Faith and Flow



In my last few posts, I've written about some happy things- my life now, my decision not to flirt with regret- and mostly, my life is Good. I have the love of my family and friends, I have a job I love, I have my health. What I also have is a propensity to behave in one of two ways: 1) as a locked vault, or 2) as an open book.

When my life is going well, when I have Balance, I'm apt to be the book, to have faith that what I'm doing and how I'm behaving and all that is happening around me is all part of a bigger plan. Put another way: I have flow.

flow (noun): the action or fact of moving along in a steady, continuous stream.

More than that definition though, I have flow as defined by Mihaly Csikszentmihaly, flow when you get so involved in something that you forget time, you forget how you feel, where your awareness of your actions fades into action alone. It is an amazing experience.

My day-to-day flow, the one I've been working so diligently on mastering, recently swelled and surged and hit the wall. Slammed right into that fucker, pounding pounding pounding, and me, holding holding holding. And then a break like I haven't experienced in some time. I should have been prepared for this, but I was not.

I was removed from my day-to-day due to work obligations and then the July 4th holiday. I should have seen it coming. Work was stressful enough without having to manage things from across the country. And the holiday? Well, seeing all of the happy families and reunions and couples and young people all around me- oblivious to anything other than their own joy- just crushed me. And then the wasband went further and stomped more, twisting and grinding me down further. The somber rain clouds and quick but violent storm on July 4th was not lost on me, oh! pathetic fallacy!

Look at that photo above. That one rock? Its me, its you. We are solid and stable and here and we exist in this place with all the chaos, with the Holy Mess that is our Life. You are the rock in the river, and every so often, you work yourself loose. You get jostled and pushed and pounded along the river, tumbling, moving to the surface with the current or getting pushed down further to the silty bottom. Eventually you bump into a few things- a fallen tree branch, another rock, a dead animal- and experience some pain before you nestle into a new spot where you once again get used to all that surrounds you, the routine of family, friends, lovers, work, Life. This takes time, of course:

"Experience has taught me how important it is to keep going...Eventually [pain] passes and the flow returns." - Frank Shorter

I took a few days and sat at the beach, meditating on that quote, thought about how it applied to me, and to my life, my current crisis of faith, and how contemplation could repair my flow; I was looking for proof. To maintain flow, it is said that one must seek out increasingly greater challenges; attempting these new challenges stretches our skills, forces us to seek feedback. Lack of feedback blocks flow.

I was in the Holy Mess stage. I wasn't looking for a place to nestle into- I was too deep in with anger and frustration and jealousy and fear. I was blind to the faith meant to guide me, I had no one person to guide me out of the dark water, back to the lightness at the surface. (That, dear friends- "Be the place I nestle into. Always."- can be added to that list for My Best New Boyfriend.) I was low. I faked being happy wherever I went those few days. Three people could see through my act, and their guidance helped me more than words can express. Feedback, right?

And then I refocused. I went back to work, I got back into a routine. I did my laundry and washed the dishes, I went to the gym. I ignored calls from my wasband. I hugged children and I laughed. I am still wobbly, but I have recommitted to waking up every day to find joy and express gratitude for this, my Holy Mess of a Life. Proof be damned.

"Faith is not belief without proof, but trust without reservations."- Elton Trueblood

My flow has not resumed it's full momentum, but I trust that I'm moving in the right direction. Go with the flow, friends.

Still Hopeful

Last fall, I wrote about my new life, and how big life decisions influenced my state of mind, how I was taking up residence in Hopeful, Unincorporated.

Divorced life- divorced without the drama of infidelity or the tragedy of abuse, divorced only perhaps because of the realization that each was not whom we thought the other to be- is a state that I have found to be both profoundly satisfying (as I am now incredibly sure of who I am and what I want) and a good boost for my self-esteem.  Take, for instance the following text exchange with my friend Mrs. Hansen:

Mrs. Hansen: Question posed to Hansen children: Can you think of anyone to date Miss Rachel? Response from N: No and even if I could, she'd be way out of his league. J: She's too awesome to date anyone I know.

Me: And THAT is why they are my favorite kids. Those answers deserve pierogi.

Mrs. Hansen: N also added, "She can't date just anyone. We have to know he's a good guy that will treat her right." Smartest 11-year-old I know.

Big smile, warm fuzziness, and a contented feeling that I must be doing something right to get that sort of response from the children of my friends.

And yet.

I have spent almost every night the past year sleeping with a flannel pillow filled with feed corn; once zapped in the microwave for about four minutes, this pillow acts as a source of radiant heat for hours; the immediate hot heat fades through the night, replaced by the heat from my body. The weight of the thing- maybe five pounds- coupled with the slow, steady warmth lulls me to sleep, and acts as a sort of security mechanism for me.  The weight is also about the same as that of a partner's arm resting on your hip, or thigh, or between your shoulder blades while you both half-sleep, twisted in among blankets and bed clothes.

I write about this because divorced life- the other part, the part where your free time is filled with everything your ex never wanted to do, never could understand, never could grasp the importance of the things they rejected- is also incredibly lonely.

I have tried to ignore this part, hoping that it would go away, fade like the intense heat from my corn-filled pillow and somehow be magically replaced with a more mellow version of itself.

And yet.

I look at my family, my friends, people at the grocery store, the gas station, the mall. I contemplate the possibilities for a partner in this small community, in the realm of online dating services, or in a bar, or the grocery store, the gas station, the mall. I am at a bit of a loss as to how the juxtaposition of the happiness for my new freedom and the loneliness of my new freedom can coexist in my daily life without causing external conflicts beyond a knot of hardened steel between my shoulder blades.

"Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better," said Henry Rollins. He's got a point: loneliness certainly makes one aware of everything else around you, intensifies every part of your days. I understand the need for contemplation, meditation, solitude, quietness.  It's just that I think having someone to share those moments with- even if only in conversation after the fact- is what magnifies and intensifies those experiences.

My friends are trying to come up with possible dates, going so far as to help me compose "personal statements" for online sites. They toss names into our conversations, hoping that something will spark my interest, raise my eyebrows, make me say tell me more.

And yet. And yet. And yet, I remain unconvinced that My Best New Boyfriend will be the result of any of this requested meddling. I still want to believe that he'll just show up, I'll blink and look again, and say "Oh! It's you." That he'll have been here all along, waiting for me to turn around. That I'll wake up one morning and the flannel pillow will really be his arm. That the burning sunset will be something we can share.

Taking a cue from the quote above, I will try to remain in a place where possibilities are more prominent in my thoughts than not, and I will try to remain open to new experiences; I will remain ready for unexpected suggestions, and I will remain content with being alone (if only for a while longer) here in Hopeful, Unincorporated.

Annoyed, Defensive, and Relieved

In the past two weeks or so, I've been one bit annoyed, one bit defensive, and two bits relieved. Let me explain.

So, it's been almost a month since my last post, and you would think that I'd be swatting back men like flies from honey, what with those fairly easy rules for the guys to follow and my super hotness (Ha!). You would be wrong.

I personally don't think that I'm being all that particular with those "rules." My mother, on the other hand, is probably rolling her eyes upward and saying a little prayer for any future dates I may have; I'm told I've always been picky. And I can see where you might think I'm being overly choosy. Wait...no, I can't. I don't think I'm asking that much at all.

You see, I think that I have earned the right to be discerning, that I shouldn't have to "settle" or re-think and re-configure what it is, exactly, that I want from a relationship. I think that I have earned the right to be happy, using my own definition of "happy" and outlining my own parameters for a relationship. Which makes waiting for dates that much more annoying.

What's gotten me on my high horse? Talking to other people in my position, in similar geographic regions, with similar backgrounds. And this article certainly gave me tons to think about. I mean, you would think that with this "husband shortage" in the United States that I'd be willing to budge on some of those rules, that I'd be willing to look in unconventional places for dates (The grocery store! The Secretary of State's office!), and that I'd be willing to date a decent guy who just so happens to be down on his luck and living with his parents "until things turn around."

Again, you would be wrong. (There's the defensiveness I was talking about.)

One of the things that Kate Bolick writes about in the above mentioned article is the immaturity of men in my age bracket, that they are too willing to make do with less, that they can't be bothered to take the initiative, and they don't really see the value in trying so hard. At least that's what I got out of it. That, and how women are paving new roads for the way they'd like to live (like in that all-female apartment complex in Amsterdam), both with and without conventional relationships with men.

I, for one, like men. And I would like to find someone to share my time with. And I'm not about to "settle for Mr. Good Enough", even though I'm pretty sure I've suggested doing just that to at least one friend (and yes, she still talks to me).

Further, I think I need to clarify what it is, exactly, I'm looking for in a relationship: shared goals for the future; shared values; shared sense of optimism, but with a healthy dose of skepticism. Adventure. Romance. Companionship. FUN. Family. Friends. Food. Curiosity. Laughter. Sunshine. Rainbows. Unicorns.

Okay, I'm kidding about that last one. But Potential Prince Charming will spend hours with me dreaming up fantastical stories about those unicorns and making plans about what we'll do when I win the lottery. And if I could spend all of my free time with My Best New Boyfriend and our stories about unicorns and lottery winnings, well then I don't think I'd ever want to do anything else except maybe do all that with a thin crust cheese pizza and some cheap beer.

And since doing all that doesn't pay the bills around here, I'm two bits relieved that I still have a real job. But a girl can only entertain her fantasies for so long before she gets more annoyed or more defensive; and lest you think I'm one of those women who can smile and fake it...

...you'd be wrong one more time.

The Rules

And so it begins: my foray back into the dating world. It has been twenty-plus years since I've been on a date, and as a courtesy to 1) all the guys lining up to ask me out on dates *that was a joke*, and 2) my friends (hopefully) trying to set me up on dates, I've come up with a list of rules. Without further ado, and after Level One, in no particular order:

The Rules: Level One
Thanks to my friend, Bridgette, for this part of the list.

Any guy hoping to take me out on a date should:
1. have a mouth full of teeth.
2. have a full-time job.
3. not live with his parents.
4. have a sense of humor (but I'm not kidding about those first three rules).

Made it this far? Let's move on to Level Two.

Any guy meeting the Level One requirements can proceed with date plans if:
1. he is still considerably taller than I am even when I am wearing my highest heels.
2. he is at least as smart as I am; I don't want to date someone I have to explain a lot to.
3. he is social without being a party animal or bar fly.
4. he is a non-smoker.
5. he enjoys participating in physical activities that are not sex.
6. he thinks learning is a lifetime activity, not limited to "school years."
7. he is a smart dresser, and has an overall awesome sense of style.
8. he will indulge my inner fashionista with approving looks and compliments.
9. he recognizes that my pickiness extends beyond food and date choices.
10. he understands that no one can out-Martha Stewart me, except for Martha Stewart.

Still with me? You've reached Level Three, Potential Prince Charming.

My Best New Boyfriend will:
1. not buy me chocolate; he will be well-versed in my candy likes and dislikes. The list is long, friends. SO long.
2. understand that sometimes I can swear like a dirty, dirty sailor. Not usually done in public, though.
3. never interrupt a viewing of Project Runway, nor will he argue that Clinton and Stacey from What Not To Wear aren't my friends. Because, oh yes, they ARE my friends.
4. be kind and considerate and not afraid of a little PDA from time to time.
5. give awesome gifts. (Side note: one year for Christmas I received a box that contained a roll of toilet paper, a can of Lysol spray, and a bottle of raspberry-flavored vodka. The piece of paper inside the box said: "Thanks for putting up with my shit. The vodka is to help you forget." I am NOT making that up. Also, I hate raspberry-flavored vodka.)
6. give awesome back/shoulder/leg rubs without complaint, and with the right amount of pressure.
7. be well-versed in popular culture, will enjoy it, and will play bar trivia with me if that's what I would like to do.
8. will love music. Bonus points for being able to play a musical instrument. (However, if you are a "professional musician," you didn't even make it past Level One- why are you still hanging around? Unless you are my skanky boyfriend, Tommy Lee, in which case...)
9. understand that my friends are very much a part of whom I call "family," and that I love my family no matter how crazy they seem.
10. know that a room-temperature Coca-Cola Classic, Lay's Original potato chips, and pink-frosted Loft House cookies are the best & quickest way to my heart.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go set up the velvet ropes for the masses. ;o)