May 28, 2011

“Some nights stay up till dawn,
as the moon sometimes does for the sun.”
-Rumi

It’s 5:46 a.m. I’ve been up since around three, moon-gazing at the sliver of white light in the sky punctuated by a bright star to its lower left. It seems like some sort of Arabesque calligraphy—a secret I translate to mean something like serenity. And perhaps if my heart was breaking the backward “C” might mean something entirely different—a scythe or tenterhooks, an errant nail, a malignant thorn.

But this is not the case, and being a writer, I search the symbol for a reflection of how I’m feeling right now, finally deciding that my interior world is freakishly devoid of drama for the first time in about two years. There is no agony about divorcing, no angst about a womanizing lover, and no feigned apathy in response to an emotionally inept fireman.

Instead, I look around my life and this is what I see: my own space and dreams, my own work and passions. And a man who seems too good to be true. Yesterday in yoga, my instructor said this: “meditation will give you the answers to the universe.” It just so happened that I’d been deeply contemplating my breath at the time, and his words prompted this thought: what if this relationship that seems like a forever-kind-of-thing is only about learning a lesson? What if there is no future for us, no next year, no next month? What if this peaceful elation is temporary, just like everything else?

You’ve heard that change is the only constant. My past illusions of stability culminated in asphyxiating stagnation and the realization that my mind changes more often than not—something that frustrated my ex immensely. But without mental malleability, I would still be a control freak, believing my ideas were best, and closing myself off from the magic that has infused my life. And here’s the thing about magic: you can’t dictate how it manifests. It can’t be planned.

Taking the future off the table means facing those hopeful expectations and releasing them. Granted, there is a sadness to considering the rest of my life without partnership because I always thought that collaboration was the best way to learn anything. It’s what I teach my students and what tons of pedagogy research has shown: that peer learning reaps better retention and more meaning for people. And I is people.

Which means I want that opportunity to thrive in the search for Truth, to be brave and afraid when faced with risking the safety of knowing for the multitudinous benefits and consequences of growing with someone. Because if it’s not him (who is definitely not perfect, but may just be perfect for me) the rest pale in comparison.

And why settle for less than exactly what I want? I did that my whole life, and it got me here. I refuse to do it again. Still I practice releasing the ifs, even though they’re good. I encourage him to just be himself, instead of imagining him as “The One;” a practice a friend who’s engaged to be married suggested at the start of this dating endeavor.

And because I believe in a healthy dose of hubris to stave off my ever-burgeoning ego, fatalism in this instance, though probably not immunizing me from heartache, kind-of curbs my impulse to meld. But my intuition about the fireman was right on—there was a forever kind of ‘something else’ finally resulting in our ability to actually be friends. Could the quest to let go last a lifetime? Because this one lesson has been on my mind forever. It’s something I practice every day: my Sisyphean effort to become something more.

It’s all quite confusing—a mental web I’ve made to bridge my fear of getting maimed by a guy with a whole lot going for him. And he says he’s scared, too. Being present to that fear is like pigeon pose, where you, half-splits-like, sit on a bent leg with the other straight back—it hurts a lot before it feels good and releases. Without the freedom to be afraid, maybe we’d both sabotage ourselves. And maybe this is the beginning of the end. So I force myself to stop trying to know something I can’t and trust that the present will keep bringing me what I need.

May 20, 2011

"Pocketsful"

“You know the nearer your destination, the more you’re slip sliding away.”
-Paul Simon

Today everything will change. There’s no way it can’t, which is why I woke at 3:43 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. Exactly one week ago, I was landing in Houston for a much-needed break from all this change, escaping into another life so I could figure out how to proceed in mine. My cousin spent most of our time together listening to me waffle as I pained over whether I was ready for the ‘something more’ I claimed to want when I started dating.

But here’s the thing: dating is an intoxicating ego boost. Who doesn’t want to be the celebrity in her own life, fielding emails and phone calls, texts and voicemails with one question asked over and over again: when do you have time for me? On the receiving end of all this attention, I glistened in the spotlight, shimmering from being adored, desired, and pursued.

And these were not losers, oh no; these were successful men with jobs, making at least $100K per year (well, I let the slam poet in the back door because of the performance I’d seen of him on the internet, but I was surprised such a talented guy wanted me). My calendar was full and it was invigorating. I felt young and hot from the compliments that kept coming, but my destination hazed en route to the partnership I had proclaimed I wanted.

This isn’t a bad thing. For all my focus on being present, it’s no wonder I got lost gazing into the eyes of a different man every night. I was fully there when the contractor’s dimples first appeared, when the slam poet’s knuckles grazed my knee, when the fireman’s sweet beer breath warmed my cheek, and the hotelier’s hand burned the small of my back. But it was Escrow Guy who moved me.

So when he told me he didn’t like my boundaries—that he wanted to see me exclusively, I talked the talk, but I wasn’t ready for the walking part. My cousin said he manipulated me into a relationship when I’d clearly stated I wanted space, and maybe this is true. I had to choose between dating—being the bouncer for a fascinating line of men who, well-dressed and on their best behavior, waited to get past my door and a guy I felt connected with in so many ways.

Going away to reset my head was exactly what I needed. I took my Match profile down and slipped off to consider my heart. The constant buzz of being the center of my own dating universe with eager explorers eventually petered out. It’s a good thing because had I stayed, I’m pretty sure I would have ruined everything; my initial reactions knee-jerking me into strange destructive patterns.

Because I sometimes don’t believe I deserve happiness, that missing my want will take something away. Becoming my best potential requires overpowering that voice that hates change—that worries about starting on what's next, that frets about what to do once I’ve got everything.

I have the power to choose everything in my life because perception is one hundred percent of the truth, which means that with this partnership stuff off my list of things to do, I could concentrate on different dreams. Being present means each moment is perfect, that I am learning exactly what I need from the people best equip to teach me. This is how I balance my fear of change, how I reassure myself that if I watch closely, I can suss out the universe’s signs for where I’m supposed to go, replacing my wants with faith.

Today, everything will change. Then it will change again. Making room for it inside myself is work I must do in order to choose happiness. If I refuse, change will knock me down and break my heart, and it will hurt more than it has to.

May 6, 2011

“I will not go naked”

My friend, N, defines the term, ‘dating,’ as ‘an implicit assumption that all participants are simultaneously pursuing multiple partners.’ I shouldn’t feel bad, she encourages, because I’m seeing not two, not three, not even four, but five men at the same time. According to her, until an agreement to the contrary (i.e.., ‘commitment,’ a.k.a. ‘The Talk’) is negotiated, I have every right to date however many men I can fit into my social calendar. Other friends have made a distinction between ‘dating’ and ‘seeing,’ which has proved too fine for me to grasp; it has something to do with passing first base, but I can’t say for sure.

Through my multi-tasking experiment (based on this definition, I’ve never actually ‘dated’ before—instead I’ve had a string of long-term relationships), I’m finding that this is likely why my last beau only had time for me once or twice a week, even though he didn’t have a job. And perhaps this is why I’m doing it—because I spent the past six months waiting for a boy to call me. Let’s just say I ain’t-a-waitin’ no more.

I tell myself it takes time to connect with people, to get to know them, to find out if there’s something more than instant attraction. This is where I went wrong last time: I thought I knew something I didn’t, and what I’m seeing with my perfect hindsight is that he never was that ‘into’ me. Instead, he strung me along for quite some time with gifts, fancy dinners, and spooning; and once or twice a week I fucked like a porn star, slept in, then was rewarded with eggs benedict and a non-fat latte.

Maybe he liked me a little more than I’m letting on, but frankly I’m a bit jaded from the whole experience. If he could hold me at a distance for such an extended amount of time, what does that say about me and my desire to connect? Was I really just practicing being alone with training wheels, or was I waiting for him to fall so I could figure out how I felt about him? When I’m really honest with myself, I know the later is true. What is it about me that needs to be wanted, and how is that keeping me from truly facing myself and learning something about freedom and independence?

Of course, dating so many people may not the best way to discover the answer. I do get to have the power, which is something I was missing last time, having handed it over willingly for the chance to ‘be known.’ Why can’t I let go of my ego again and allow what’s supposed to happen? Talking a big game is my forte, and I can meditate all I want on being present, letting go of the future, and releasing the past, but if I can’t ever really try again, what’s the point?

Yet being jaded has its benefits—I’ve finally realized that the game aspect is necessary; being too available is not good for the hunter instinct, and if I want a real man (which I do), he needs to feel like he’s actually catching something. Lying down in his path and letting him do whatever he wants makes it oh-so-not-thrilling. So I set boundaries. I make plans with friends, my niece, my mother—whomever, so I’m not always available. I cancel and I flirt. I have not gone naked.

Plus, I’m living the high life—men willingly buy me dinner, gifts, and comp executive suites for my girl’s night out. I get to have interesting conversations with fascinating people who really want to sleep with me, which means they’re on their best behavior, while I somehow get to be as unapologetic about being myself as I ever have been. Don’t want what I’m selling? There’s the door, Mister. I got a line here, so hurry it up if you’re on your way out.

Last night, my frontrunner kissed me after our fourth date. There are a lot of things I like about him, but the way he kisses isn’t . . . how do I say this . . . isn’t . . . mind-blowing. Cher’s “It’s in his kiss” comes to mind, though the last mind-blowing kisser I had was during my early twenties, when kissing was one of my favorite sports. Is my bar set too high? Everything else is promising, so how important is it, really?

And there I go again, compromising. My other forte: I am an expert at explaining away things that really should matter. So maybe I need some time to think. We’re supposed to go out tomorrow night, and I know our physical communication will escalate because it can’t not. So he’s not earth-shattering in my mouth. His tongue played havoc with my shoulder blades and neck; the space just above my breasts bore up to meet his lips. And his chest and back are things of beauty, not to mention his stomach and the dip right between his breastbone. I want him. Trust.

But I don’t want to have sex. Which is why I’m considering canceling. Blue balls are an excellent reason for a man to keep trying, and he’ll have two weeks to think about me because of our over-lapping trips out of town. Plus I want to see these other men to their logical conclusions. I’m intrigued by the slam poet I’m coffeeing with Saturday morning. And the charming hotelier with a killer singing voice is a sweetheart. Then there’s the slightly insecure fireman who makes me laugh and the burly contractor whose cheek, when it brushed against mine, was soft as a baby’s.

Mostly, I don’t want to have sex because it muddles my power. It’s like kryptonite in that the last time with training wheels guy, I had sex then stopped being myself. Finagling him into falling in love with me didn’t work, and I never got to figure out if there was that ‘something more’ because he decided there wasn’t first. The more he pushed me away, the more determined I was to be strong and the more I cried alone, excusing his absences without ever asking for a reason. Pathetic, right?

So fuck that. For now, I’m seeing everyone I find interesting. And, taking N’s advice, I will not apologize or explain myself. I will not feel guilty because I am interviewing but perhaps not actually in the market to hire. It’s the first time in my life that I am not beholden to anyone, and I’d like to enjoy that a little longer. But truth be told, I’m a horn dog. I want to see the frontrunner again bad, and going a little farther than dry humping might do well for his imagination while we’re apart. Mine, too.

May 4, 2011

"In Vain"

Confused,
I search through poems by Jimmy Santiago Baca and Francisco Alarcan:
snake poems, love poems, and screen-door-and-summer-day poems
the answer somewhere in the pages,
the answer somewhere in the air.

I summon all my intellect against time and gravity
wanting for something to be wrong with you.

The other night stuck outside my locked gate,
you rang to ask if I had a dog.
Practiced in the art of boundaries,
I walked slowly down the path
let you ogle me from the other side.

I’m no longer that woman who makes excuses for lovers.
I’ll just leave. I won’t turn back.

At dinner, we talked about babies and super heroes,
the first time we were kissed and the last.
There was a list. We did not talk about your ex-wife. My ex-husband.
And beneath the table, legs crossed,
I waited for you to touch me.

The void that exists between us
is aching, pulsing as it waits.

When you dropped me off at 1:30 a.m., I leaned over
your armrest expanse to kiss you goodnight
but reaching the other side, you did not meet me half-way.
Instead, you waited with your eyes open.
I pecked you on the lips and slipped away. Into the ebon night.