Dating

Growing up I held onto the secret regarding being molested by my step-father because I believed John would kill my Mother if I did not.  He dragged me by my hair and showed me the little vials at the top of the medicine cabinet.  “See these?  I can kill her anytime.  I can kill her and no one will know I did it.  I am a doctor.  I know how.”  I believed him, and although I toyed with telling and letting her die, in the end I could not.  So, I kept my mouth shut and the secret buried until I was seventeen.  I held on in the face of everything, and I swore that when I grew up nothing like this would ever happen again.  If someone tried to rape me, they would have to kill me first.

I did not know that some promises–even the deepest ones of all–cannot always be kept.

When I first began to talk about being molested, I would say, “He touched me.”  I never used the “R” word–rape-to describe it.  In fact, I would secretly breathe a sigh of relief that he never had vaginal sex with me.  I would whisper to myself, “At least I was not raped.”  As a Junior at Wheaton College, I went to a meeting of “Christians For Biblical Equality,” where a woman spoke about sexual assault.  She described sexual assault–the real term for rape–as being whenever someone forcibly penetrates another, whether this be by penis, hand, bottle, stick, etc.  As she spoke, a little animated movie began in my head of this dark blackness–all in deep tones of gray–with a motion of a hand in-and-out, in-and-out.  It played over and over to the point I could no longer hear a word she said.  I could make that movie today or draw it for you–it remains so vivid.  This image thrust me into counseling within the week, which then led to a three week stint in a women’s mental health unit the following February.  Once the movie began to play, the truth did as well.  I became flooded with memories of being molested daily at home for five years.  All the images I pushed away in my fierce determination to survive rose up and spilled out like hot lava.  A purge began.  I had been sexually assaulted.  However, the “R” word hung in the air like a suspended universe waiting to fall or explode.  I just could not let the word fall upon me.

I still try to only say that I had been sexually assaulted or molested.  I tell people by saying, “This is not a secret…I was molested as a child.”  I just avoid the “R” word in its many manifestations.  I avoid talking about it…personally…seeing movies where there is a rape…listening to stories about rape…the news about someone being raped.  I try to keep the “R” word out of my life all together.  At one point I did try to let it sit on my tongue.  I leaned up against the word while going to a Rape Survivor Group circa 1992.  I just never could own it as a word to describe me or what happened to me.  I left the group–the women in it were too depressing–and for the most part try to keep anyone who has been molested or raped out of my inner circle.  I never want it to be the point of connection, for rape is not life-giving or hopeful.

I tend not to think too much about the particulars of what happened any longer–the movie does not play.  I dealt with the actual events a long time ago.  In fact, when I was in the women’s mental health unit, I can remember thinking about how the easy task was to deal with the rock thrown in the water–the molestation itself.  The hard work was going to be all those ripple currents of not what John did, but instead what I do to myself as a result.  I feel like I have spent the last fifteen years of my life chasing those down one-by-one and healing them as best as I can.  I keep at it because I want to be strong and healthy.  I keep at it because I do not want being molested to be the centerpiece of my life–I want redemption to be front and center.  Ultimately, I do not want that rock to fuck up not only the past but the future as well.  I do have deep moments of fragility, and in those moments I fear the rock is all there is.  I sink low some moments, terrified that “John won” and got all the good of me and the good possibilities of my life.  Just some…not all, and definitely not most.  But some.

Part of why I avoid any stories about rape is I do not want my own emotional dial to be affected.  I possess my push-buttons, just like anyone else, so keeping rape off of my radar screen keeps me focused on the living in the present, even as I am healing from the past.  I try, but I do not always succeed at this avoidance.  Most times I weather the conversation or topic well, but every now and again my wires become tripped and alarm rings though me.  When this happens, I know something still needs to be dealt with from the deep well of pain and loss in my life.  Case in point: While hitting the elliptical at my trainer’s, I was going through the channels.  I caught a clip of women talking on Oprah about rape in marriage.  I tend not to watch Oprah any longer, but I found myself mesmerized by this one story.  The “expert” on the show talked about how “no” means no–even in a relationship.  I was caught off guard, even as I know that to be true.  I preach it to my nieces.  I will emphatically say it to anyone listening.  However there was one night a couple of years ago where I pretended to forget this truth all together because the actual truth was excruciatingly painful.

The story is simple: I was making out naked with a boy, whom at the time was a new love interest.  This was probably our third or fourth date, and most definitely the first time we had been naked.  No sex…just kissing and cuddling after a great massage.  We talked about not having sex–I was clear I was not ready to sleep with him.  He agreed.  So there we are, in the first throes of attraction, lust and friendship, and all of a sudden I feel this sharp pain.  I thought I hurt my back.*  We shifted positions a bit.  Then it happened again and he said, “Oops.  I’m sorry.”  I repeated that I was not ready to have sex.  He repeated to enter me without my permission.  (I can still see the smirk on his face.)

I did not leave.  I did not argue.  I did not protest.  I just curled up in a ball crying softly while he drifted off to sleep.  About two hours later I woke him up.  I told him, “I did not want to have sex yet, but that cannot be our first time.  Please make love to me.  Make whatever that was go away.”  He did; it did not.  I tried to bury it to the point of never telling a soul.  And then I found myself on that damned elliptical with all my buttons pushed stopping to try and catch my breath that was knocked out of me with those simple true words: “no” means no.

I look back now and see how I needed to get up and get out of there.  I see now that I stayed with him for a long time after that–five months actually–needing him to love me because if he loved me then what happened would not have happened.  I stayed even when I knew he we did not share the same value regarding integrity.  I stayed despite the fact we were so different.  I stayed because I thought he was the best guy I ever dated.  I stayed because of all the other beautiful things I saw him to be, which is not dissimilar from John who was an amazing doctor and a pedophile.  I stayed even as I saw the deep rage within him and his unwillingness to deal with his own demons.  I kept trying to reinvent that moment right up until the moment he left me and left me devastated.   Lastly, I see how I held onto my rage at him leaving me because there was this part of me that could not understand how he could leave me after I stayed even after what he did.  He owed me.  He owed me his love and devotion–yet of what value were either?

(The truth can be so disjointed and tragic when we begin to finally tell it to ourselves.)

I know what happened with him happened because of those places in me still broken from John.  Obi Wan (therapist of all therapists) has really worked with me to understand how we are innately drawn to those who will hurt us in the most familiar of ways.  So terribly sad to think I somehow chose this little power play because deep inside it was known and safe.  (Safe in the way the devil you know is better than the possible devil you don’t.)  I realize now my part in all of this–especially in why I stayed long past the point I needed to leave.  But none of my own responsibility takes away from what happened that night, and the promise I made myself that was broken.  None of it takes away from what he did, which was to violate me and my stated desires.  None of it takes away from the fact that he penetrated me knowing I did not want him to and even after I asked him to stop.

I still cannot say the “R” word though.  I just cannot, although I know it fits.

*I recently read in Dan Savage’s column that the opposite of an orgasm is actually a back spasm, which makes sense to me given these events.

Note: This post took over six weeks to complete.  Secrets can be very powerful, which is why I finally forced myself to finish writing it–to eradicate the power this one has held over me for more than two years.  Frank Warren, who does Post Secret, stamps all of the books he signs with “Free your secrets and become who you are.”  I feel this is one of the messiest posts I have written to date, but also the most freeing.  Sometimes you just have to speak the messy truth in order to become who you really are–a whole and healed person.  If you have been molested, raped or date raped, please seek help.  None of us are innately prepared to heal from these things alone.  Cosmo (of all places, I know!) has compiled a short list of places to get help here.

I often feel there is a ghost in the room when dating: the Ghost of Relationships Past. You know, the girl who broke his heart? He missed all the signs–the selfishness, the petty lies, the deep resentments, and prejudices–and gave her all of himself regardless. Now that the signs finally catapulted him to a place of recognition of who she really was, what she really was not capable of, and that indeed their relationship was doomed, he is adrift from his dreams for his life because they all included her. Her–not you. She looms over every exchange, every hope, every little moment where your heart cries out “God…he is so amazing.” He is amazing, and he is amazingly broken. He is broken beyond your repair. He must fix (i.e. heal) himself, which you want for him. You want it for him and in that small corner where you light a candle for him (birthday cake sized so as to not get your hopes up too much) you want it for your life as well; you want him for your life as well. In the meantime, strength requires that you do not get into a love triangle with the Ghost of Relationships Past. Strength to resist this love triangle is always easier said than done.

Being a young woman in my thirties, I know a thing or two about dating men who have tried to stuff their Ghosts in a closet. The funny thing about these Ghosts, they always escape the closet eventually. Slippery buggers! Their hazy smoke permeates moments. With one ex-boyfriend I was shocked to learn that he almost never reached an orgasm through sex. Without even realizing the severity of what I was asking I inquired, “What did your ex-girlfriends make of that?” He replied, “None of them cared. They were just happy to have me focus on them.” In one swift moment all his Ghosts began to swirl around us. What they did. What they did not do. The pattern of being with women for whom his needs were never a priority emerged, and I–the naive one–foolishly believed that by loving him and caring for his needs I would show him what real love was. I did. I did what they would not–could not–do.

He left me to go back to one of those Ghosts.

Is it not amazing how we feel so much more comfortable in the rut of horrible relationship patterns than we do in the uncharted territory of intimacy? Logic would dictate that if you put your hand on the hot stove and are burned, you learn to never put your hand on a stove that is hot again. I am learning–by looking at my own patterns in love–that logic rarely comes into play when we make decisions about whom we will be in a relationship with. This may seem an oxymoron–to make a “decision” about love when it certainly feels like it is not a choice but an emotional by-product of chemistry. However, we do choose. We have patterns where we are comfortable, and without even realizing it we go right for the person whom will fit our pattern. Of course the opposite is true too, we reject those who do not fit this pattern.

Our pattern seeking love-making leads the boy with the controlling alcoholic mother to the girl who will control him and be out of control themselves. Our pattern seeking love-making will lead the girl to the boy who will present one face to the world and have a private rage that leads him to sexual betrayal, just like her father from before–at least that was once my story. These patterns are just that–patterns–not destiny. They are emotional habits that have to be broken in order to be free from them. These habits relate not just to the type of people we feel drawn to, but also those “old tapes” we play in our head. The tapes that say we are not good at relationships. The tapes that say we are unworthy of love. The tapes that say all men are hateful and irresponsible jerks. The tapes that say women are needy bitches. So how do we make new ones? I believe new habits cannot be formed until we face ourselves–not in judgment but in the twin lights of insight (psychological understanding) and epiphany (spirit/love understanding). In addressing the places we attempted to get our root needs met through unhealthy patterns and broken emotional neediness, we open ourselves to allowing unconditional love to flow in us, towards our very own hearts, and then towards others. The old ways set aside through hard intentionality. New mantras of love for our minds to use even when our heart’s old longings for brokenness attempt to get us in trouble.

Building new patterns may seem utterly impossible when we first start out. Not only to us, but also to those who we call friend. A dear friend of mine is just beginning this journey himself to re-write his heart patterns, and in so doing excise the Ghost of Relationships Past. His circle keeps encouraging him to sleep around a bit as the way to expedite this exorcism. I find this to be the relationship equivalent of when a couple looses a baby through miscarriage or still birth and are told by “loving” folks that they are young and can have another baby–as if another baby will “fix” the terrible grief of losing their child. In general, moving on seems to be our modus operandi, but we never really do move on if our patterns are any indication. What my friend’s inner circle fails to realize is most assuredly he will end up dating someone exactly like his ex. He will become involved with someone who will not only leave him devastated but also further sunken into his own fears that he is indeed unlovable. This is the main problem with these terrible patterns informed by the Ghost of Relationships Past–they reaffirm our worst fears about ourselves, our lives, and the impossibility of our dreams coming true.

I have this image of the Ghost of Relationships Past as an elephant chasing you down in the forest. The first instinct–the pattern–is to run away from the elephant. Your gut tells you, “If you do not run, it will kill you.” Really? I cannot believe running is the only choice we have. I believe in healing. Sometimes the only healing available requires facing down the elephant, killing it, and then eating it. The elephant–the pain of the past–must become part of who you are. Take in the lessons, and let the shit go. Otherwise, we will just be destined to be chased by those elephants the rest of our lives–they travel in herds after all. For me, that is one pattern I cannot afford to live within.

I know a great deal about these patterns because I am daily working daily to re-write my own. (Eating my own elephant, so to speak.) Out of compassion, I want to be close to those who are hurting. I also know that a smart lovely boy in the throws of pain will never be healthy enough to deserve my love or truly love me back, even as my heart strings might want to pull me in that direction. I learned the hard way–the very hard way–that you cannot make up for the pain inflicted by the Ghost of Relationship Past. He has to heal himself before you can be with him. Just as you must heal your own heart before he can be with you. Healing allows for true intimacy, the goal of all relationships. And healing–sweet beautiful healing–has one of the most amazing gifts to give us when we embrace it. Healing gives us the gift of freeing those Ghosts once and for all so we are free to love fully present in this moment.

Bon appetit!

I find myself on a precipice. The mountain climbed…the sorrow of a broken childhood, of a broken child behind me. The battle scars emblazon my side, my hands, my feet. I carried the first most horrid of crosses. I survived the plunge of the sword, for John tried to take my very life away by stealing my spirit, my youth, my hope. I did not die. I would not die.

I waited a terribly long time to open to the nakedness love and intimacy require. I ventured first with those safe, manageable, less. I thought I met my equal; I was wrong. In choosing to look away when he lied, I pretended he would not lie to me. He did. I almost died, and almost spent the wellspring of my hope on the despair I became enveloped in when he lied and left. I did not die. I would not die.

Hope; she is my constant friend. She stands with me on this ledge between the past and the future, so uncertain but always imagined. I see us standing against the wind, which whips through our hair. We laugh. We cry. We dream the most amazing of dreams for my life. The sun blazes and the sky dances with colour as we put to bed the despair of this last season of my life. How strange I find it that the setting sun seems to fall so much faster than the heat of the noonday sun. Why?

So my dear love, here I come. Are you ready?

Let us be clear about what I need from you, for I am completely clear about what I will offer you. I need fusion. I do not pine for fireworks shattering the sky with a million stars here for only a moment. I do not desire the rapid fast burn of a nuclear love. I survived one of those, and the apocalypse devastates everyone in its path. No. Give me fusion. Give me two whole people coming together creating a fire between them impossible alone. Leave the divided spirit, the divided desires, the divided will, the divided atom behind. Join. Merge. Intertwine with me. Let us be more than we could have ever imagined on our own. Leave the ashes of simple fireworks to fall back to the earth. Let us be a galaxy all our own.

I will give you creativity. Nothing will be boring. I will always find new ways to laugh and play. I will give you integrity. I will tell you the truth. I will be kind. I will be generous. (Shall we compete to see who can be more so?) I will embrace you as you are, and dream your dreams of all you can do and create for this world. I will give to others. I will not forget you. I will write my name on your heart. I will cheer you on towards your prize. I will pray for kindness and doors to open to you. I will place a soothing balm on your wounds when the doors crash into your broken body. I may not pick you up–for you will have to do that for yourself–but I will lay beside you and kiss you sweetly until you have the strength to rise. I will question. I will fold the laundry. I will be my own person. I will have my own life and friends. I will be good to your family and friends. I will forgive. I will believe in you no matter what they say. I will trust you. I will honor the man you are. I will value your gifts and never think you a pansy. I will fight for you, and at times with you. I will apologize. I will seek your forgiveness. I will deserve it. I will love you. I will fuck you. I will lay you down. I will tenderly caress you. I will make love to you and discover your body anew even as the years pass us by. Every wrinkle, every laugh line, every sag, every cell will be counted with affection. I will embrace your changes. You will be mine, and I will be yours.

Are you ready? Here I come.

Please let me into your secret places. Let me see you. Let me love only you. I know we have it in us to do this together and to create something more than we can possibly imagine.

I stand on the precipice with Hope beside me.

Acknowledgment: The inspiration for this piece comes from Sarah McLachlan’s song “Answer.”

PHOTO CREDIT: Philip Brooker

We live in an age where we are supposed to be confident, have a positive self esteem, and know our gifts. We are also supposed to not be too confident, too braggadocios, or feel we are better than anyone else at something—even if we are. The Greeks were concerned with “hubris” or pride, but hubris always was more about causing harm to another than being realistic about one’s own abilities. If I say that I am good at something, is that done to shame or humiliate you? Even if I say I am better at something? For instance, I am very good at spacial relationships, color, and home design. I decorate my own space in a way that fits who I am. I do not expect anyone else to do it the same way. When consulted on someone else’s design project, I try to offer suggestions in keeping with their tastes…a kind of expert opinion. My opinion is not offered to belittle or threaten, only to guide and support.

We all need expertise. Seeking out an expert requires four things: 1) An acknowledgment that we do not possess the ability or knowledge to complete a process or project; 2) An understanding someone else does possess the ability or knowledge we lack; 3) A willingness to seek out someone else to help with this process or project; and 4) To place our trust in that person to provide the help needed so our main goal—completing the process or project—is met. A simple analogy would be seeking out a car mechanic to fix a broken automobile. But what about more complicated processes, like finding the right doctor when you have been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer? Do you just go to any oncologist? Probably not. At minimum, you seek the opinions of others to find out who specializes in treating the cancer you have. If at all possible, you will travel to where “the best” specialist practices. Why? Because we all understand that even within the realm of “expertise” there are “experts.”

However, sometimes we do not seek out expert help even when we need it most. Why? I think we are often afraid of our limitations, and admitting we need help in some manner means admitting there are areas we do not possess the power we want to have over our lives. I once dated a guy who refused mid-panic attack, to go to a doctor or seek out counseling. Why? The answer given was something along the lines of, “I just don’t do that.” This same guy would call Katmandu if it meant being put in-touch with an expert regarding something he was interested in and needed help with because this type of expert help did not seem like an affront to his masculinity or a threat to the ways he had always “done” his life. Therapy, on the other hand, did feel threatening. He was himself an expert at something, and he relished being able to teach that expertise to others. In fact, he was quite good at it. Yet he would not consider that the inner workings of his being needed some expert attention.

Pride going before the fall?

On the one hand, we have harmful hubris where we try to belittle someone for not being the same as us in some fundamental way we consider paramount to our sense of having a worthwhile existence. On the other hand, we allow our own sense of self-protection to get in the way of accepting the very help we need the most. Pride, self-confidence, hubris, need, problems, and just plain old stupidity make for an awful mess. I am left wondering how to make sense of myself—especially the things I am good at—without needing to add the caveats of the things I am bad at. For instance, “I am really good at understanding where a person is coming from when they describe a problem to me, but I am not good at parking my car straight!” These two things have nothing to do with one another, yet I find myself smooshing them up close when identifying the areas of my greatest strengths. Somehow—in the name of not being too prideful—we feel the social pressure to always add the caveat of “but.”

One night, Pixie and I were talking about relationships. She kept encouraging me that when it comes to being open and revealing myself as a part of intimacy, I did the “right thing” in past relationships. She also used her famous line of: “You are the prize. You deserve to be won.” In other words, Pixie loves me and thinks I am a great girl. I got caught up in our conversation and began to list my gifts and strengths. At one point, she laughed and said, “Yeah…those, and humble too.” I know she meant no harm whatsoever, but the point is clear from a social construct standpoint; you need to believe in yourself, but only to a point. After you reach that point, you enter the world of bragging and need to be brought back to “reality.”

Really?

I often am told that I am intimidating. I am good at a great deal of things. (This is where I would now normally enter all the other things I am not good at, but in an exercise of restraint I am resisting—painfully.) I feel like one of my greatest strengths is playing to people’s gifts. I try and focus on the good stuff. In areas I wish someone would “grow the fuck up,” if I see even one little improvement, I will bless it up and down as good. I figure that complimenting the goodness and ignoring the ickiness goes a long way. I know I receive this back from others too. So why then am I intimidating?

I think one reason is that I just go for the truth no matter what. I am willing to say the hard stuff—almost never to hurt and almost always to heal. I feel so much of my life was lived in a dungeon of fear and lies that I cannot imagine perpetuating those things in my here-and-now. My truth does include the areas where I have some growing edges, but on the whole I am very happy with the woman I am in the world. I am proud of my willingness to grow, change, accept help, invest in others, and care with a sense of radical welcome. I am a neat person, and I do not want to lord that over anyone, or deny my beauty at the altar of social graces.

One of my Clinical Pastoral Education supervisors told me she felt my greatest challenge was to accept being “extraordinary.” My current journey has brought me back to this challenge. In looking back at the extraordinary seven year-old within and the creativity and gumption she utilized to survive, I find myself embracing my own gifts in a new way. I am also working to resist the social urge to offer up disclaimers or stories of “imperfection.” Not because I seek to be perfect–I do not. I only want to fully accept the extraordinary woman within and let go of the fear of being great because it might bring further isolation.

Here is my favourite quote from Marianne Williamson:

Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It is not just in some; it is in everyone. And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Here are my favourite things about me; humility not included:

• Kindness
• Compassion
• Understanding
• Creativity—both with colour and design and with problem solving
• Ability to forgive and forget
• Ability to change
• Ability to move on after great pain
• Scrappy
• A survivor
• Good cook
• Good listener
• Good story teller
• Will go out of my way for a friend
• Tenacious
• Smart—scary smart
• Ingenious
• Loving
• Generous, even when it hurts sometimes
• Not just focused on myself and what I want or what is convenient for me
• Quick learner
• Not afraid to get hurt—most of the time
• Patient
• Take the long view
• Have gumption
• Tell the truth
• Wicked funny, but not mean spirited
• Curious
• Open
• Liberal
• Willing to learn/be taught
• I get “it”
• Cool in my own book nerd way
• Pretty
• Emotionally honest
• I set goals and follow-through
• Willing to seek out help and take advice from others
• Trust my inner voice
• Athletic
• Able to walk out to the precipices of life with people
• Sexy
• A good and honest writer
• An excellent public speaker
• Able to meet people where they are
• An excellent hugger, but an even better kisser—among other things I am creative at
• Well read
• Stellar vocabulary
• Analytical
• Reasonable
• Logical
• Sweet
• Not afraid of sacrifice
• Willing to laugh at myself

What are yours?

In the recent past, everytime I went to lose the rest of the weight I gained as a kid, not to mention the 10 “Post Apocalyptic” (aka post-break-up) pounds, I gained a tiny bit of weight instead. The earth would feel like it was shifting beneath me when someone would mention how I looked thinner, and then the cupcake eating would commence. After dropping over 70 pounds, to find my weight creeping back up with repeated attempts to lose weight was more than discouraging–heartbreaking would be the right word. I knew I was not gaining weight because I longed for The Bean to come back or felt some sense of unresolved emotion towards him. No! I was doing this to myself when I would feel the earth tilt. But why the tilt?

Here is my mental loop: I lose more weight, I become more attractive and desirable to men. I become more desirable, I could even end up dating someone more than three times (my limit last year before booting someone to the curb), and fall in-love. I fall in-love, am vulnerable, and then I could get left. Again. I do not want to go through that again–even as a deep part in me acknowledges this is always the risk of love–so I put on the weight to be less desirable, less attractive, and more safe. Build the walls. Keep out the love. Stay safe.

I could see it, but I felt utterly powerless and without creativity to address the issue. Since December, I could articulate this, and since December I have had at least 5 cupcakes!!! (I could go for one right now while writing this…and let me tell you that if you are in the market for a cupcake the ones at Fresh Market are TO DIE FOR!)

Did I mention that I really am not a big cake or cupcake person? I think (under normal conditions) that they are too sweet. I prefer soft serve ice cream or yogurt to any other dessert. Sweet, but not too sweet. Cold, smooth, creamy. I do not really like cupcakes! Yet here I am CRAVING cupcakes every time I drop a bloody pound.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with their problems. Amongst my loved ones we have a smattering of potato chip munching, cigarette smoking, workaholic, motorcycle riding, Jesus loving, Diet Coke drinking, scrap booking, gambling alcoholics. And those are just the ones who live on the West Coast of Florida! I believe in having a multitude of tricks–mostly healthy–in my arsenal, so when one fails another is at the ready. I ride my bike like a feign; I ration the chocolate; I talk to friends and family; I go for a walk; I play with Emma; I write this blog–but those fucking cupcakes kept calling out to me. “Don’t lose weight! Stay where you are! You will feel so much better and more calm when you have one! Everything will be fine if you just get up and go have a cupcake! Drink it with skim milk–then it won’t be that fattening! You rode your bike twice already today–have another cupcake!”

Fucking cupcakes.

The cupcakes are not the real issue, so having run out of other RATIONAL coping skills I marched myself back to therapy. Now to appreciate my current therapeutic experience, you must first picture a Datsun 280 ZX driving aging Hippie with a “No Nukes” bumper sticker and a Grateful Dead “quilt” (don’t ask) on his wall with his diplomas. The ponytail, vintage Danish/early 80’s office furniture, and Converse canvas sneakers round out the “ambiance.” This is a guy who sits back, listens to every word, is so non-judgmental and smart you suspect he had you figured out when you made the appointment, and then talks to you in such a practical gentle manner that you wonder why the hell you are paying him to tell you what you already know. But then again, knowing is not my issue. Figuring out what to do next is.

Like any therapist worth their salt, Obi-Wan Kenobi (the therapist) poked around in my past in order to get to know me. I did mention to him on the phone that I needed help in the “here and now” and that I had “dealt with a lot of the shit of the past, and really was not looking to dredge up that stuff or start again looking at it.” Uh-huh.

Given how my past includes the issues of disease, death, abandonment, molestation, threats of suicide and homicide, stalking, rape, and trust–I tend to be wary of beginning any new venture in therapy despite how much good it has done me in the past. I always feel defensive and want to shout at the new therapist, “I am ok! I have worked really hard! I am not as fucked up as you will assume I am! Please give me some credit! Please validate my journey before I met you! I am strong! I will kick your ass if I need to!” And under my breath I whisper, “I am totally scared shitless that the past will haunt me again and the next time I won’t make it. I worry that I am a failure at this healing business because I still am working on the weight stuff and because despair still finds me. I cannot control being vulnerable. I hate being in a relationship because I know there are no guarantees. I want to be loved because I have a lot to give, but trust seems like to high a price to pay. I am lonely sometimes. I want someone else to validate my worthiness to be loved, although I know I must believe that for myself first…but sometimes I am so full of doubt I don’t know how to.”

I cannot help but wonder: Why do I feel so creative, capable and strong and also feel so stuck, inadequate and fragile sometimes?

Obi-Wan listened and listened well. He told me my life has been made up of the big issues–not the small ones. They will always be with me. They will always be tinder for some jerk to come along and set fire to…or just life will set them on fire. Life is hard after all. I was vigilant with The Bean, but next time I need to pay better attention to the signs that someone is not healthy. A healthy person and an unhealthy person equal an unhealthy relationship. The Bean left, and my old shit got set on fire.

“Your inner 7 year-old is running around on fire screaming her head off inside of you. You will need to help her heal from The Bean before you can find your way to transcendence and then losing the weight.”

I love this image because it fits. I got it instantly. The Bean is only the second person since Daddy died my inner 7 year-old ever loved and trusted. John, my molesting murderous stalking step-father was the first. After not loving or trusting any man, she loved The Bean. He was fun! He gave her bike, promised to teach her how to do a cartwheel, saw all the good in her–the capacity to trust, to love, to experience, to excel–encouraged her to play, liked how smart she was, and he let her know in a myriad of ways that he would not betray her trust in him. And then he did, which only happened because I–the grown up Jacqueline–let him get close enough to her for her to get hurt. He hurt her. I betrayed her.

Obi-Wan pointed out to me that with The Bean seven-year old Jacquie finally went to sleep and rested. She still would wake up and cry sometimes out of fear, but the fact that I allowed myself to get so close to The Bean that I would allow myself to imagine really being with someone demonstrated my just how far and healthy I am–with her as a part of me. I had earned her trust enough to work through her immature and naive fears, which are never placated with rationality. Nurture yes, but logic no. More than anyone, she trusted me to keep her safe and to tell her who she could trust. More than anyone, she feels I let her down.

Seven year-old Jacquie only knows one way to deal with her terror when she feels she is in a trap where she will lose BIG again. She builds walls…walls of fat. These walls keep the fear at bay, the bad men away, and her safely protected against anymore betrayal or abandonment. They work for her–she is seven after all–but they do not work for me. I am on a journey now to comfort her, build up the trust with her again, and help her to let go of cupcakes making the world tilt right again.

What components make up a “real man?” I hear men talking about not being a “pussy”–i.e. not being a woman–and illuminating the characteristics of being real. These contests often rely more on brawn than the strength of character. You took the dive off the cliff into the ocean’s cool waters. Can you be man enough to leap into a woman’s warm embrace and find solace there? You made the deal of a lifetime. Will you follow-through? You are a good person. Will you live by your word even when it is hard and difficult? Your body can lift the weight of another off the ground. Can you trust another person with your underbelly and know they will not sucker punch you when you are as vulnerable as Atlas?*

I do not think it is easy to be a real man in this unreal world. The weight of the world is firmly placed on men’s shoulders. They bear the burden of protection–physical and financial–from those men and women who utilize their power and brutality to harm the rest of us. Having integrity in the face of a rat race where lying and cheating are expectations, not exceptions, cannot be easy. Working unreal hours must make some men long for the days without electricity, where they were forced to draw up to the fire like Pa Ingalls by seven most nights. How many men do I know who have trouble sleeping? So much to do and so little time. Too much pressure all around to do, to be, to accomplish, to achieve, to surpass. No wonder many of them approach women in much the same manner they would a business deal. What is in it for me?

The so-called Men’s Movement attempts to move men towards a more egalitarian understanding of their gender role in life, while also addressing the often forgotten needs of fathers, the mythology of masculinity, and a reclaiming of it, amongst others. The Promise Keepers charge their followers to adhere to a moral Christian code within the confines of a narrow theology based on misogyny and a broken patriarchy. The gift within the Promise Keepers ideology is its focus on men keeping their word to the women in their lives and calling them to submission to God’s authority over their own self interests. The problem–as is often the case–is whose version of God’s authority wins? The God who smites those he hates? The God who kills the first born children of the enemy? The God who affirms women being seen as chattel? The God who commands colicky babies be smashed against a wall? Or instead will it be the God willing to hang on a tree like so many who are persecuted for their beliefs? Will it be the God of the poor and ill? Will it be the God who calls a woman to lead and not just serve? Will it be the God of Love for all persons, or just the God of persons not unlike themselves?

I see so many men who suffer in this world of flux and responsibility as they seek to rise above the patterns of destruction and disenfranchisement. I cheer them on towards the prize of a life of meaning! I also am cheering one of them on towards finding me, for I know I have the gifts, gumption and giving nature to make a real partnership with someone work. I do not aspire to sucker punch the man of my heart like so many women seem to be doing these days–I know, I keep dating their ex’s. I am so very tired of hearing story after story from men about the inhuman ways women treat them out of spite. Women need to celebrate the beauty and the strength of the men in their lives, and stop with the gender assassination every-time “he” does not do what “she” wants. For myself, I consciously work on never saying “MEN!” in response to some bad thing a particular male person did. I also correct my friends on this point, and name all the singular men of integrity I know–all of whom have an uncommon grace, but are not as rare as some might think.

I, myself, am looking for a man of uncommon grace. After recently finishing Kate Braestrup’s book Here If You Need Me, I felt inspired to articulate ten core qualities he will need to possess. Kate is an Unitarian Universalist minister serving as a Chaplain to the Game Wardens of Maine, and her book speaks of so much of what I find to be meaningful about walking beside people in ordinary and extraordinary ways as a Chaplain. She did not set out on that path, only finding it her calling after her husband died. Towards the end of the book, she writes an amazing passage about a conversation she and her four children have casually one day where they describe what the next man in their lives will be like, having been left hurt and disillusioned by the last. Simple words written by a child’s pencil end up on their fridge, and in time a man fitting those descriptors and so much more comes into all of their lives.

Here are the ten I put on my refrigerator:

1. Funny
2. Integrity
3. Smart
4. No children (or ex-wife)
5. Wants children
6. Willing to go to church
7. Kind hearted
8. Left
9. Serves
10. Active

There are some things, however, I “wish” for but did not make my top ten. Some of them include: rides a bike, reads books, loves dogs, never wears tank tops (click here to find out why), and has a purpose. I think being heterosexual falls into the “goes without saying” category! My friends, The Boys, were quick to point out that they would make the cut on my wishes and needs lists, but alas given they are Gay, they would N.O.T! That is the funny thing about lists, they are just starting off places. I am not looking for anything in anyone I do not have to offer, and I am more than mere words on a page. He must be too.

As I look over the list, I find myself surprised that Plant Geek was really the one person I dated who fit these the very best. And The Bean? He turned out to be 60% Guy. No thank you. I want my 100% Man, with all the surprises of what else makes him unique and special meted out along the way. This is what will make him real to me in the end–the aspects I cannot define but will cherish through the joy of knowing him. And in the meantime, I continue to focus on the joy of being me in the world and on the places I need to grow and change. I have a”little life left in me yet.”

Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman’s work,
This woman’s world.
Ooh, it’s hard on the man,
Now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the father.

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things I should’ve said,
That I never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
Though we never did.
All the things I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.**

*”Farnese Atlas” Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, Naples, Italy

The image and idea of the tenderness of men–like Atlas–comes from Norah Vincent’s amazing book Self Made Man.

** From Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work.”

My friend Pixie and I recently began a series of conversations about yummy older men we know. She takes her son to a sexy sixty-something therapist who projects confidence, knowledge and humor in such a way Pixie is more than a tad mesmerized. I have The Scoundrel, amongst others. We agree these men project a kind of allure younger men just do not possess; but why? What makes these men so interesting and intriguing to two thirty-something young women who normally date men YOUNGER than they are?

Now the simple answer might be: You girls have Father issues! I agree we need to consider this possibility, but for myself I reject this explanation. For one thing, spending $100,000 on therapy dealt with the vast majority of my issues. For another, I have been blessed by having a whole series of lovely men serve as mentors to my life in one way or another: Steve Gilchrist, Kirk Whiteside, Tommy Russell, Dennis Nason, Joe Holland, Joe Moran, Raymond Hargrove, Richard Congdon and Bill Koch…to name a few. These men filled the gaps the death of my father and the arrival of John created for me. At all the points in my growing up excellent role models of what it meant to be a man of integrity met me where I was and nurtured me. For me, I reject the idea of my attraction to an older man being equated to unfulfilled Father needs; Pixie will need to speak for herself!

I must admit how surprised I am to find older men so deeply attractive at this juncture of my life, for I have coveted younger men. Feeling I arrived at the Party of Life so late, I really felt owed a younger man with whom I could build the life I thought I might want with the “right person.” I wanted my chance at bat without the already told stories of ex-wives, children, or dreams broken. I wanted my own love story no one else ever had, and I felt I deserved it because of everything I went through to even get to the Party of Life at all. I can remember when I first started dating The Bean feeling like all the shit of the past was somehow more bearable because the path finally revealed a boy who was excited about who I was in the world and who did not seem intimidated by me or my gifts. Appearances were misleading in that regards, but it did fulfill a fantasy of a sort…for a time. In retrospect, I realize his presence also revealed a deep need in me–namely my desire to be with someone who is excited about who I am and what I bring to the world. I also want to feel that way about him.

I think part of why I never thought much about men older than me relates to my mother marrying someone 19 years her senior–twice! In fact, her current husband is her youngest one ever at just 16 years older. I saw a beautiful 39 year-old woman bury her husband, and Daddy being older played a role in his death. My half sisters had him into their twenties. I could not help but think if Mother had married someone younger I would not have lost my Dad at six. I just could never understand what she found so damn attractive in him when she was 32 and he was 51. I did not understand until Maria’s funeral.

At Maria’s funeral, her husband spoke. His eulogy marked her life and his own. He made the comment: “Forty years ago I can remember being a young man and wondering what my life would be–how it would turn out. Now most of life’s questions have been answered…” In that one moment, I got it. I understood how Daddy offered Mother a man who was not lost or searching to figure out who he was in the world. He offered her a man who possessed self assurance and was settled. He had already become. Mother, at 32, also had already become. She had her own money, a career to be proud of, position, clout, and most importantly, Mother knew exactly who she was.

Pixie and I have been dating all these boys who whine and moan about not knowing what they want to be when they finally grow up. When exactly that will be, we really do not know. I read that adolescence has been extended way past where Evolution would place it because of all of our modern luxuries, and I must say I believe this to be true. How many men do I meet who are in their late twenties or thirties who still have no idea who they are, what they want to contribute to the good of the world, or what passion lights their fire? I know plenty of men who have no idea where they stand on any number of issues–other than a cursory “yes” or “no”–and I know plenty of men more than willing to highlight all of the problems in others or in the world but never willing to do one damn thing about any of it or the shit in their own lives! These same men seem to always meet women not up to their standards, calling many of the women they meet “irrational, emotional, crazy bitches.” And–here is the real kicker–they would rather be with the “crazy bitch” who tells them exactly who they are than be with the woman who wants to know them and delight in their dreams for their life coming true!

I cannot help but wonder: Is it wrong to want to be with a man who does not call his friends a “pussy” when they do not “man-up” and do something the Boy-Code demands? Is it wrong to want to be with a man who wants to spend time cozying up to your pussy, but who also does not think you are just a piece of ass? Is is wrong to want to be with a man who can handle listening to your perspective without needing to call you a cunt behind your back when you are right and he is wrong? Is it wrong to want to be with a man who admires you and in whom you can be proud?

No.

But why does it seem these men only come in older packages these days?

I do believe there is such a thing as too old. The widower of a former patient who is in his eighties likes to tell me how he is in love with me and invites me to live in his home. Silly me, but I do not think it is real love. I think he just needs someone to empty his urinal! He keeps saying to me, “Age is only a number.” Yes; if you are an older man and win the Evolutionary Lottery and have a younger woman interested in you. But when she rejects you because you are too old, it is because age is the only number that counts. As I asked my friend Stepford, “Is there such a thing as too young for an older man?” Probably not. But there is such a thing as too old for us younger girls. Pixie and I will keep up the debate about the age threshold, and keep admiring those yummy older men we know. How could we not? They are self-assured sexy personified!

My Dear Faithful Reader,

We have come to the first anniversary of my blog. First of all, thank you so very much for the affirmation of reading my blog (some of you more than my own Mama!) and sharing with me the places my writing touched you and your story. I must say I am rather surprised by all of this! What started as a way to post photos of my then six week-old puppy Emma–who was still living with her Birth Mother at the time–transformed into something I never expected. I grieved the loss of a meaningful relationship. I worked through much of what it meant for me to work as a hospice chaplain. I highlighted the hilarities of my dating life. And, most importantly, I educated you on men in tank tops!

Given Top Ten Lists are so passe I say, “Nine is Fine!” Here are my favourite nine posts from this last year:

9. I Heart Atheists! This post is dedicated to my patient “Hank,” of whom I wrote. I am glad he is no longer struggling to breathe or to find love.

8. Posting My Big Secret This post received the most private email because people were worried about me. In many ways it was the hardest to write. I reveled an important secret, and in so doing found a way to tell my closest and dearest just how much despair (my definition of anti-hope) I felt following the break-up. This post continues to have meaning for me due to my continuing love of Post Secret, and because I hope by exposing my pain–even as a minister–others fearing the only way through is out might feel comforted.

7. I’m Coming Out: Jesus Know About My Vibrator The year’s most embarrassing and second funniest post. I still cringe when people ask me for my website address thinking about them reading this particular post. Of course this is exactly why it is on this list–I am a glutton for embarrassing myself on this blog with the bitter truth. For the record–and thankfully–I have had sex since I wrote this post! (Once.)

6. The Whispering God Where is God when bad things happen to good people? In part, this post contains my answer to this question and my own thinking about God’s intervention–and lack there of–in our lives.

5. 40 Reasons I Make A Great Girlfriend (and her evil twin 40 Reason I Will Drive You Crazy & Am Not Perfect) This was so much fun, and I met my friend in Austria through putting up the “Great Girlfriend” list on craigslist.

4. A Rose Garden Relationship I continue to think about what I wrote in this post. If there is such a thing as your own writing being a gift to you, it would be this post. I feel it helped me clarify what relationship values continue to remain important to me and also what I ultimately have to offer all of my relationships, including the one I have with myself.

3. You Play, You Pay This post about my prayer for my Aunt Charlyne to come to terms with her cancer and still remains at the forefront of my thinking about her. She finished her second round of chemo, and she will find out next week the results of her latest PET scan. She told us at Christmas she feels the cancer is spreading.  All my work with patients has taught me our bodies tell us the truth–even long before the tests and doctors do–so I cannot help but wonder if hers is telling her a truth now. I do not know what will happen with her body, but I know she will be surrounded by love regardless of the outcome. This is what matters most.

2. Tank Top Wearing Man Candy? The single funniest thing I have ever written! I cannot see a man in a tank top without thinking: “Baby, if you only knew how I felt about THAT!” If you love it too, please go out to Urban Dictionary and suggest “The Tribble Factor” for a word/definition.

1. The Mango Tree My homage to my father and the continuing bonds of love death cannot separate us from and how these bonds continue to inform our present and propel us into our future.

Here is to a wonderful Year Two!

The first time I can ever remember feeling that I loved someone just because they existed and because of who they were to me was when I was three and thought the preacher’s son was just soooo cute. He came to my fourth birthday party, and I knew it was love. The kind of love I practiced with my Barbie and Ken or between Snoopy and every other toy I possessed. He played the Toilet Paper Mummy Game with me, lurking quietly most of the time. In retrospect, the boy had to have hated being forced to go to some younger girl’s party. I was oblivious to this, and only thought he was soooo perfect to marry one day. I cried the day his father announced they were leaving the church. I only saw him one more time–on a visit back to Miami when I was in the eighth grade. I felt relieved that the love one feels at four can be gotten out of at 14! My first love–who never really knew I or my love existed–morphed into a jerk in a military school uniform! What was I thinking?

me at four

Falling in-love and wondering “What was I thinking?” seem to go hand-in-hand sometimes. We humans spend vast quantities of time, money and attention trying to sort out just why it is we fall in-love. Whole forests have given their lives for this exercise…with us waxing poetic, writing and re-writing love letters, and making music for some love who just has to know how we feel about them or feel about their departure from our lives. Whole blogs too! (But I am not naming any names here…gotta have some self-respect!) Yet we still seem at such a loss. Why is it after all these years we still don’t have a clue? Maybe it is because Evolution is such a slow and painstaking process? Or maybe we really do not want to know–it would ruin it for everyone!?

My friend Paulina Ballerina differs from me greatly when it comes to love. She believes that you fall in-love first, and then over time you may find the person worthy of your deep true love. She has been with her current beau for almost two years, and she readily admits she is “in-love” with him. She also says she could love him, but she does not–yet. After two years? I find her position amazing and a bit ludicrous as well. No wonder I am her opposite. I tend to love first, and then if I really love someone and trust them I may begin to allow myself the luxury of falling in-love as well. In my relationships of any sort, I love easily. I look to the good in those around me and value who they are right from the start. “Love” seems the only word fitting for what I see in them and cherish. Opening up my heart to fall in-love, well…that is a whole other matter. For me, falling in-love is a byproduct of trust and quite honestly I never have been in-love.

I find no small measure of shame mentioning this given my age–36–and general sense that I am in fact not the kind of girl boys like, let alone fall for. Dave The Porn Guy (don’t even get me started on how the minister knows the porn producer) put it to me this way: “Just cause a girl is a ten in the categories of personality, intelligence, generosity and success, does not mean she will find a man. She has to be at least a seven in the looks category to get a man of equal or greater value. So, if you are a one or a two in the looks category, and you are a ten in the other areas, you have three choices–1) Give up on finding a man who is your equal emotionally and intellectually. Those guys can get any girl they want because women do not put the same emphasis on looks and so even if they are butt ugly they can land an all-around 10; 2) Become a lesbian; or 3) Go for the loser who works at McDonald’s and who feels grateful to land any girl, even one smarter, who makes more money, and who has a better background than he does. He is a one and won’t balk at dating a one.”

So falling in-love has to do with being a one versus a ten, instead of being “the one?”

I do not agree with all of Dave The Porn Guy’s assessment of the situation–consider the source after all. The guy left his PhD program to make porn, find easy “hott” ass, and avoid depth at all costs. He also refuses to be with the woman he calls the “love of [his] life” out of what seems to amount to just old fashioned fear. However, Dave The Porn Guy did hit a nerve with me reminiscent of how I felt about myself when I was three and four. Even at that young age I felt embarrassed by my feelings. I also felt out-of-control. The little boy did not like me, and I had all these feelings for him. How could I feel something for someone and they not feel it back? These feelings left me vulnerable to ridicule and to others having power over me. How easily my little girl friends could shame me with a few teasing comments! Somehow I equated this vulnerability to my not being worthy of him–or anyone else for that matter–falling in-love with me. Listening to Dave The Porn Guy punch me in every soft underbelly spot of fear I have posses woke me up a bit. Maybe no one ever falls in-love with me because I walk around certain they never could?

No wonder I look for all the good in someone and have to trust them deeply before I can ever even ponder falling in-love with them…it is just too risky otherwise.

My friend Pixie broke up with the guy she was seeing. She is in her early thirties and has two teenage boys, whereas he has no children and is in his late twenties. She knows who she is; he is still defining himself. She is in-touch with her body, mind, emotions and spirit. He knows his mind, but the rest of him has a way of getting away from him or being completely stuffed down or ignored. She opens up under stress and blooms into being her best self. When the trial or tribulation passes–as they always do–she feels the pride and the exhaustion. She knows she has it in her to weather whatever storms come her way. She is a survivor. She knows when she must retreat into a haven of love, friendship and rest. She knows that if she does not nurture her soul, no one else will. He…well, he sees stress as something to be avoided at all costs. He runs into a den of silence and retreats from the difficult emotions–in others and in himself.

After Paul, our friend and co-worker’s husband, was murdered Pixie turned to the guy she was dating. She was upset. Her heart broke for Teri, and she worked hard to support those of us in the epicenter of this nuclear holocaust of violence, loss, unanswerable questions, and grief. She sat with me the night he was killed at dinner, and drove me home after I swilled down two cocktails. I rarely drink, but the day deserved a drink to Paul’s memory and one to dull mine. She called me faithfully and sat beside me at the funeral. She held my loss as she held her own. She got angry at the way our company put my Social Worker and I through the wringer and then slapped us in the face with a “stay strong for the patients” without considering that we had nothing left to give. Spent, she needed to talk. She reached out to the guy, and he responded, “I don’t understand why Jacqueline and you are so upset?”

The dividing line was drawn, and he is now gone from her inner life.

I understand completely. When something terrible happens those of us in the epicenter of pain-especially those of us who are caregivers–we need the ones we are closest to in life to provide a safe shelter from the storm and fallout. We need the voices of Love and Friendship to say to us, “I am here for you, so you can be there for them.” We will repay the favor ten-fold. We will love you with undying affection and gratitude. Knowing that your arms will entwine our battered bodies and spirits gives us the courage to face the deepest darkness humanity wrecks upon one another. Your help so we can alight upon a resting place makes all the difference in the world. A quick “let me come and take you to dinner” matters more than all the money in the world.

Unfortunately, sometimes we get only silence. I think what happened with Pixie and her beau is worse though. The accusation is that if we were not upset–because somehow being upset about someone you know being murdered and how that devastates one you love deeply is irrational–then there would not be a reason to be upset. It seems so neat and tidy, but painful feelings are never clean. They are always messy and leave us discombobulated in their wake. As well they should! I do not want to live my life prepared for the worse-case scenario. I would never get out of bed! So, I will stumble, tremble, and fall down when the shit hits the fan. The reproach and silence that can come from even those we trust the most adds insult to injury. No wonder Pixie drew the line.

The person I was seeing at the time was very busy with his life, so I tried to not burden him with it all. I let him call me. Unfortunately, when he would call to check on me he would also talk A LOT about his “irrational and crazy” ex-wife. A dividing line was drawn the night before the funeral, and when he asked me if I would ever be seeing him again I had to tell him the truth–I would not.

And then there are those who just get what we need. When Paul died I wrote a pain-filled email to The Scoundrel, who was living in Paris at the time. He wrote back saying: “This is very very horrible. I love you and kiss you on the head…….I’m sorry………It’s just so horrible….Do you have a friend who can hold you? xxxxx”

So I told The Scoundrel the truth…there was no one to hold me. The feeling that overcame me when he wrote those words to me was “emptiness.” Somehow emptiness seems better than longing. Emptiness implies being open and ready to receive, just the right fit has not come yet to sit in that space with me. Longing is when the one you count on to sit beside you when you are beside yourself cannot or will not come. This is what happened with Pixie–she longed for him to be with her, but he fell to the other side of the dividing line.

Since my father’s death in 1977 I rarely dream of him. One dream during college where I realized the old man telling me not to “throw my heart away” on the man with the Southern Drawl was Daddy just as I awakened ashamed to not have recognized him in time to talk to him. Another dream in High School where my friend and I hit a man on a bike during a terrible and blinding storm. I saw the man was Daddy, and became horrified since we killed him. In my dream, I ran home to tell Mother only for her to laugh as she put on lipstick saying, “He’s been dead for years.”

I am an avid dreamer. In fact, if I could make one film it would be of my dreams. In my dreams I see colours I never see in my life. In my dreams the feelings seem more vivid too. There is an urgency, even with the dreams full of pleasure and humor. Sometimes I wake up laughing…sometimes crying. Often the dreams seem more real than real. Do you ever feel that way? I fall deeply into them and often have to tell some poor soul what happened before the day is set right. This is a pattern from childhood. The funny thing about dreams is that their true significance to us remains only with the one who had the dream. Dreams are completely singular. No one else remembers them–at least not unless we are paying them for their expertise and interpretation! Yet, they become part of our personal history nonetheless.

When I was a little girl I had a dream about a boy from my class I had a terrible crush on that year. As my mother attempted to patiently listen to all the gory details of the dream, she could not resist the temptation to tease me. “Sounds like a nightmare to me Jacqueline.” I replied, “Oh no Mommy; it was a wonderful-mare.”

The week I graduated from Seminary I had my only “wonderful-mare” of Daddy. In the dream, I had just moved into a beautiful and modern building where I could see the ocean. As I descended the grand staircase to the lobby I asked a girl about where I could get ice cream, and she directed me to the boardwalk and an ice cream stand in the sand. As I walked the boardwalk, I went into an antique shop looking for forks for a party. I found my friend Jennifer, and we in turn came upon my “sister” and her “husband.” My “brother-in-law” and I left them to look at an art book in the shop and went off to hunt for the ice cream. He wore a blue button down rolled at the sleeves with madras shorts and brown leather flip flops. I held his hand. He asked me about how things were going. I broke down in tears–now knowing he was in fact my father–and we sat down on a nearby bench. I asked him if I would ever find love, stating that I wanted someone wonderful like him. He laughed and told me I did not want him but someone better! I said, “Oh Daddy, who is better than you?” He pulled me close and told me, “You’ll see.” I asked him if he was proud of me and all that I was about and doing in the world. He kissed the top of my head and told me he was. I can remember seeing the mascara stains on his shirt and apologizing. He again laughed saying, “I am wash and wear.” (Perfectly Daddy in every way.)

We got up and walked hand-in-hand out to the special ice cream stand in the sand, which turned out to be a Dairy Queen (I was robbed!). As we stood in line contemplating our selections, he turned to me. “Jacqueline. You have to promise me something.”

“Yes Daddy.”

“Jacqueline listen to me–this is very important–you have to promise me that no matter what happens you will remember the joy.”

“Yes Daddy.”

“No. Jacqueline. Listen to me! You must remember the joy. No matter what.”

“I will Daddy. I promise.”

“Remember the joy Jacqueline. Remember the joy.”

When I awoke the next morning my heart was humming with the melody of “I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy Down In My Heart.” I could not figure out why. Then I remembered someone told me to remember the joy. I sat straight up in bed and remembered Daddy! Daddy was the one who told me to remember the joy! The whole dream flooded back to me, and I still hold it as tightly as I did then. My one visit from my long gone beloved. How could I not?

I believe in joy over happiness because of its transcendent quality. I believe in the joy of my life because of the love and connection I feel to those I love and to the world all around me. Sometimes it takes my breath away to consider just how much beauty and love there really is all around me and in me at any given moment. My daily worship comes from drinking in the sky when I walk or ride my bike with Emma. These are not religious moments, but I touch Spirit and Love and all that is more than the dissected parts. I touch wholeness. I feel the creativity–the endless creativity–all around me. I recently read a really brilliant line about God being restless and unable to specialize as evidenced by the sheer plethora of divergent organisms.* My contemplative time in the splendor of nature makes me giggle with this thought. The abundance of creativity is because of God’s obvious lack of focus!

Sometimes the sheer brilliance is so much, and I am so overtaken with the joy, I stop in my tracks. I stand still and try and photograph with my mind a singular moment that is not just what my eyes see, but all of the ways my senses are on fire from the beauty, the stillness, the colours, the quality of the air, the hints of perfume lighting upon me. Recently I had just such a moment. The moon was rising and greeting me to the East, just as the sun set in all its bright pinks and oranges. I felt caught between them flooded with joy…pure unadulterated joy.

I could not help but wonder to myself, “When was there another so perfect moment of joy?” And without warning all the joy of listening, watching, laughing, talking to, being with, and touching The Bean overcame me. The rage and hatred at him and myself all spent, I remembered the joy. I burst into a flood of tears and longing for a path that my head never lets my heart look down any longer. I thought of Ann Hampton Callaway’s song where she wonders if there is “some kind of heaven” where old love can go to be used by a long since gone lover when they need it most desperately. I prayed there is–for him and for me.

I remembered the joy between the rising moon and the setting sun; it was a challenge in every way.

*I cannot remember where. Let me know if this sounds familiar to you!

PHOTO CREDIT: The Bean

I often think of the themes in my life as acting like boomerangs. Something may happen to me–a great pain or loss–that sends out the very best of me scatted against the wind, but eventually they all return to their rightful home within me. This last year has been full of this kind of scattering, and if you have ever read my blog, you know what I am talking about. A year of more challenges and stress than my body, mind or spirit could handle, and a heart so broken I thought it was beyond repair for most of this year.

Now there is just something about a list that I dearly love. Lists organize my life! I have running lists for the things I need, the things I want to accomplish (like having more sex in the coming year–twice in 12 months is just not enough!!!), lists of places I want to experience, lists of problems I am facing, and, well, the list goes on and on and on… This blog has been full of some great lists:

• A list of my experiences right up to my blindsided break-up: Post-Mortem: My November
• A list of the reasons why I am a good girlfriend: 40 Reasons I Make a Good Girlfriend
• A list of all diseases, losses and freak-outs of the last year: The Stress Mess
• A list of why I don’t trust men in tank tops (and my personal favourite post): Tank Top Wearing Man Candy?
• Not to mention the list of all the men I loved before (go on and hum it, you know you want to): The Dating Game

So in honor of my little list making fetish, I offer up on my one-year anniversary since this unbelievable year began with my emergency root canal the following list of all my gratitude for what this last year gave me–in no particular order:

1. My Ordination. This day was full of more love than I could have ever imagined, and I have drawn deeply from those waters this year.
2. Surviving This Year! If you read “Posting My Big Secret” and “Shift Change” you know that this is an ACCOMPLISHMENT all by itself! Not only do I feel I survived, but I feel stronger, happier and more at peace with who I am than at any other point in my life.
3. EMMA! Gotta love Miss Puppy Girl. She is my joy. We have really fallen in love these last few months, especially after her mean cousin Morgan left! Morgan, my niece, is part of the Puppy Gestapo. Her departure turned on the “My Mommie is not a meanine.” light over Emma’s head. Plus, she is FINALLY growing up…a little bit. She still has to wear a leash in the house–all the better to catch her and take my stolen bra out of her mouth with!!

   

4. Paparazzo. I have said it before, and I will say it again: I do not know how I would have made it through without him. I tease him that he is always “pulling my pigtails,” i.e. driving me nuts just because he can. Yesterday morning while doing crunches on the living room floor, Emma bit my ponytail and pulled hard. The more I would go to stop her the more she would pull. I ended up in a pool of tears and laughter! No wonder the two of them love each other so much–they are cut from the same cloth!
5. Casa Derby. I lived for 2.5 years without my own belongings, so coming home in February filled my heart in ways I cannot even describe. I missed my Red Turkey Rug! I missed my books, music, bed, sofa and enough dishes to host a party for an army. How sweet it is to be home again. Moving home also brought new friends and neighbours. They met me mid Apocalypse and adopted me straight away. I needed the affirmation of new friends, and so I am grateful the latest incarnation of Casa Derby came with some.
6. My Mama and My Sista. These two continue to show me love, love, love, even when I am only full of fear and despair.
7. My Work and Team. I get unbelievable joy knowing I am doing the kind of work that crosses the religious divide and finds people right where they are and ministers to their hurting hearts in that place. My patients and their families are my teachers, and I value their lessons. Ministering to my atheist patient this year, and the work in general, has given me my inspiration as I apply to Vanderbilt’s PhD program. I also have a wonderful team to work with, but especially my manager, my social worker, my secretary, and my nurses Wendy and Lisa. They all make each day a worthy sacrifice. (Trust me! At what I make, the word “sacrifice” is perfect.)
8. My Bereavement Group. If I ever have a friend go through a crushing break-up, I will immediately buy them Alan Wolfelt’s book Understanding Your Grief: Ten Essential Touchstones for Finding Hope and Healing Your Heart . Working through this book with my group, and the group’s grieving processes in general, helped me to identify that what happened to me was just the normal grief one experiences when someone you love dies. I suddenly no longer felt so isolated in my grieving, and listening to them give voice to their mourning, gave me an opportunity to accept my own. Once I got that the person I knew and loved did in fact die–metaphorically and literally, in as much as that person was no longer real or real in my life–I could finally find the courage to accept the past as it was, accept the me that I truly am, and move on towards my own best future.
9. My Bike. My Bike. My Bike. I love my shitty bike, and I am accepting cash donations (through PayPal of course) towards my next ride. It may just be one of the crappiest bikes on the planet for someone to ride 50-70 miles a week on, but she keeps on going strong. I love waving to the guys mowing my golf course at 6:30 in the morning with their headlights shining out in the dark. I love riding with Emma! I just love riding her period. Giant, Specialized and Cannondale may get quite a bit of my internet window shopping, but she gets my attention day-in-and-day-out. I would have gained a TON of weight without the bike given my knee, so I am so appreciative to have this bike even if it is not all that good of one or all that cool. She does what she is supposed to do–for the most part–and I am grateful.
10. My Blogs. Writing has given voice to my despair and to my hope, both of whom are constant partners in my dance of life. The affirmation of my faithful readers and the new friends I have made as a result, gave wings to the fact that I did in fact have a meaningful future without the one I had loved. He and I began a conversation–an important one for me personally and one of importance for the world in which we live–and when it ended abruptly I feared the conversation died too. In working on this blog and Don’t Be A Christian (which will be more fully operational January 2008), I found new partners in that conversation, found I could do it on my own (dammit!!!!), and the impetus to be bold enough to go after a PhD. I was once sent an email from someone wondering if this blog was the beginning of something else because she could sense something brewing in me from my writing. The truth is the blog began as a way to show photos of my new puppy! What it has become astounds me, but I also know it has been central to my healing and to my reaffirmation that indeed my middle name is hope.

There are certain songs that have supported me too, but especially the words to two Bjork songs: The whole of “All is Full of Love.” I keep reminding myself that I am full of love to both give and receive, and although it may not come from the places I expected, it is always right there within me and for me. The other song is “It’s Not Up To You.” The lyrics are amazing. She sings, “I wake up and the day feels broken. I tilt my head. I’m trying to get an angle…if you wake up and the day feels broken, just lean into the crack…notice how it sparkles.” This has been a year of leaning into the crack, and much to my surprise it has sparkled in ways unimaginable last year. Me too. I still sparkle.

With gratitude for the 525,600 minutes of this last unbelievable year,

Rev. Jacqueline Hope Derby

Photo Credit: PAPARAZZO

Studying for the GRE–the Graduate Record Exam–has created a crushing pain in my spirit. This pain envelops me and leaves me paralyzed at times. Why? Now I do like to call the GRE “The Graduate Retching Exam” because of all of the math, which I worked hard (okay, not that hard) to forget as promptly as it was no longer needed, but that is not why. The reasons why have much more to do with feeling I am putting my feet on a path that will take me away from a dream for my life…the dream to be married and have a baby. I feel I am choosing to give birth to ideas instead of a family, and I am afraid of the loneliness this path might bring.

I did not date for all of my teens and twenties. I never kissed anyone. I never felt anyone was even interested in me as a girl, let alone as a girlfriend. I got the message very early on that I was not in-fact, “girlfriend material.” Oh sure, I had guy friends. They love me! But I was never enough…not pretty enough, not thin enough, not cool enough, etc. Or I was too much. Too smart. Too opinionated. Too radical. Too fat. Too fucked up by my past. I kept getting the message that if I could just be, well, not me, then and only then would I deserve the love and respect of the men I liked or was involved with (after my thirtieth birthday).

Much of why I did not date for so long had to do with me and only me. I was just terrified of anyone coming near me. Terrified they would get close and see how fractured I was from being molested. I did not want anyone to see me naked. Shit! I hardly let anyone see any skin when I was fully clothed, always in long shirts buttoned way up even in the Miami summer. I felt so unsure