Three years ago, I was in the final three days of packing in preparation of boarding a plane, and for two and a half months, moving in with my son and his family. It was an unhappy move born of necessity.
Nearly a year before, my husband of 37 years shockingly died, and I stopped eating or wanting to live. Eventually seeing the concern in my son’s eyes at my weight loss and grief, I’d agreed to eat at least one nutritious meal a day, and I honored that promise, despite the fact that my desire to live didn’t return. I also had to accept that I could no longer care for our house, large garden, and flock of chickens, despite the kind and generous help dear neighbors lent.
So, with the help of good friends and family, I packed up our lives, sold and gave away things I knew I would never need again, sent my flock down the street to the neighbors who already loved them, and prepared to move to a state I’d never set foot in, imposing on beloveds just starting their own new journey.
I was bat shit crazy during that time, and what I packed and had sent to me bore that out in sometimes hilarious ways. I received a box I’d apparently insisted to a stalwart and actively supportive friendabsolutely had to be sent directly to me and could not go to storage. Upon opening it and to my surprise, I discovered a bag of coffee and the coffee pot I had swaddled like precious newborns, as if I was moving to a cave far from civilization, where coffee was scarce, Starbucks didn’t exist, and my coffee drinking son would have no means to boil water to pour over those invaluable, crushed brown beans! We laughed uproariously, but I also began to realize how crazy in grief I’d been, especially since unlike hubs, I wasn’t even a regular coffee drinker.
My son and his family made me comfortable, and I was deeply touched by how loving they were when they’d just moved into their house two weeks before my arrival. I was a miserable, walking heap of wreckage, trying to act like a human being and failing. I’d cry between my online classes, forcing myself to “grip it up” and attend to my students, themselves traumatized from Covid lockdown, and sometimes personal loss. I decided to start each class with a few minutes for them to show me their pets or artwork, so that we all relaxed, shared a smile, and bonded as a community, making an anthropological concept a reality, despite being unable to be together. I hope my attention before, during, and after classes was as helpful to them as it was for me, because those hours were the only ones when I could consistently stay dry eyed and attentive to the needs of others.
Being with family made that possible, and gradually began to bring me back to life. My grandchild returned laughter and joy to my heart and gave me reasons to want to curb my furious anguish and adopt the patience and kindness her Abuelo and my own grandfather always displayed with children. With an inner chuckle, I began thinking “What would Ray do?” a Zen koan, reminding me of the zillion times he’d calmed my quick temper and had me rethink first volatile responses. He did it through his inherent calm, while my son did so via logic. Both have saved me many a time, and I thank them, my father and grandfather, all kind, and patiently loving men, along with mi hermosa nuera, an embodiment of loving patience. A good counselor, friends, and knowledge of things the women of my family survived all combined to get me through those hideous months.
Four years since his death, the pain hasn’t subsided nor the tears stopped. I miss mi Rey every single morning, throughout my days and nights, and have mostly accepted that I always will. I’m less obviously crazy, more able to enjoy bits of my life. Most importantly, I’m acutely aware that I am still surrounded in love, and I know for sure that the truly greatest gift really is “just to love and be loved in return”
I’m sleep deprived and have been waking up each day in a foul mood- a serious change from my norm that would be shocking to my husband, were he alive. My early morning, cheerful gregariousness chafed his pre-caffeinated soul, but I think he’d be saddened by its loss since his death.
I think I have a clearer perspective than many on the disturbing upheavals in our socio-political landscape, and while I’m disturbed and saddened by human actions, I’m not easily shocked by human behavior.
However, AI shocked the hell out of me this morning by announcing that “There are new musical releases from Arthur Rubinstein- would you like to hear them?”
Rubinstein was one of my two favorite pianists as a kid who fancied herself the incarnation of Beethoven, but dude has been dead for some 43 years, so dropping new jams came as an unexpected and unnerving surprise.
Now of course I know it means that either unreleased music has been released or previously “lost” recordings found. It happens. But my initial shock was real, even as my rational mind immediately explained it away.
And you know what else? It brought me joy. I listened to his beautiful renderings of Dvorak and remembered my complete love of music and the piano, my devotion to it, and the joy and peace music has always given me, despite the physical, emotional, and metaphysical pain one suffers throughout life.
For a short while, I was transported to the safety of my parents’ home, the comfort of what I thought was a sure path, my beloved teacher, and the encouraging people in my little world. For a short while, the melancholic passages allowed my tears to flow in release rather than my recent feelings of being stuck in loss, pain, frustration, and doubt.
And for a short while, I felt the sweet tug of aspiration and the hope that my slightly arthritic fingers might regain enough flexibility to mimic my musical hero again, not with the agility of youth, but with a deeper knowledge of what both composer and artist sought to say through those notes and phrases.
Most people seem not to understand the difference between love and relationship, or at least what people think is love.
There are people I’ve loved with a passion, but for various reasons, those people weren’t able to engage or sustain a relationship. Their unresolved or even unrecognized personal issues turned them into psychological manipulators, or distancers, or rendered them inept or unable to express themselves or engage with others in a meaningful way. With one exception, these were sad men, not bad men, and what they lacked-including the refusal to accept that they needed to learn a different way of being- was inherited and learned from people who themselves had never known intimacy beyond the physical.
Sex is not the only form of intimacy and without the others, it quickly wanes. I would never deny its importance and the joy it can bring within a relationship. Done well, it helps create closeness and trust, because in order for sex to be truly great, each partner has to know not only the other’s body, but their limits and fears and thresholds of pain, however that may be expressed. There’s a level of respect that creates trust and allows for further exploration and innovation and perhaps lovely surprises for both. It’s knowing which boundaries are firm and which might be nudged for greater satisfaction. It is playfulness and time traveling and an assortment of discoveries and joys that can extend the shelf life life beyond the body’s physical limits, because really good sex goes far beyond the physical body and into “the Real,” where souls meet and reconnect. It is a gift and the best fun I can think of, and it enhances love and intimacy. But it’s not the only way that relationships work.
The thing with relationships is that they play out in real time, in real dwellings, among real relatives and friends, at real jobs, in the real trivialities of our daily lives. It’s remembering to replace their ice cream when you’ve eaten the last pop, or that they have a meeting or assignment that they’re dreading. It’s letting them sleep while you walk the dog or change the kitty litter, let the chickens out of the coop. It’s alternating who gets up to rock the baby and get them back to sleep. It’s not teasing in ways that amuse you but annoy them. It’s picking up after yourself and recognizing the baggage you brought into the relationship and working on it, not expecting them to do your work on top of their own. It’s being appreciative of their support as you do work on your shit. It is knowing beyond a doubt, that this person loves you and has your back, ride or die, as no one else can or does. It’s taking the risk of showing someone every aspect of yourself over time and realizing that even if they don’t like it all, they still love you and will be there as you slog through whatever muck needs cleaning or ditching in yourself.
That last bit is particularly hard for people who have shame or guilt and they’ll often reject the beloved for loving them, crazy as that seems to others. It’s hard for people to see themselves through the eyes of the beloved when they’ve been criticized, judged, disparaged, or rejected by others, especially in childhood.
Or perhaps they did wrong things that they’re ashamed of, and are afraid to face that or have it known to the person they only want to see them with eyes of approval. They fear- consciously or not- that they’ll lose esteem or even see horror replace the love.
I’ve known folks who were in the military and by doing their jobs, were responsible for the deaths of other humans, and even years later, could not reconcile that with their inner morality/ethics. Some had survivor’s guilt that they had survived when good companions had not.
Some might have treated women badly at other points in their lives, and others could be ashamed of criminal or unethical behaviors in their pasts.
Some, like me, might have done things others would consider trivial and ordinary childhood events, but they still weigh on that person and seep into the relationship. It doesn’t have to make sense to the beloved, but they have to accept the reality of it for their partner and go from there. Comfort, reassurance, and professional therapy can go a long way in most relationships, because even when we understand and accept a person, we cannot fix another person. We can help to create an emotional environment of peace, acceptance, encouragement, and love that allows for healing, but part of having healthy relationships is knowing where to place the necessary boundaries and to know what is and isn’t yours or yours to fix/heal.
I can chant “there, there” or “sana sana” over a bad cut or broken finger, but professional medical assistance is still necessary, and there’s no shame in that, and there should be no shame if the required assistance is for mental health care either. We are not meant to cover every job in relationships. We are meant to want to help, find out how to help, and to the best of our ability, lovingly point the beloved towards the resources required for the particular issue. Hell, going together to the library to look up resources is a great way to express solidarity and for both to learn things.
There are no wrong or right ways, only what works for you both. And that will change over time, as you change. That’s why honesty is crucial from day one. You have to take into account changes that will have an impact on the relationship: returning to school/new job, wanting to move, have more kids or prevent having more. Big or small, your changes have or can have, an effect on your beloved and they need to be informed. Your partner shouldn’t the last to know if you’re unhappy or dissatisfied or disappointed or turned off in some way! Keeping info from them isn’t “protecting”them or “sparing”them, or any of the cowardly lies you might tell yourself when in reality (remember? Where we all exist..) it is denying them choice and agency. It is a sure way to ruin a good relationship.
Will you screw up? Inevitability. Again, that’s reality. We all do and will, mostly in silly, downright stupid ways that will annoy, perhaps anger, even inspire amused pity in the partner who wonders how they can love such an addle brained fool. In most cases, you’ll even have a good laugh about it and it might become one of those family stories, shamelessly dragged out with friends you trust, among the many stories from everyone’s enduring friendships. The person who screwed up might be first to tell on themselves, noting their own idiocy and fallibility. Those first years together are guaranteed to create such stories, and most are just that: the errors made in getting to know each other, innocent boundary crossings, silly missteps and mistakes. A friend and I both had husbands who used our cutlery for tools because the toolbox wasn’t handy! Annoyed, yes. Forgivable, absolutely! Funny? Most certainly, and the four of us had a number of loving laughs about the daffiness our guys shared. They, in turn, could laugh about our little foibles, like my insistence that you shouldn’t change directions when mixing batter. Believe me, I know it’s daft, and I shake my head at myself and laugh along. If I know nothing else, through my experience and professional training, I know that humans are bundles of contradictions and comically complex. Life gets a lot easier and far more enjoyable once we can own that and laugh at ourselves.
Bigger grievances, true hurts will obviously require real attention, and when trust is broken, if repair is still possible, understand that it can take a very long time and complete self monitoring to rebuild. The aggrieved party is the one who’ll decide when they’re satisfied, not the perpetrator. A real hurt might require that professional assistance we mentioned earlier. Automatically saying you forgive the person or even wanting to be able to forgive them is unrealistic. Boundaries and trust broken is a big deal and has to be handled with delicacy and commitment. Just because the offender gets tired of the dog house, they don’t get to push their way back into the main house of their partner’s heart. Their ego has to be put aside and they have to commit to making amends. And just as in AA, they have to understand that their willingness to make amends doesn’t give them an automatic pass. The loved one can continue to love you but they may not accept your offer until they know that their heart and peace and boundaries are safe. If that will happen or how long it might take cannot be predicted or limited. And if the person who originally ignored what was best for their partner is now unwilling or unable to make that commitment, they don’t really know what love is.
And that’s why knowing what’s most important to your partner and respecting that comes first. If you will not understand that and commit to that level of care, you can never reach those “higher”levels of intimacy and the satisfaction and happiness that they bring.
Is it always easy? Hell no. Is it worth it? Yes, beyond measure. I’m old and have done a number of things, seen a lot, heard more, made more mistakes than I care to admit, and I can think of nothing more important in any relationship, whether friendship or lover. All relationships go through changes. I have a couple of friends from my teens and over the years, we’ve lost touch, had disagreements, reworked how we know each other, and renewed and created new understandings of how we’re friends as we go through life and move further away from the kids we were. Aspects of those original relationships are there, bound by shared experiences, humor, and love, but if forced to remain the same and stagnate, respect and love would die.
My sister and I had a fourteen year age gap, so as adults, we very consciously worked on getting to know each other as individual adults with very different takes on our childhoods and parents. It allowed us to move away from the family story into our own sometimes shaky, but genuine relationship.
All good long term relationships require flexibility, adaptations, and humor. What makes them doable is love and commitment. I learned as much from my son as he from me and my love for him allowed me to rethink, even put aside at least some of my ideas about child rearing and the world. I continue to learn from him and his family, because their experience of the world isn’t mine nor is their world the world of my past. So I try to keep that in mind and work to resolve inevitable differences between our strong wills. We’re all worth the effort, because I know that they and all my loved ones enhance my life and make my world and the world a better place. They and I are worth my sometimes bruised ego or the pain of adapting to new ideas and realities, and I love them enough to sometimes request the difficult conversations.
We can change most easily through love. It never stops growing, and our capacities are built to accommodate that amazing, sometimes mind-blowing growth.
Last summer, I moved to South Carolina to be closer to my family following my husband’s sudden death, and found a little house within walking distance of my son and his family. Cute house, albeit in a dreaded HOA, and part of the overdevelopment of this area of the country. But lovely neighbors, fewer problems associated with previous older houses, an adorable little downtown, and best of all, my grandchild and her parents. All good.
It’s obviously been hard without my beloved, in so many ways, both expected and unexpected. So when I started hearing what sounded like gentle snoring at night, I first assumed that it was my grief stricken imagination. Friends immediately suggested that it was my beloved’s spirit trying to comfort me with the familiar sound of his snoring, letting me know that he was there.
While I do believe our Ancestors exist within and outside of us, I was also taught by my mother to eliminate the corporeal/physical and mundane before assuming the supernatural, so I went through some basic mental checks: animal bedding down in the sunroom? Animal in the vents, etc. Armed with my trusty machete, I quietly creeped out to the sunroom half expecting to surprise and be surprised by a bear, but no, the room was empty.
Listening closely on different nights, it sometimes sounded as though coming from the vents, almost like a bellows, so perhaps the air conditioning? There’d been no problems during servicing, but it seemed the most likely source. I held my own breath to listen carefully, as the sounds could be heard at different levels on different nights, fairly convinced that there’d be a mechanical answer for its regularity.
The sounds continued, and eventually became just background noise. Whenever anything was moved around the house, or we couldn’t explain it, my husband and I would joke about having a wee Poltergeist, so I found myself smiling and thinking, “I guess the Poltergeist followed me from NY” and shrugged the whole thing off.
I hadn’t realized until it started up again this spring that it had been quiet during the short winter. Determined to trace the sound, in the wee hours one night several weeks ago, I got up and again followed the sound from vent to sunroom, and surrounded by this “breathing” sound, and despite my fear of being mauled by mosquitoes, I walked out into the warm, humid night.
And it was under the always beautiful night skies and against the wooded area’s dark silhouette that loomed behind my house that I realized that what I was hearing vibrating throughout my bedroom was the glorious sound of a million various tree frogs! Not bears, or pumas, nor Ancestors, but “Coquis without a song” asserting their healthy presence in the trees and marshlands of their Ancestors. Listening to the force of their combined woodland voices, I stood in awe of their symphonic volume for a few moments, again amazed by the natural world around me.
I thanked them for their presence, said a prayer for their protection, and returned to the cool of my room, content to have one small mystery of life solved.
Thinking about what “We are all related” means at a level I’ve not been. It’s disturbing. As it must be.
Certainly anyone of conscience has considered what that, or The Golden Rule, or Beatitudes mean, what they’re trying to lead us towards. Like Wittgenstein’s fly in the bottle, we’re all trying to find our way out of a trap we willingly entered. Enticed perhaps by something sweet to us: fame, escape, wealth, esteem, love… or simply to survive.
It’s nearly impossible in the realities of the world we live in, to see those things as illusions. They are the driving forces that allow us to tolerate an inhumane society and our human limitations. They motivate us and give us hope, whether it’s of earthly or spiritual rewards. And we crave that. We pray, muddle, and force our way through, but we don’t generally experience it as that because for the most part, we’re given no alternatives, birth to death. Even those of us aware of other possibilities still find ourselves trapped in a world almost completely colonized. And no, I don’t mean only events since 1492. That mindset began long before and has always led to alienation, wars, and despair.
Don’t misunderstand me: there are belief systems and psychologies that name these things and can help one modify behaviors and to a limited extent, even outcomes. But we’re like addicts, whereby even truths are worked into our inner beliefs and ultimately, denial.
So is there a way out of the bottle before death? I honestly don’t know. My own inner drives impel me towards a form of hope, and I’ll continue to meditate and repeat my mantra, and perform the rituals of my mother’s people in between worry, confusion, fear, and rage. I‘ll continue because I live, and without meaning, as Frankl understood, we are rudderless yet compulsive souls, lost to our fears. And we must consciously choose what our lives are to mean or lose the heart and soul of our humanity.
The older I get, the deeper is my respect, appreciation, admiration, and genuine awe for my Ancestors. Not only did they survive every conceivable and imagined horror, they thought about what their struggles meant and how best to bear suffering yet remain intact. They left hints, stories, and sometimes clear instructions, but most impressively, they showed through their own lives. They all retained humor, kindness, and goodness, harsh as their versions might sometimes have seemed to me as a child.
Outside of and beyond their circumstances, they were fully human, perhaps the highest compliment I have. They kept kinship beyond blood. I so aspire.
“Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted by talking wires? The end of living and the beginning of survival.” – Chief Seattle, 1852
💔 In my older years I’ve come to a deep understanding that greed is the most destructive force in the world. Doesn’t matter what form it takes- envy, the desire for power, money, influence, fame, or to control others or their bodies- in the end, it’s still greed, and it kills: love, beauty, relationships, the natural world, and ultimately, humanity and human kind.
I’m obviously not the first or wisest person to say such things, but our decline on almost every level requires me and us to move away from merely noticing or despair and to vigorously act on behalf of the world and all living beings. In my tradition, that includes everything/everyone in the natural world, including rocks, trees, rivers, and bees. Even my nemesis, the mosquito.
Any culture, society, or tradition that promotes greed needs to be rethought, reorganized, or simply revoked. If we can’t understand that we are all connected and that our fates are intwined, we’re all going down with this earth ship I love so much.
When I was a kid at school, we had something called “Think and Do” books that promoted critical thinking in young children. I’m adding the element of compassion to the equation and asking that we all connect, consider, and act. Thrive, don’t just survive. There are and have been, better ways to understand and live in the world. Learn and grow. ❤️
shamamaspeaks 