said forever to me
Please break my heart
I'll be piece it together
I'd rather be shattered
Than to know forever
Without you
Love is all that matters
And it mattered none to you
Love is all that mattered
And you left me
crying, sighing and blue
Please break my heart
Kiss me like never,
One kiss to remember
The rest of my life
To forget about you
All the broken hearts together,
Do they matter none to you?
I was hoping mine would matter
And you left me
crying, sighing and blue
Please break my heart
Do it forever
Oh, please break my heart
Jun 3, 2010
[refrain]
You're the colors / all i know /all i can see/ blending white to black / creating this variegated sea / i'm here with you / are you here with me ? / i'm blind, you know / but i trust that you can see
Jun 2, 2010
To Not And Hold Seek
On June 2nd, 2000, I was a 19-year-old youth in Sligo, Ireland, a seemingly inconspicuous locale nestled somewhere between bucolic poverty and urban promise. Inconspicuous as it was, however, unintentional it was not. This 19-year-old resonated with the language of poverty and the language of promise, and was seeking to scribe a bilingual experience that would portend his transition from youth to adulthood. The poverty he understood was that of an undernourished childhood, leaving his insatiable ambitions feeling starved within an invisible identity. The promise he understood was, ironically, that of his insatiable ambitions empowering his identity to seek its own nourishment. Deciphering this babel was the challenge that, if overcome, would grant him the liberating advancement towards adulthood and thereby advancement towards a nourished identity. Little did he know that the translation of these languages would take 10 years.
On June 2nd, 2010, I am a 29-year-old adult in Portland, Oregon, a seemingly inconspicuous locale nestled somewhere between bucolic poverty and urban promise. Inconspicuous as it is, however, unintentional it is not. The language of this land in Portland is in many ways the same language spoken to me 10 years ago in Ireland and in Wales, and so perhaps my unconscious mind seeks the environment for which its personal language is best translated. The faculty of language is, after all, an invention by which species interact with their environment, and so intention would naturally hide the primer to decode a language within the environment in which it describes. Regardless of its specific agenda, intention is certainly at work as my youthhood transitions into adulthood. Ten years following my juvenile steps towards understanding the language of poverty and promise, my identity is -- finally -- opaque with nourishment. But, like any language, it is the context that gives this nourishment meaning.
Tomorrow i will age to 30 years. To some degree, fixating upon this even number is arbitrary. Our society has chosen a denary numerical system somewhat arbitrarily, and so i may as well celebrate my 31.4th birthday in april of 2012 had we chosen the number pi as our base system. But in many other ways 30 is not arbitrary. We are commandeered to circumnavigate the sun in the amount of time it takes Earth to rotate about its axis 365.25 times, and we are commandeered by biology to experience these phenomena in finite repetitions. We have, then, in many ways engineered our society to adopt a “language” that effectively interacts with these inexorable phenomena, from our (largely) diurnal activities to our seasonal crop harvesting. And so this denary environment by which I’ve seasoned my personal language -- whether arbitrary or methodical -- is signaling momentous change tomorrow as I exit my youth. Reflective, of course. I wouldn’t be writing about this impending transition if it were void of reflection. But the nature of that reflection -- that context; that opaque, adult identity staring back at me -- that may require 30 more years to decipher. It is as though my youthful babbling has finally refined my language of poverty and promise into a literary body, save that the words and page numbers are scrambled. But it is an opaque, corporeal body nonetheless.
Syntax errors aside, there certainly are themes that can be plucked from this word salad. At 30, I have learned how to love. This is surprisingly the most recent theme (see below blog entries for evidence). I was engaged at -- GASP -- the green age of 24, and consequently claimed the hubris that I knew how to love despite the failure of this relationship. But then at age 28 I met a very special person and was humbled to learn that i had actually never loved before. Upon losing the intimate presence of this person in my life recently (and being destroyed as a result), i now know how to love: allow vulnerability in oneself such that one is defined in someone else, not with someone else.
At 30, I have also learned how to fail: allow humility in oneself such that failure is only seen as smaller fragments of broken success. I have failed at many things in my youth, from trivial burnt cookies to scarring lost relationships and friendships. But each failure, so that I picked the scattered pieces from the ground, was made of fragments of success that could be re-glued into something new -- something successful. Ironically, learning how to fail is learning how to succeed.
And at 30, I have learned the language of poverty and promise -- that is, what it means to overcome. At 20, I was a Christian; at 30 I am agnostic. This is an important contrast since, despite my vacillations through the identity of my “faith,” my core connection to The Creation, as I call it, remains. It always has. During most of my youth, my environment simply prescribed the context of “Christian” to this inner belief system. But as I matured and began to see this as the human invention that it is, I became more and more comfortable leaving The Creation as a nebulous, sacrosanct entity. In fact, the only chapter in my youthful dissertation that reads in syntax may well be the one discussing the subject of spirituality. Yes, poverty and promise -- a familiar, even trite theme in many religious disciplines, is indeed among my youthful themes. But at 30, that language tells a story of process, not acquisition.
Every line of the above musings could easily be naive illusions of “knowledge” that only seemed to be actualized as I approach the magical 30 figure. Perhaps upon age 40 I will restate how it is to love, to fail, to succeed, and to satiate my voracious identity. Yet, it cannot be heresy if knowledge is found in the process by which it was sought and not the acquisition of knowledge itself. Abandoning the quixotic quest for the finish line of enlightenment is perhaps the only enlightenment we can ever acquire. In other words, to “know” the process of love is only to know that one seeks the process of love, not that one actually acquires the knowledge of how to love. And so The Creation that lives within me, that drives me daily in my quest to fulfill my oft pellucid identity, may in fact be the substance by which that identity is embodied, and not the treasures themselves that are acquired along that journey. The same could be said about failure. Since there can be no perfection, what then would success ever truly look like but larger pieces of less-broken failure? As such, at 30, what would The Creation -- or dare I say “God” -- look like other than the process by which we seek it?
Ten years from June 2nd, 2000, I indeed have gathered the lexicon of my poverty and promise and finally nourished my identity in adulthood. But despite learning that lexicon, the only context I can decipher from its voluminous, cryptic vocabulary is that of process. Love, failure, success, and The Creation -- and thereby perhaps my next 30 years -- define my identity through their processes, not their products. Such is the preface of my new journey, “Adulthood: Live by how you acquire, not by what you acquire, for what you acquire has no context removed from the process in which it was acquired.” If after 10 years one sentence is all I can decipher from my youthful script, then it truly must be about the process -- the beautiful, satiating processes of love, failure, success, and Creation -- and not the acquisition.
With this as my only context, I embark on my journey into adulthood with no pockets to carry, only my naked self equipped with the complete vocabulary of my personal identity.
On June 2nd, 2010, I am a 29-year-old adult in Portland, Oregon, a seemingly inconspicuous locale nestled somewhere between bucolic poverty and urban promise. Inconspicuous as it is, however, unintentional it is not. The language of this land in Portland is in many ways the same language spoken to me 10 years ago in Ireland and in Wales, and so perhaps my unconscious mind seeks the environment for which its personal language is best translated. The faculty of language is, after all, an invention by which species interact with their environment, and so intention would naturally hide the primer to decode a language within the environment in which it describes. Regardless of its specific agenda, intention is certainly at work as my youthhood transitions into adulthood. Ten years following my juvenile steps towards understanding the language of poverty and promise, my identity is -- finally -- opaque with nourishment. But, like any language, it is the context that gives this nourishment meaning.
Tomorrow i will age to 30 years. To some degree, fixating upon this even number is arbitrary. Our society has chosen a denary numerical system somewhat arbitrarily, and so i may as well celebrate my 31.4th birthday in april of 2012 had we chosen the number pi as our base system. But in many other ways 30 is not arbitrary. We are commandeered to circumnavigate the sun in the amount of time it takes Earth to rotate about its axis 365.25 times, and we are commandeered by biology to experience these phenomena in finite repetitions. We have, then, in many ways engineered our society to adopt a “language” that effectively interacts with these inexorable phenomena, from our (largely) diurnal activities to our seasonal crop harvesting. And so this denary environment by which I’ve seasoned my personal language -- whether arbitrary or methodical -- is signaling momentous change tomorrow as I exit my youth. Reflective, of course. I wouldn’t be writing about this impending transition if it were void of reflection. But the nature of that reflection -- that context; that opaque, adult identity staring back at me -- that may require 30 more years to decipher. It is as though my youthful babbling has finally refined my language of poverty and promise into a literary body, save that the words and page numbers are scrambled. But it is an opaque, corporeal body nonetheless.
Syntax errors aside, there certainly are themes that can be plucked from this word salad. At 30, I have learned how to love. This is surprisingly the most recent theme (see below blog entries for evidence). I was engaged at -- GASP -- the green age of 24, and consequently claimed the hubris that I knew how to love despite the failure of this relationship. But then at age 28 I met a very special person and was humbled to learn that i had actually never loved before. Upon losing the intimate presence of this person in my life recently (and being destroyed as a result), i now know how to love: allow vulnerability in oneself such that one is defined in someone else, not with someone else.
At 30, I have also learned how to fail: allow humility in oneself such that failure is only seen as smaller fragments of broken success. I have failed at many things in my youth, from trivial burnt cookies to scarring lost relationships and friendships. But each failure, so that I picked the scattered pieces from the ground, was made of fragments of success that could be re-glued into something new -- something successful. Ironically, learning how to fail is learning how to succeed.
And at 30, I have learned the language of poverty and promise -- that is, what it means to overcome. At 20, I was a Christian; at 30 I am agnostic. This is an important contrast since, despite my vacillations through the identity of my “faith,” my core connection to The Creation, as I call it, remains. It always has. During most of my youth, my environment simply prescribed the context of “Christian” to this inner belief system. But as I matured and began to see this as the human invention that it is, I became more and more comfortable leaving The Creation as a nebulous, sacrosanct entity. In fact, the only chapter in my youthful dissertation that reads in syntax may well be the one discussing the subject of spirituality. Yes, poverty and promise -- a familiar, even trite theme in many religious disciplines, is indeed among my youthful themes. But at 30, that language tells a story of process, not acquisition.
Every line of the above musings could easily be naive illusions of “knowledge” that only seemed to be actualized as I approach the magical 30 figure. Perhaps upon age 40 I will restate how it is to love, to fail, to succeed, and to satiate my voracious identity. Yet, it cannot be heresy if knowledge is found in the process by which it was sought and not the acquisition of knowledge itself. Abandoning the quixotic quest for the finish line of enlightenment is perhaps the only enlightenment we can ever acquire. In other words, to “know” the process of love is only to know that one seeks the process of love, not that one actually acquires the knowledge of how to love. And so The Creation that lives within me, that drives me daily in my quest to fulfill my oft pellucid identity, may in fact be the substance by which that identity is embodied, and not the treasures themselves that are acquired along that journey. The same could be said about failure. Since there can be no perfection, what then would success ever truly look like but larger pieces of less-broken failure? As such, at 30, what would The Creation -- or dare I say “God” -- look like other than the process by which we seek it?
Ten years from June 2nd, 2000, I indeed have gathered the lexicon of my poverty and promise and finally nourished my identity in adulthood. But despite learning that lexicon, the only context I can decipher from its voluminous, cryptic vocabulary is that of process. Love, failure, success, and The Creation -- and thereby perhaps my next 30 years -- define my identity through their processes, not their products. Such is the preface of my new journey, “Adulthood: Live by how you acquire, not by what you acquire, for what you acquire has no context removed from the process in which it was acquired.” If after 10 years one sentence is all I can decipher from my youthful script, then it truly must be about the process -- the beautiful, satiating processes of love, failure, success, and Creation -- and not the acquisition.
With this as my only context, I embark on my journey into adulthood with no pockets to carry, only my naked self equipped with the complete vocabulary of my personal identity.
May 2, 2010
One Of A Kind Of Many
Sometimes I like to be alone. The reason for that is complicated and likely even beyond my capacity to answer. But I do know that it's an inaccurate disposition. I actually hate being alone. And slowly, as time progresses its unforgiving agenda, I am realizing that any experience is only valuable such that I can share that experience with someone else. It's similar to the cliched saw obviating objectivity without an observer in the forest to hear the falling tree: perhaps my experiences alone are meaningless -- or better stated, valueless -- without someone for whom share that experience. Without such validation, what truths can we ever acquire? Certainly not our own, for those are cloaked in a thick, protective subconscious veil. And so the truths we often seek, whether that of a beleaguered relationship or an indecorous social comment, lie in the summated validation of others sharing one's experiences.
Soon I will lose the shared experiences of a true friend, and hence, a snippet of my truth. This friend has completed her tenure in this fine city and it is her actualization that pulls away to personal fulfillment (and arguably societal fulfillment if one considers her global ambitions). It saddens me, yet I can't help but weep with joy. She is succeeding in her journey. So it might even be selfish to mope among my loss when she is gaining so much, but alas, I will certainly long for the truth in which she enlightened me; but to be fair, perhaps she will long for the same in which I enlightened her. That is only something she could answer. Yet, with her departure now eminent, it is impossible to prolong any further the gravity of our experiences together as friends. She truly contributed to what was, is, and will be the value by which my life experiences are waged.
But what is it in this person, as well as the others that I'm blessed to have in my life, that bestow such value and truth to my life experience? For her, and possibly others, i realized that it has been her faith in me. She accepted me no matter the song, no matter the rhyme, no matter the idiosyncrasy, no matter the joke, no matter the mistake, no matter the success. And it has been this unabashed acceptance that has fortified my own fragile belief when I so often defaulted to personal atheism. This "friend" -- which certainly isn't a powerful enough noun -- showed me how to shine my brightest. And even if my glow was an odd color, she reminded me how uniquely beautiful it lit the room. The self-evident, beautiful irony, of course, is that this insight and utter altruism reflected her own uniquely beautiful light. And so I'm humbled. She has reminded me that the relationships I've invested with others are also an investment in myself to be my best. And, conversely, when I let others down, such as her, I also let myself down.
I am blessed to have not just one, but many people in my life that provide me with the truth, meaning, and value of my experiences. Every relationship I've had with these truly beautiful people has been unique, but such is the complicated requirement of this complicated life. And so with all humble acknowledgement and appreciation, i need to thank my dear friend for her recent reminder that every relationship I've had in the past and have to this day defines me to be the best person i can be, for the last people I want to let down are the people that give my life value. So long as they feel the same, then we can be nothing but our best. And our frail planet demands nothing less.
Thank you, Christina. You are beauty; you are one of a kind; you are one of many.
Soon I will lose the shared experiences of a true friend, and hence, a snippet of my truth. This friend has completed her tenure in this fine city and it is her actualization that pulls away to personal fulfillment (and arguably societal fulfillment if one considers her global ambitions). It saddens me, yet I can't help but weep with joy. She is succeeding in her journey. So it might even be selfish to mope among my loss when she is gaining so much, but alas, I will certainly long for the truth in which she enlightened me; but to be fair, perhaps she will long for the same in which I enlightened her. That is only something she could answer. Yet, with her departure now eminent, it is impossible to prolong any further the gravity of our experiences together as friends. She truly contributed to what was, is, and will be the value by which my life experiences are waged.
But what is it in this person, as well as the others that I'm blessed to have in my life, that bestow such value and truth to my life experience? For her, and possibly others, i realized that it has been her faith in me. She accepted me no matter the song, no matter the rhyme, no matter the idiosyncrasy, no matter the joke, no matter the mistake, no matter the success. And it has been this unabashed acceptance that has fortified my own fragile belief when I so often defaulted to personal atheism. This "friend" -- which certainly isn't a powerful enough noun -- showed me how to shine my brightest. And even if my glow was an odd color, she reminded me how uniquely beautiful it lit the room. The self-evident, beautiful irony, of course, is that this insight and utter altruism reflected her own uniquely beautiful light. And so I'm humbled. She has reminded me that the relationships I've invested with others are also an investment in myself to be my best. And, conversely, when I let others down, such as her, I also let myself down.
I am blessed to have not just one, but many people in my life that provide me with the truth, meaning, and value of my experiences. Every relationship I've had with these truly beautiful people has been unique, but such is the complicated requirement of this complicated life. And so with all humble acknowledgement and appreciation, i need to thank my dear friend for her recent reminder that every relationship I've had in the past and have to this day defines me to be the best person i can be, for the last people I want to let down are the people that give my life value. So long as they feel the same, then we can be nothing but our best. And our frail planet demands nothing less.
Thank you, Christina. You are beauty; you are one of a kind; you are one of many.
Mar 11, 2010
Truly, A Part.
And here I lie. Alone. And i hate it. And so i must write. I've never been one for a candid, extemporaneous blog entry, but apparently tonight is the night. No premeditation, no attempt at adroit wit or uncanny satire -- just raw, unfiltered neurotic thoughts (for better or worse). But it's an apposite entry, I suppose, because today is March 11th, 2010. On March 11th, 2009, I met her -- the woman that made the room sink around her and the woman that would change my life. And change it for the better (or so i keep telling myself). A quick fast forward to March 11th, 2010, and I'm faced with a poignant, yet inescapable reflection. Now at 29, I had thought I'd felt pain. I was wrong. The pain I've felt over the past two (plus whatever/forever) months outweighs even the pain branded on the scars from my alcoholic childhood home (at least acutely). I am hurt on March 11th, 2010, and hurt like never before. I suppose it's the Siren call of love that has betrayed me (as she does), or even my own pattern of bedeviled relationships rooted in my voracious desire to fill my vacancies with love, attention, and affection (ah, but don't we all want that?). Details aside, on March 11th, 2010, I'm alone. And I hate it.
The woman I loved (and certainly still do) over the past year -- despite her recent demonic haunts upon every night of my attempted sleep -- has changed my life for the better. How can this be (I ask...continuously)? Because at the age of 29, I finally know what it means to truly love someone. Cliche, of course. I'm a musician, so I'm well-aware that nearly every single album on my digital archive deals with such subject matter. But until one has felt what it's like to be literally destroyed by someone else's vacancy, no song, no poem, no advice, and no prayer can adequately prepare nor offer solace for love's power. Love is an experience, not an emotion. Therefore, the loss of my first "true love" (i know, the cliche again...but seriously) is like a death inside. And so the pain I feel is the grief of loss. My life has lost something that it once had: the experience of my life with this truly special, beautiful woman.
Fortunately, I haven't dealt with much grief in my life. I haven't lost anyone in my life (yet, fingers crossed) that was particularly close enough to me to push me to grief. And my father was ill with addiction since I can remember, so his absence (at least during my childhood) was never really a "loss" since it wasn't fully there in the first place. But losing my found love -- someone that I came to define myself through, not with -- is grief. The year we spent together was unmatched by any clock. I could spend two hours with her (as such the last two hours i saw her) and the hands might as well spin off the wall. Our bodies were like two raindrops magnetically fusing together -- or in our words, "of the same substance". Yes, romanticizing a bit, but only in terms of frequency, not amplitude. Our darkness was shared, and so was our light. And my, were we bright together. Most experiences I recount (particularly our travel sojourns) were filled with as much risible lightheartedness as they were with academic conversation. And to speak of amplitude, the experience that was our love swept from the expansion of the Pacific Northwest wilderness to the intimacy of stargazing through my foggy bay window. She knows my darkness and I know hers; she knows my light and I know hers; which, I suppose, brings me to another substance of love: vulnerability.
Clearly, I made myself vulnerable. In fact, I've never been so vulnerable to another person as I was with her. Otherwise, I wouldn't feel shattered into a million (+ 1) pieces across my wooden floor. It is like emotional nuclear technology, wielding as much potential for salvation as wielding potential for destruction. Hence, I paradoxically feel as though I've been saved and destroyed at the same time. And this is what permits me to claim that my loving relationship with that stunning woman i met one year ago today changed my life for the better. This is because I now understand value; that is to say, I know now what it is to have because I know now what it is to not have. And tonight i do not have my true love. I've had and lost love before; but "true" love -- that in which i define myself through someone else -- I have not. And so the death of my relationship with this true love has also poisoned and killed a piece of my own identity. That is the source of the pain i am feeling tonight.
I never knew I could be myself around someone and have them accept me -- all of me. I've been a pariah my entire life, and it has taken an ugly toll. Too much "crazy" creativity for most mentors (including to this day, perhaps); too many questions in class (so why don't we remove you and put you in "special" classes so you feel less isolated -- ahh, the irony); too little patience to understand my confusing adolescent peers with their inane dramas and "crises;" too quirky of a humor to make anyone (but myself) laugh; too accepting of all beauty -- whether black, white, male, or female -- to be taken without challenge in a relationship. The woman I write of tonight, accepted these things about me (...or did she?); in fact, she loved me for them, perhaps because she herself is afflicted with similar insecurities. Whether it seems selfish in the end, that two people would match largely to accommodate each other's childhood (and now adulthood) vacancies is moot. I think if anyone is truly honest with themselves, we all match, at least partly, to provide what we lack ourselves. And for me, it has been, is now, and probably forever will be: acceptance. The woman I met on March 11th, 2009, laughed at my jokes. How silly (no pun intended) does that sound as the most outstanding criteria for instant compatibility? But it's true. I remember telling one of my closet friends this the following day. One year later, I laugh in reflection: she laughed hysterically at my ridiculous, asinine, non sequitur humor that somehow convened on the topic of a squirrel. And, importantly, she made me laugh as well. Consider it a shared infection.This was (still is?) a woman that accepted me -- all of me.
Except my love, ironically. Not to get rancorous here (i'm over most of the anger stage...right?), but that remains the only thing I'm convinced she didn't accept from me. I wasn't a perfect lover by any means. Who is? Gaging from the above pity party, I clearly have self-worth issues that would easily make a career paycheck for a willing shrink to tell me "you actually didn't give her all your love because you don't feel you're worthy enough to receive love (thanks, Dad)". Okay, there's probably truth in that. But I wanted to try. I truly did. I wanted to roll up my sleeves, brace myself, and change. For the better. With her. And help her. Change for the better. With me. And I was rejected. And I broke. Apart. Into pieces. Not to abuse the ironies, but the ugliest part of our relationship was the breakup itself. I find that interesting. I can't think of a single "fight" we ever had while together. When issues arose, our relationship was one of amicable confrontation: when something was "up," we talked about it. And then we would move on. Wow -- talk about one more hook and sinker to pierce my heart. I know that's rare (and perhaps fiction, because...).
Yet, we failed. How? I feel it may be a bit naive for me to speculate now, even after a couple (+ forever) months. And I do think the answer to that question is very important so long as it's honest, but in some regards it doesn't matter because now, at 29, I've truly loved. And I can finally value love beyond any hackneyed song or film. Having and then losing the experience of her in my life has allowed me to value love and demand nothing less in my next love-worthy relationship (although evidently I'm suppose to date around and have various "rebound relationships" or whatever(s) to fill my current emotional and physical vacuums with boredom and droll facades of interest...which is precisely why i'll likely be single for some time, for better or worse...or i don't know...i'll have to do some thinking about those things). In other words, I learned more about myself through being with my true love in a year than i learned about myself in the past 29 years. That is power. That is beauty. That is not regret. The love I am now able to experience when i so choose will be the result of my relationship with this beautiful, quirky-witted, imperfectly-perfect woman's willingness to risk her vulnerable identity (the best she could) for a relationship with this beautiful, quirky-witted, imperfectly-perfect man (the best he could).
I've said before that (being a scientist and all) the only truth we can honestly attest to is in our experience: if we have "experience" in our memories, then it was "real". Anything else is speculation by others. And so to define a love for someone as a beautiful "experience" is also to define that love as true. I have no doubt, then, that I truly loved this woman because I have the beautiful experience to prove it. Even if for just 10 months together, her precious impact may transcend even into my future paternal legacy -- because she showed me the experience of love, and therefore the value of love necessary for a healthy, lasting relationship. I can only hope I showed her the same.
Mar 5, 2010
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