Blackberry Sorbet

"Afford yourself the luxury of knowing what you like and don't like." --Sarah Kliban, casting director/actor/coach

So, I don't like to admit it, but I'm allergic to dairy. I sneeze like crazy after eating a bowl of ice cream. However, I still have this idea I like ice cream, even though it coats my insides in an uncomfortable way and starts me on cold-like symptoms.

This is me facing--say yes to--another hard truth. Because, in the end, it's much more relaxing to live in reality rather than continuing to try to spin the fantasies. I like the idea of rocky road ice cream--the way I like the idea of the romance with X-man. But the reality is he has un-separated with his wife. And ice cream makes me sick, as does craving a man who is not available. To live in the reality may sometimes be disappointing, but more than that, it's living in the light. I'm no longer digging and spelunking down deeper and deeper caverns in order to dodge what I've known is true all along.

To call rocky road ice cream my favorite would be to celebrate a thing that is poisonous to me.

My favorite ice cream isn't an ice cream at all--it's blackberry sorbet. It's rare--like August--and I'm nearly there.

Falling in love

“I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”--Mother Teresa

So you're thinking, wait, she just got her heart busted open like a pinata, why's she saying yes to "falling in love"? Well, there's more kinds of love than human love.

I remember I was on the phone one evening with some guy I met through the personals, back when the personals were in newspapers, and we'd read them on the subway when commuting to the city, and daydream about possibilities. So, I was on the phone with him, and he asked me if I'd ever been in love, and I started to go on about how I believed love was a state of being that had nothing to do with another individual--I could be in love walking down the street and if I was possessed by that state, everything that came across my path--tree, fire hydrant, puppy, a mother pushing her baby in a stroller--all would be the objects of my affection. I remember the man I was talking to did not like this answer, and we never ended up meeting, even though I thought it might be a pretty good match.

These days, I do believe that I have been in love with particular individuals--and particularly, a LOT of them. But today, in the wake of the sudden absence of a particular beloved, I'm saying yes to falling in love without a certain, sustained recipient to catch that love.

This morning, I was in the South Central Sierras, taking my morning run down the highway toward a mountain lake, and everything shone. I focused on my breath and I let my breath open me, my heart, and my body, to the astonishing beauty of the landscape, and then I cranked open my heart, as if widening the lens of a camera or a microscope, to get a closer view--and it was as if that particular leaf, that singular flower petal, that drop of water, that glint of sun on the water, had my complete attention, and offered itself back in an intimate fashion, and we loved each other fiercely in the moment that I passed the thing on the road. And then I loved the next, and the next, and the next. And it went on like this until I returned to the cabin--and I loved the porch stairs, and the door, and its handle, and my own hand, turning the knob, and walking in.

Dance!

"You must be the change you want to see in the world." --Gandhi

Old theory: we don't fall in love with another person, we fall in love with the particular parts of ourselves that come out around the beloved.

New theory: if those parts are in me, I have access to them any time. I am my own "better half," my own split-apart.

Today, I'm saying yes to accessing several characteristics/

qualities/states of being that I somehow thought were born/re-born in X-man's presence:

unparalleled joy in my heart and body

more active social advocacy

veganism

a return to public displays of dancing!

Joy: There's a tenor to shared joy that I'd like to tap into while on my own. I find glimpses of it running along Bear Creek or down through the redwoods towards a mountain lake, stalks of purple flowers lining the path, strange July snow on the peaks in the distance. My heart fills with the present moment, grateful in much the same way I was with him. I want to bloom and grow it--make it bigger, a bread, yeasty and rising on my kitchen table, the sun gleaming through the window making everything glow.

*

Advocacy: Today, I watched "Under Our Skin," a documentary on Lyme disease and the politics surrounding it and the individuals affected by it. Politics and stigma of Lyme, as well as AIDS, is lifting me up to become an advocate for awareness and change in policy-making and public perception of these diseases. I'm just now learning about Lyme disease, and I've watched misinformation, fear, politics, and stigma create lack of treatment for AIDS for too long. Honestly, I do not know where to start except to invite others to watch "Under Our Skin." However, I now declare to raise awareness one person at a time, and to try to discover what other actions I can take to help improve public opinion and government support of these diseases and the individuals who suffer from them.

*

Veganism: If I want to go on what, to many, may seem like an extreme diet--especially living in the Central Valley where there are no vegan restaurants--I can do it, even without the support of a partner. I've done it before with no support--spending months on raw food while living with a total carnivore. I already have two people ready to join me for a monthly raw vegan potluck. "If you build it, they will come." I live in a region rich with almond and fruit orchards, and organic farms. I can grow a garden in my own backyard. I can do it day by day.

*

Public displays of dancing: This from a woman who was stopped by the police for dancing with friends in the middle of the street to music blaring from a car stereo. (Small town, after midnight.) Also, I was bopping to some live music at a subway station in New York City when young man swooped me up and danced salsa with me. If I have no dance partner, the dance must go on. I pledge to dance on streets, in my living room, in clubs, down grocery store aisles, at the gym in Zumba class, in parking lots, in classrooms, in cars. Dance, and the stars, the blue sky, and sometimes, a human partner, will dance along.

"Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn't music." --William Stafford

"Please send me your last pair of shoes, worn out with dancing as you mentioned in your letter, so that I might have something to press against my heart." --Goethe

"Dancers are the messengers of the gods." --Martha Graham

Sweep

"Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it? And when she hath found it, she calleth her friends and her neighbours together, saying, Rejoice with me; for I have found the piece which I had lost." --Luke 15: 8-9

The strings in my heart are unraveling, whatever was knitted there is falling apart. Each small thread is a hope undone, but the material--like all matter in the universe--stays. What will it sew itself into next? What new forms can I thread together? If I'm really going to give up all old ideas about who I am, do I even know what possibilities exist yet?

Where next, what next? I ask God. I ask, "Please, take me where you want me to be."

Yesterday was a particularly good day in terms of the recent heartbreak. Today, not so good. The hurt is a bunch of jagged stones in my chest, heavy and clanking against each other when I try to move, even when I breathe.

When I was a child, I used to collect rocks. It was rather a compulsion. I felt the need to pick up every rock I saw walking home from school--I'd stow each in my lunchpail. I knew it was a problem, so I created strategies to limit the number of rocks I brought home every day. For example, one day I chose one rock and kicked it all the way home. The pain I encountered leaving the others on the ground was acute.

Let's say there's five stones in my chest right now. Each represents a particular hope I had about the recent romance with X-man. I take them out and place them on the table in front of me. One is an unwritten song. One is unmade raw vegan lasagna. One is our next kiss. One, a paddle-boat ride. One, next Sunday's shared worship.

I take the stones to the kitchen sink, soaking them in hot water, scrubbing them with the scrub brush and soap, trying to let all hope go, into water, down the drain, back to the ocean where it belongs. And then I slip myself down the drain. I want to plunge into the ocean all of a sudden, with no skirting the shore. I want to swim with all of possibility--the ones I've washed down there and ones I've never thought of. I want to live the question, "Now what?" and I also want to live the question, "What lives in the rooms of my heart?" "What color should I paint the walls of its entranceway?" "What will I keep in the fruit bowl on the table in the dining room of my heart?"

I wear a fancy dress to mop and clean after the recent disaster in the house in my chest. I pick up the pieces, the rocks, the fallen items, straighten the crooked paintings. I create order after the whirlwind, the short tornado."

What next? I've asked. While waiting, or, in answer, I sweep. I sweep. I never don't need to sweep.

"It's a long day since last night.

Give me space. I need

floors. Wash the floors, Lorine!--

wash clothes! Weed."

--Lorine Niedecker

I'm clearing away space, to find what's been lost, possibilities that haven't yet occurred to me. You are invited to the discovery party.

Responsibility

"The willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life is the source from which self-respect springs." ~Joan Didion

"It's a question of discipline," the little prince told me later on. "When you've finished washing and dressing each morning, you must tend your planet." ~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Tonight I told a new story about myself--or I told a new story about a longtime fact of my life. I do not have a family, a husband (or even ex-husband) or children. That's a fact. For years, since I was thirty, I kept telling myself that I didn't have that yet--then later, when I became too old to have children of my own, I told myself, I had a stroke of bad luck with men, or my drinking kept me from having what I most wanted. But those are strange justifications, as if I was blaming the outcome of my life on circumstances. But many women have bad luck with men and still marry them and/or have their children. Lots of people marry bad partners or have children whether or not they are drunks. So, tonight, I just started spinning a new twist on my story: my singleness is a choice. Rather than becoming a flesh-and-blood mother, I've 'parented' my creative projects, my adventurous life. I've refused to settle when it comes to a man--looking for the right partner is more important to me than having a marriage and children with a man who's good enough. Maybe I'm a perfectionist in this area, I don't know. Maybe I will settle later in life--or maybe, like an acquaintance in his 50s who just married his 'spiritual partner,' my spiritual partner and I are still being made for each other through our adventurous life experiences.

I once was told, by a woman 20 years my junior, that my independence was an inspiration to her and her peers. Her perspective was that whatever I did, I embraced with great fervency, and that, if I was to settle down with a man, I would give him and my love for him my all, and all else would fall by the wayside. I remember cooking three meals a day for a man in my life. My devotion to making his lunch--building, halving, and wrapping the sandwiches, was so thorough, it nearly brought me to tears every morning. Love takes me over, every cell of my body a small whirlwind, living fully to serve. Yes, in service of love, I've written poems and stories, prayed with my partner in church and at prayer altars, played music and written songs in partnership with him. But me, so often, is lost to we.

Maybe, instead of having bad luck with men, I've chosen relationships that burn out, so I can have a chance to recover myself again and again. I can say that I've had this amazing opportunity to get to know intimately and love many men, and I cherish the plenty in that.

I take heart, too, in this quote from Isaiah:

"Sing, O barren, thou that didst not bear; break forth into singing, and cry aloud, thou that didst not travail with child; for more are the children of the desolate than the children of the married wife, saith the LORD."

And so I sing, I sing Italian arias, I sing folk tunes, I write and sing my own songs, I sing in the shower, I sing in bars and coffee shops, I sing while I'm driving, I sing while I'm jogging around the creek every morning. I sing. I sing. I water my little planet with sweet melodies.

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T/Find out what it means to me"

"If you want to be respected by others the great thing is to respect yourself. Only by that, only by self-respect will you compel others to respect you." --Fyodor Dostoevsky

Today, I took the difficult action of sending a message to X-man telling him the relationship was over. When we parted, there were a few doors left open, and I've been waiting for him to walk back through one--not because I could, with any self-respect, continue with him, but because it downright sucks not to be wanted after having someone celebrating you with buckets full of affection for a time.

Now, I sit in the extreme discomfort of still wanting him to call or write back, saying, "What do you mean it's over? We said, 'Never say never!'" (Or some such scene from a Hollywood movie.)

But I'm saying yes to self-respect. It's like how I used to dress all the time in torn up overalls and bandanas, or wear my sweat pants to bed or the gym, and then, little by little, I started wearing clothes that fit me right and gave the impression that I cared enough about myself to appear presentable to the world. I no longer teach college in cut-off shorts and striped knee-high socks. It's not like I wear suits and heels (well, not yet, but the year is young), but I'm valuing myself enough to dress like a person who cares about her appearance, who wants others to respect her.

If I want to be respected by a lover, I have to stop accepting being treated as if I am not valued. Returning to a relationship littered with inconsistent affection and communication, half truths, and unfulfilled agreements (no matter how connecting the other times were) does not say yes to anything but a repeat of my alcoholic upbringing.

I'm saying yes to new, I'm saying yes to the unknown, I'm saying yes to seeing what might happen if I pull the plug on what I thought I wanted, I'm saying yes to staying curious, to living in the mystery of what's next, of not trying to hold onto broken toys, of clearing away space to make room for new adventures: whitewater rafting, visiting Prague, rock climbing. I'm saying yes to expecting if someone says they will be at my door at 6 PM, they will be at my door at 6 PM. Now that will be a new adventure for me.

Fire

"For you, O God, tested us; you refined us like silver." --Psalm 66:10

"Nothing splendid was ever created in cold blood. Heat is required to forge anything. Every great accomplishment is the story of a flaming heart." --Arnold H. Glasgow

The past three months, I've kept lighting myself on fire. I'm burning up.

In the Central Valley of California, where I live, temperatures are spiking up to 107 degrees. But every cell of my body is aflame--an internal fire I've built with sticks and starter, in the pit of my belly, in the center of my heart. And I refuse to douse it in the usual ways--there's so many ways to quiet pain. But there's something being forged here, through the courses I traversed to be with X-man, and now the road away from him. (I've changed his name to X-man because of his great love for super heroes and because I spent all last night x-ing him out--deleting his numbers, burning letters & poems, dumping text messages.)

I do not yet know what I am making, but like anything made by metalsmiths, it's weighty and of value. It will be solid, not hollow.

There's this theory I've pieced together--every time I experience pain, I think it's going to get easier. "Oh, broken-heartedness? I know how to do that! Piece of cake!" Instead, my experience is that it gets harder, more debilitating, as if each time simply stacks onto the last time, eventually leading to this giant bonfire of pain. The problem is, in the past, I've used various methods to keep from staying on fire, extinguishing the feelings before all the firestarter burned away. So the first kindling of disappointment (say my father's fierce frown when I was three) continues to sit there, on the bottom of the pile, continues to fuel the burn I feel whenever someone profoundly disappoints me. In the past, I've used alcohol, food, movies, internet, spending, sex, thoughts of suicide, and etc. to distract and even keep the flames down.

But if I want to burn away all the wreckage of my past, I need to say yes to the fire within me. The anger and rage, the disappointment and hate. I need to pile it up and keep it lit, sheltering it from rain and wind, until all that's left is a pile of ashes that I eventually breathe out, and let loose to the soft breezes of July nights, watch the gray bits of what I used to want swirl up towards the stars, while what remains in my chest is a new heart, made of pure silver, and cooling into place, readying to last.