This is Not a Childfree Rant

Recently, at a family gathering, my Dad wondered aloud whether I never wanted to have children because of what happened with him and my Mom.  (They divorced when I was 11.)  I assured him that was not the case.  Just look at how I used to play.

When I was little, I didn't really play with baby dolls the way some girls did.  I had a strong nurturing instinct, to be sure, but not towards the replica baby humans.  I would invent scenarios for my stuffed animals where they needed healing and care -- a clipped ear, a twisted tail, general plushy angst -- and I would provide the care for them.  After they were "all better," they would happily go back on the pile and play with their other animal friends.

I had lots of Barbies, and I would send them on adventures -- traveling, scouting out locations for buildings and movies, hiking in the mountains.  My Barbies didn't really think about taking care of a home and family.  They had strong, supportive friendships with each other and (like child me) often had short hair that I cut myself.

So, no, it wasn't my parents' divorce that made me want to live without my own children.  It was (and is) my nature.  It is my nature to be childfree, much as it is some people's nature to love people of their own gender, or to know that the gender they were assigned at birth is not the one they live in their hearts.

Sometimes this is hard for people (usually men) to understand.  I was born with all the biological parts to grow a human.  Why don't I want to do this?  I am growing weary of explaining it.  I just don't.  It is my nature to love and appreciate children, but to never want one of my own.  This has become a litmus test when I meet men.  The reactions range from "Okay.  Cool.   What are you going to order for dinner?" to (actual quote) "But I think it is in every true woman's nature to want children."

But this is not a childfree rant.  This is a rant about nature.  In dating world, there is a lot of rapid-fire evaluation happening, most of it unconscious.  It centers around the questions of someone's essential nature, and if that could support our own essential nature.  We all walk in with assumptions, and that is where frustration happens.  The assumption that a woman wants (wanted) children.  And that if she doesn't, it is because of some fear or trauma from her past.  No.  Sometimes the answer is as simple as, "It just is."  It is my nature.  It is also in my nature, as revealed in my childhood play, to be nurturing, to want to help others heal, and to keep strong, supportive friendships.  I think this makes me as true as any human, woman or otherwise.

Oblivion

She suffers from anxiety, like many of my favorite people.  She said to me, "I heard that someone had died, and my first thought was, 'Lucky them.'"  She insisted that she had no desire to off herself.  I believed her.

I believed her because I immediately recognized that feeling -- the sweet Siren's call of oblivion.

Probably the same day I saw her, I was walking down the street considering how easy it would be to just . . . not be.  How comfortable to just fall into oblivion.  I pictured a placeless place, through a black hole and a universe away from everything.

Let me assure you, I have no wish to go and seek oblivion.  There are moments, I think, when all that is unsettled in my world speaks with its many-headed voice and gestures with too many hands to count, and the only way I can find a space to breathe is to consider the possibility of Nothing.  Nowhere.

To imagine that emptiness is to clear out just enough room to breathe again.  And to breathe is to take in life itself.  And life trumps oblivion. Every time.

While I was travelling, I heard and thought much about the Buddhist concept of dukkha. (Most simply translated as "suffering.")  Our lives are unsatisfactory at times, this is the nature of existence.  Without dukkha, there can be no happiness, joy or contentment.  Contrast brings focus.  Touching the idea of oblivion illuminates the hunger to live.

So as I continued my walk, thinking of oblivion, I breathed into that space and caught the first whiff of thawed ground and the return of spring.

Greener Grasses

I am walking down a lane in Chiang Mai with some new friends.  We are on our way to our teacher's house.  We are talking about what our plans are when our 3 weeks together are over.  I talk about the dance retreat I am headed to in Costa Rica.

One of them says, "Man, I wish I had your life."

Immediately, I respond, "I wish I had the life everyone thinks I have."

I have been hearing a lot of affirmations and faintly envious well-wishes since I started planning this trip.  This makes me realize, again, how good we are at storytelling.  And how dangerous that can be for us.

We are so good at storytelling that we rarely stop to fact-check.  While this makes us the creative weirdos who change the world, it also makes us seal open doors with nothing more than our stories.

Sure, my life is good.  Much better than it was 2 years ago.  But there are still key things that I am missing, and there are still things in my life that make me the opposite of proud.

****   **** ****

I am at the second part of my trip, tired and sore from a morning absorbed in dancing.  Life is pretty good, as long as I stay in the right now.  But soon I will start storytelling, and see my return to the city I want to leave, the lonely hours at home, the fear that keeps me smaller than I can be.  I'm working on those things -- on having the life that people think I have.

I'm working on telling a different story.

Return to Costa Rica

I came to this retreat two years ago as my "something to look forward to" after the divorce decree.  At the time, it was my first major trip on my own.  Every morning of that trip, I got up early, got coffee, came out to the patio, sat on a comfy chair overlooking the Pacific Ocean and cried.

This time, I arrived directly from 3 life-changing weeks in Thailand.  I am sleeping as late as my body will allow, and I don't drink coffee anymore (for now.)  I feel a lightness which means that I have finally detached from a person who taught me both how to be comfortable in my body and how it feels to be emotionally manipulated.  I am still feeling fragile and unsure of my relationship decision-making skills.  But I am much more sure of my self.  the retreat leader even notices.  She tells me that I look more "in my body" and confident since the last time she saw me.

I am sitting on that same patio, in those same comfy chairs.  The endless ocean still swells in the breezes.  The howler monkeys still call early in the morning and the roosters crow in the afternoon.  I may even be on the exact same cushion, but I am different.  Outwardly, more muscular, wilder red hair, and (I am told) more relaxed in the face.  Inwardly, equipped with a soft, quiet place of infinite strength.

Chaos

I am traveling again.  Much further afield than I ever have before, and I will be gone for longer.  This trip is happening in two parts. The first part is all about exploring my profession, and the second part is about my enduring hobby-that-is-essential: bellydance.  I have barely arrived here in part one of my trip, when I am longing to be at part two.

I have the unique opportunity to spend a couple of weeks learning from a great teacher.  Today was our first day at his school.  I felt unsettled for the better part of the day.  Jet lag.  Lack of sleep.  Too much time in a group.  All of these were true, but the truth came to me at the end of the day.  I think I'm done with my profession.  I love it.  I will always love it.  The thought of leaving it to do something else breaks my heart into a thousand pieces.  But this work does not bring me joy in the same way that it used to or in the way that I need it to.

So I sat in the back of a crowded public transport truck in this foreign country, stuck in traffic for some festival or other, and I sat with the idea of changing professions, to see if it is right for me.  And I realized that I'll never know if it's right for me.  I have to make a decision and prepare to be wrong.

And it occurred to me that this must be how the Ex felt when he finally made the decision to end our marriage.  He loved me.  The thought of leaving me to go and be with someone else broke his heart into a thousand pieces.  But I did not bring him joy in the same way that I used, or the way that he needed me to.

Ah, empathy.

The question now is, am I willing to work on saving my commitment to this profession more than the Ex was willing to work on saving his commitment to me?

And resentment.

Travel is exhausting.

Love My Way

Isn't is funny how someone comes into your life and changes it by ripples and waves in ways he never even intended?  I am feeling grateful all the way to the tips of my toes this morning for a friend and all of the joys and complications he has introduced into my life.

See, he introduced me to his good friend, who then introduced me to her good friends, and all of this is how I ended up eating meals with two very different but equally lovable groups of humans this weekend.  One of those humans got me to read this article.

Such perfect timing.

I have been thinking a lot about love lately.  Wanting it.  Missing it.  Wondering if I am even capable of it.  Wondering if I have it and I just don't see.  And like so many things, the love I am thinking about is a thing constructed of images, curated news stories and formulaic novels.  (I blame you, Jane Eyre, but I will always -- well-- love you.)

I have love.  Bits and snatches of moments of tenderness and connection which can be very satisfying -- if I just pause and live in them.  Like: the other night when the man-whose-status-I-can't-quite-define just held me tenderly through some whacking great cramps.  Like: Friday when I sat at a crowded table for a friend's birthday and really understood what a warm and true-hearted person he is.  Like right now, when I am thinking of my Heartbreak Tour Guide and how much knowing him has changed my life.

I have love, I have warmth, I have sex and sometimes I even have intimacy.  Mostly, this is enough.  What I am still lacking and missing is companionship.  So, the task for my new year is to figure out how to create and define that in a way that suits me.    Let's go.

Karma Train

A wise woman once said to me: "The Karma train makes all stops."  I had just gotten laid off from a job I loved and did very well, and she was reminding me that those who get rid of a good employee might feel comfortable about it now, but soon (very soon, maybe) they would feel the discomfort of their mistake.

I suppose they did, eventually.  But of course it didn't matter much to me by then.  I kept that phrase, though, and I used it whenever it felt appropriate.  Nothing stops the Karma train.

Nothing.

And now the karma train has pulled in to my station.

A few years ago, my grandmother spent some time in the hospital.  While she was there, my dad and I went to her house and did some cleaning.  I took on the bathrooms.  In my righteous enthusiasm, I emptied all the cabinets and I filled multiple garbage bags with things I thought were just taking up space.  Septic system cleaner.  Rug that smelled like cat pee.  Ear cuff shaped like leaves.  (Still scratching my head about that one.)  Multiple tubes of ancient Avon lipstick in various shades of "Unflattering."  By the time I was done, every cabinet was scrubbed clean, inside and out, and things were organized and easy to see.  Oh yes, and the trash pile was full to bursting.

She got home from the hospital shortly before Thanksgiving.  On Thanksgiving Day, I was on the phone with my family and she made a specific request to talk to me.  I hadn't talked to her since she got home.  I kind of puffed up a little, ready to receive her gratitude with appropriate humility.  Instead, she lit into me.  She was upset by what I had done and she wanted me to feel it.  In my gut.  Like a fist.  I can still hear her saying, "You don't do that.  you don't go through people's things like that."  I apologized.  I hung up the phone.  I felt indignant and weepy and chalked it up to her (in)famous lack of gentleness in expression.

The Karma train had me scheduled.

Over Thanksgiving, I invited a friend to stay at my place while I was away.  He was about to move out of town, in that transition where he could either stay at a hotel or couch surf.  Since I was going to be away for a while, I thought it would be nice to let him stay there and take care of my cat in the process.

About a week into my time away, I got a call from the management company about the smell coming from my apartment.  It was so bad, it caused my neighbors to get sick.  I called my friend and found out he had been burning incense and smoking marijuana in my apartment.  To his credit, he didn't try to hide it and he promised to stop.

The next day I got a call from the management company again because the smell was back.  He had been burning a scented candle.  He and I decided that he would leave a few days early.

Two days later, I got home early in the afternoon.  I looked forward to sitting quietly on my sofa, reading , re-bonding with the cat and generally enjoying a quiet couple of days before I went back to work.  I opened the door to find that my entire apartment had been rearranged.  All the furniture had been moved around.  Most of the pictures were moved.  New pictures that weren't mine had been hung up.  My dance practice space had been completely dismantled.  I freaked out.

The apartment was still relatively new, and I had just gotten it to start feeling like my home.  Now it felt like I had to move in all over again.  I certainly couldn't enjoy my last days off.  I would calm down a little then notice something else that would set me off.  He moved my bookshelves (and all my books) and decided to balance the bookshelves by tearing a paperback book in half and shoving the pieces under the shelf.  He dug through my cabinets and pulled out things I didn't want to see and put them out around the apartment.  (My high school diploma?  Seriously???)

I had dear friends to come and help me calm down enough to see how I could put my place back together, and to let me know that yes, in fact, this was a weird thing for someone to do.    He left me a note which I was too livid to read.  I got through just enough of it to see that he thought he was helping me.  Who does this?, I thought.  Who helps by going through people's stuff without their permission?

Then I realized -- Oh yeah.  I do.  Or I did.  The Karma train had pulled into my station.

I get it now, Grandma.  And I am so sorry.