This Much I Know Is True: Part III

And now, ladies and gentlemen, the first of the oh so important lessons learned about love and relationships.

5. Singleness is not a problem in need of a solution.

Life is good. I am generally quite happy with where things are at. I have a rewarding job with likeable colleagues, a beautiful home in a beautiful city, a reasonably functional and loving family, awesome friends, a fantastically decorated bicycle, and more scarves and shoes than I could ever wish for. Still, sometimes when I share my contentment with life at present, there are those who say, “Now we just have to find you a good man.” They mean well; I know. They love me and believe I deserve someone to share my life with. As one of my dear friends said, “I just want a good guy to come along and think you’re as awesome as we all think you are.” So I appreciate the sentiment, but their well-intended wishes imply that my life will never be fully complete until I am once again partnered up. A “good man,” they suggest, is the missing piece to my puzzle (that sounded kind of dirty even though I didn’t really mean it to).

But who can blame them? The message is everywhere. Few girls dream of growing up to become satisfyingly single. We plan our weddings long before we have even met our grooms. We talk about the future with the accepted assumption that someday- after our days of wild, reckless and restless youth, once we’ve explored and experimented and found ourselves, when we’re ready, when the time is right- we’ll partner up and settle down. We believe it for even the most hardcore partyers and the most dedicated bachelors. In fact, we wait and watch with great anticipation for the girl who will finally get him to say good-bye to his womanizing ways, or the guy that will truly whisk her off her feet forever and always.

Coupledom is what we are taught to strive for. Miserable coupledom is often regarded more highly than happy singleness. In fact, singleness, to some, indicates selfishness, stubbornness, or unsuitability. The belief is often that if someone is single for a prolonged period of time, there must be something wrong. You hear it all the time: “What?! You?? Single? How is that even possible? A smart, pretty girl like you?” The insinuation is that if I am reasonably attractive enough, there must, then, be some other reason for why I am still on my own. That’s when the speculating begins: “Maybe she’s just not ready.” “Maybe she’s got too much baggage.” “Maybe she doesn’t know how to trust men anymore.” “Maybe she comes off too independent.” “Maybe she snores too loudly.” “Maybe she has webbed feet.” And the funny thing is that if I were to say that actually, I’m totally okay with being on my own, or that I am truly enjoying this newfound space, there is often this little knowing smirk, the There, there, honey. You just keep telling yourself that look, as if it weren’t possible to be both single and happy.

For the first little while after I became single and happy, I was not too concerned with finding myself a ”real” boyfriend (and I specify single and happy quite intentionally here, because in the pre-happy phase of my singleness, when I was barely keeping my shit together, I was so fragile and broken that I practically hissed at anything with a penis that dared to even look in my direction, which means the idea of actually letting someone close enough to make me consider being unsingle did not even enter my mind). And I think, at that moment, most would agree, I was off the hook- for the time being- from the societal expectation of finding someone. I was new to the game and enjoying my freedom and doing what I have come to affectionately call “practicing,” a term which in and of itself suggests that I too believed that, eventually, when I had gotten my jitters out and built up my confidence and figured out what I wanted, I would ready myself and begin the quest for the real deal, the new Mister Right who could remake an honest woman out of me.

Then I got bored with the practicing, quite honestly, because it’s kinda fun but also a whole lot of bullshit. And then, once I felt like I was actually ready to maybepossiblylegitimately entertain this whole boyfriend idea, there wasn’t really a readily available Mister Right, or even a Mister Almost Right. I was “ready” but single, which usually felt (and feels) totally okay, except that there is still this looming, unspoken expectation and assumption that I will of course someday become unsingle. And that’s when I started to have these twinges of insecurity and confusion, because, on the one hand, I am happy- legitimately so, sans partner, and I truly enjoy all the little delights and perks of single living, but then the skype calls and emails always ask about the men. Have you met someone? Have you met someone? Have you met someone? (Again, I don’t blame them, as the stories of meeting/starting/trying/dumping/humping are usually quite fantastic.) But sometimes, those questions, combined with watching recently uncoupled friends recouple so quickly, and seeing all sorts of facebook pictures of engagements and honeymoons and romantic getaways, and witnessing the 73 likes of someone’s change of status to “in a relationship”, start to make me wonder if maybe there is something wrong with singleness after all. Should I be out there more? Should I be trying harder? Am I running out of time? Does that even matter? Is it okay to be okay with being on my own or am I just lying to myself so I don’t feel like a rejected, unwanted loser? Is it acceptable to build my life around the me here now, and just be satisfied with simply being lil ole single me? Am I as valued as a single woman/friend/citizen as I would be partnered up? And that’s when I read this article: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-20219349, and as I read it, I found myself saying, “Yes, yes, yes” because this guy articulated so clearly what I had been feeling, and I felt like finally I had permission to just be single- not shamefully single, not single and looking, not single for now, just single- one adjective in a whole long list of adjectives that describe me.

So, my point is this: I am single and happy. The “and” doesn’t mean the two words are causally connected. I am not happy because I am single nor am I happy in spite of being single. I just want to be happy, and as far as I can tell, happiness has to do with being content with current circumstances while being open to the possibility of the future. I don’t want to adopt a narrow view of what my life should or could look like. I don’t want to become a jaded, cold-hearted bitch who has decided if she is single now, she will be single always, leaving no room to let someone new in, nor do I want to succumb to the pressures of attaining coupledom by settling for a Mister Good Enough simply because I can’t handle the questions, the speculations, or the lonely moments, because- believe me- there certainly are lonely moments. They arrive at Christmas and New Year’s and on my birthday, those occasions when I can’t help but remember and compare and be reminded of all the togetherness that highlights my on-my-ownness. And there are, of course, those few days each month when my babybox hormones work their PMS self-pity magic and whisper hateful prophecies of my future life as a crazy cat lady. And there are also those moments when I get a little, how you say, “twirly”- you know- hungry for a good make-out session on the couch or for a strong man arm wrapped around me in bed. And every so often, I miss some of the tender side-effects of togetherness- the kisses on the forehead, and how arms and legs that know each other well fit so nicely together; but then I remember all the other stuff, and I know that while I certainly want to keep my heart and mind open to the possibility of some gentleman’s awesomeness complementing mine, I am not willing to sacrifice the great of my current singleness for just a so-so togetherness.

I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want to live my life in the sphere of not yet and someday, believing that until a “good guy” knocks on my door, my life will never be as full and rich and complete as it could be. I want to continue building a beautiful life now with single me at the centre.

I want to make decisions about my future confidently as a strong, big-hearted, single woman who has a hopeful and flexible vision of what’s to come. I want to be totally and completely okay with being on my own today and tomorrow and maybe even for always, but I also want to be open to letting someone else come in and share all of this with me. And I suppose, I just want to encourage others around me to see singleness the same way, to recognize that being single is totally okay. Totally. Those of us who are unattached don’t need to be pitied or prayed for or matched up or consoled. There is nothing to fix here, nothing to cure, nothing to solve.

Let me leave you with this little bit I read the other day- another article that had me nodding my head in agreement: http://www.xojane.com/sex/stuff-not-to-say-to-your-single-30-something-friend

Now, I have more to say about all this love and relationship business. My next two lessons learned were biggies, namely, that love (or something like it) is pretty much always worth it, and also that you shouldn’t have to convince people to spend time with you, but I got a bit carried away with this one, so the rest will have to wait until tomorrow.

This Much I Know Is True: Part II

Here is yet another idea to add to my list of lessons learned during this last spin around the sun- something else I absolutely positively know to be true….

4. Balance is overrated.

For years, I have beaten myself up for not ever being able to achieve that elusive balance between work and play, between self and others, between spending and saving, between routine and spontaneity. I always seem to be bouncing somewhere away from the mid-line. Don’t you worry- I am not a completely insane roller coaster of outrageous and dangerous mood swings (At least I don’t think so! Though please tell me if you think otherwise- just maybe make sure I am not holding a knife at the time), but I do have a tendency towards “all or nothing” and towards big emotions. I get full-on giggly about a beautiful sunset, I would be tempted to instagram my joyous discovery of the inside of a perfectly ripe avocado, and a busted stapler could quite possibly throw me into a brief yet curse-laden rage. I also often work too much, sometimes drink too much (though always unintentionally and with great surprise at the end result), I pile too much onto my plate (both literally and figuratively), I sleep too little, exercise too little, and I am just very rarely right on the middle line with anything. I mean, look at the freaking adjectives I use. There’s just no such thing as meh or fine or good in my vocabulary; adore or despise, amazing or horrible- it’s almost always extreme and either/or, never in the middle. For a while, I tossed around this idea that imbalance is actually what brings about change and acts as a driving force in life; so my “bounciness”, so to speak, is actually a step towards making positive change in my life and in this great big world around me, an idea I sometimes kinda sorta believe, but the problem is that it still focuses on this idea of there being some kind of centre- either the before one or the after one- that I need to continually strive towards. I should probably also say before I dive into this great big contemplation on the value of becoming a more “balanced” me, that there is also the alternative of just not thinking about all this stuff and just being, but I think for folk like me- all big and bouncy and sensitive- we can’t help but get a bit reflective about all this stuff, if only to make sure we are not completely insane and are still safe within the “normal” zone.

Something struck me recently while teaching a class about systems theory. I was explaining to students that we often talk about these two different kinds of equilibrium. The first is static equilibrium, which is like a pile of books that remain in the same state until, let’s say, some gust of wind topples them over, and then you have to stack them all up again and create a new equilibrium, which will also pretty much remain unchanged unless acted on again by an outside force. I think for a long time, this was my idea of what balance meant, which I realize is inaccurate. I didn’t recognize the dynamic nature of maintaining equilibrium, perhaps because I didn’t feel like I knew what equilibrium or balance actually felt like.

Then there’s steady-state equilibrium, this idea that, within a system, there can be all sorts of fluctuations in response to the world around it, and these are reactions to varying levels of input or disturbances outside, and each reaction depends on the sensitivity of the system itself, but in spite of all these fluctuations, the system will always return to a functional equilibrium. Body temperature is an example of this. We don’t freak out if we measure our temperature and it is not exactly 37 degrees. We understand that there is a whole range of “normal” and that our body is such a beautifully evolved system that it generally, in most cases, sorts itself out. We shiver if we’re too cold to warm ourselves up; we sweat to cool ourselves down. There might even be long-term changes in a system that could alter the equilibrium completely yet still respect the integrity of the system. A forest growing back after a fire is a great example of this. It’s still the same forest, in spite of a massive disturbance, and even though what grows there, and how it grows, might shift, the forest will still be the same forest.

Even still, while I like this idea of a steady-state equilibrium a teensy weensy bit more than my previous understanding of balance, and I like how easily these ideas can be applied to the system of the human psyche, these words like “steady” and “balance” make me a bit nervous. I’ve become almost allergic to them, partially because I know the typical idea of breath-in, breathe-out, mindful, reflective, come back to centre balance is simply something I don’t feel I can attain, and also because I don’t really know if I want to. I know that if I am to respect the integrity of who I am as a person, I need to be okay with my high highs and my low lows and my swirly, twirly bits in the middle. My excitement about the little things in life that others might overlook, and my sensitive soul that makes me snot and sob all over myself when watching Marley and Me or listening to Hallelujah, these responses to everyday events that might seem irrational or unnecessarily “unbalanced” or over the top, are part of my integrity as a person; and the people around me who know me well know that what might seem to outsiders like unpredictable or inexplicable behaviour actually really fits the system of me.

The truth, though, is that I’ve kind of completely rejected the idea of balance altogether as something to strive for. Maybe I misunderstand this concept. I have this idea that balance has something to do with a sensation of calm, of inner peace; and peace is just not me. In spite of my best efforts, I am restless, hyper-active, busy pretty much all the time, even when I am completely alone and obligation-free in the middle of the jungle, and if I use this idea of balance and peace as my measuring stick of whether or not I’m doing okay, then I will absolutely always fall short. And that, first of all, doesn’t feel too particularly good, and secondly, is just not realistic, because if I look at my life, I am actually doing pretty okay. Life is good, even if, by definition, it sometimes seems a bit “unbalanced”.

If I think back to times when I was a complete mess, when there was definitely something in the system of me that needed to be tweaked in order to bring things back to fully functioning capacity, my barometer isn’t really balance. It’s joy.

Some might say happiness is a superficial concept, and not a sufficient means of measuring if things are as they should be in my life. I think my evangelical upbringing might argue that happiness is kind of selfish, and that righteousness might be a better measuring stick. Perhaps, others might argue that happiness is temporary and relative and unreliable. But here’s my argument: If there is one thing that I think defines me as an individual, it is my capacity for joy, for seeing the light in the darkness, and recognizing the good- this is the core of the integrity of my system, so to speak. So, when I find myself in a space when I feel a sustained unhappiness, when I lose that capacity, when I begin to feel resentful and negative, then I know that it is time for a change. Sometimes, that change might have to do with reflecting on something inside of me, shifting my approach to life, and sometimes that change might mean altering my circumstances. Sometimes- actually, often- it’s simply about self-acceptance and understanding.

A few years back, when I was at my messiest, my sister used this beautiful analogy to describe my situation. She told me that I was a strong flower capable of growing deep roots and reaching high but that I had spent so long in conditions that didn’t allow me to grow. I was in bad soil in a dark room without enough nurturing. She had said, “If we get you out of that bad soil, bring you into the light, and give you a little love, you’ll be just fine.” (I’m probably making her wise analogy a little prettier and more poetic but I just can’t help myself.) So, it seems that only in these last few years, out of the bad soil and into the light, I’ve been able to get a better sense of who I actually am and how I function in good soil. And what I’ve discovered is that, oddly enough, simply understanding when I seem to feel my highest highs and my lowest lows, as well as what triggers the occasional spikes of unsustainable work habits and sleeplessness, and then respecting the role of all these elements in developing my capacity for empathy and creativity and growth, has been very significant. Also, recognizing that there are limits in the process of self-actualization is freaking huge! What’s that they say? A leopard can’t change its spots? I have to accept that I am always going to be a bit bouncy, and that my bounciness is okay, and that understanding it and accepting it and sometimes even anticipating it can keep me in my own self-defined “normal” zone, and can prevent me from wasting so much energy trying to be something I am not or, even worse, wasting energy getting mad at myself for not being able to become something I am not. After all, trying to change your spots into stripes is not only impossible, it also just makes you feel so damn inadequate and miserable, not to mention tired.

So, back to my barometer. Balance has its value; otherwise we wouldn’t talk about it so much. But the idea of balance that I have come to understand simply doesn’t work for me. And I admit that happiness perhaps in and of itself isn’t enough. So here’s what I am striving for: harmony- the beautiful blending of these two concepts. I love the dictionary definitions for harmony: “a pleasing arrangement of parts” and “the state of being in agreement.” Harmony is fluid, flexible, dynamic, and it integrates this idea of the importance of things not only aligning and balancing but doiing so pleasingly. It hints at joy. It’s about shifting the proportions of the different aspects of my life in such a way that they fit and function and please. This means that sometimes there will be bouts of excessive work and not enough exercise, and sometimes there will be too much socializing and not enough meditating, but that if it all fits together reasonably congruously, and the whole system is functioning and maintaining its integrity in spite of continual fluctuations in its complex parts, and the result is a relatively pleasing arrangement, then- it turns out- I am doing ay-okay. 

This Much I Know Is True: Part I

I figure there is no better way to end the year and start a new one than to reflect a little on lessons learned during this last spin around the sun. That's what you'll find here over the next few days: my biggest Aha moments of the year. Now, some of these lessons I learned for the first time this year, some I re-learned for what seems like the gazillionth time, and some of these I am still in the process of figuring out. Hopefully, you can find one or two lessons to relate to. And, if you read my growing list and find yourself shaking your head and saying, "Girl, took you long enough," then you should probably contact me so we can talk about you becoming my guru or life coach. Seriously.

But here you have it- the first few ideas that, thanks to the passing of another 365 days, I finally absolutely positively know to be true:

1. Time ripens all things.

I’ve been scribbling this little Cervantes quote in birthday cards for years, but this year, I think I finally started to believe it. If I think back to many of the big decisions I’ve taken and the important changes I’ve made, they often seem to the outside world to be either unforeseen impulses or plans that I talk and talk and talk about but never actually do. The truth is, I’m a "percolator". I sit on things for a loooooooong time. I used to think this was fear-based, and maybe sometimes it is, but, really, so what. I know many say that when you have a wish, a dream, a vision, a goal, you should just go for it, but I know I have to let things soak in, let the seeds take root, feel it out from different scenarios, hum, haw, and then one morning, I’ll wake up and be ready. It’s taken a long time of living inside this head and going through the decision-making process to finally recognize that this is my process, and that my process is totally okay. If you think about it, all these years of living on this spinning planet have allowed me to invest in myself, hone my intuition, gain skills and experience and hopefully a little wisdom along the way, so that when the time is right, I’ll know it. Few huge decisions need to be made overnight. There’s rarely a need for urgency. This means that if an opportunity comes up and I’m not ready, then I’m not ready- as simple as that- but someday I might be, and if it turns out that when I’m ready, it’s actually too late, that I’ve missed out on some once-in-a-lifetime awesomeness, chances are that some other equally awesome opportunity will very likely come my way. And recognizing that is a fantastic relief!

2. It is almost never actually the end of the world.

This, I suppose, is an idea connected to the first truth. I figure if I can trust that I will know when the time is right, I can also trust that I will know what to do in a time of crisis, that I can probably handle any worst-case scenario thrown my way. Sure, maybe I might need a little help, maybe I might need a little time, maybe there’ll be some unfortunate cost, but seriously, I have yet to encounter a situation that truly deems the anxiety I bestow upon it. I sometimes think I am addicted to anxiety, that I can’t handle stillness so I create catastrophe, and creating catastrophe all the time is so bloody exhausting. The truth is that in spite of hitting some pretty low spots over the last few years health-wise, money-wise, relationship-wise, there’s never been a hole so deep that I haven’t somehow managed to find my way out. I have to remind myself of this constantly- that the world will keep on spinning in spite of my missed deadlines, messy house, unclear vision of the future. There are very few things that warrant an urgent sense of crisis. The funny thing about anxiety, though, is the (dis)connection between the physical response- the knot in the stomach, the heaviness in the chest, the shortness of breath- and the mental understanding of the response. Sometimes, I physically feel the anxiety first, and because I feel the physical sensation, I assume I must be legitimately in need of worrying, justified in my panic response. In these moments, there are two things I try to remember. The first is that it is very difficult to argue with Anxiety. You can pretty much always find something to worry about. Always. So trying to rationally approach Anxiety doesn’t really work. It will always argue back, which is why I jump directly to the worst-case scenario. If I can imagine it, and then understand that I can handle it, then I can believe that it is not the end of the world after all, and then somehow I can give myself permission to not let the physical sensation dictate what should be going on in my head space. The second thing I try to remember is something I learned from a wise woman this summer when I was in Costa Rica. She told me that when we find ourselves in a freak-out swirl of worry, it helps to just “drop into the now” and breathe. If you are really, truly focusing on your breath, there is no room for worry. Now, I can't really truly focus on any one thing at a time so I haven’t quite mastered this one, but trying is a very good start!

3. “No” doesn’t need to be followed by “but” or “because”.

Now, this one has taken me a very long time to learn, perhaps because of all these years I’ve spent arguing with teenagers in my classroom about why my “No means No”, answering their “Why”s and their “But that’s so unfair”s with detailed explanation as I try and guide their still developing brains to an understanding of delayed gratification and the value of foresight. This has all somehow made me believe that I must offer others an explanation when I say “No” to undertaking a project, to participating in a meeting, to offering extra help, to attending a dinner party, but the truth is that very rarely does anyone ever ask why I am saying “No.” Funnily enough, most folks seem to assume that if I said “No”, I must have a perfectly good reason. In fact, asking me for a justification of my response would actually be kind of rude! And, a little addendum here, it turns out that when the request happens to just be for a favour, the decision to ask me specifically very, very, very rarely has to do with the asker valuing my unique expertise, but much more so with the fact that my long-standing reputation as an infrequent naysayer has landed me the spot of first target on their quest for a sucker who will say “Yes”. 

More later.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall, Let's Please Be Friends (formerly unfortunately known as Mirror Mirror On The Wall, Go F*ck Yourself)

I am visiting my grandparents in the Caribbean for a few weeks and doing the things one does when visiting 80-something year old grandparents. We drink coffee and we drink tea, and we go grocery shopping and run errands, and I drive them to their various appointments, turning left when I am told to turn left and turning right when I am told to turn right, and I offer Opa a young, sturdy arm to hold onto after his swim in the ocean so he can more easily make his way out of the water over the rocks and the uneven sand, and I carry things and bring the car around, and I ask a lot of questions about life when they were younger, and I try to listen, as there is still so much to learn and remember.

Well, a few days ago,  as we were standing at the counter of the grocery store café ordering our post-shopping cappuccinos, the front cover of a magazine on display caught my eye. (I have tried now I don’t know how many times to be all tech savvy and put a picture of it here but for some reason, it’s not working, no matter how many different ways I try, so I’ll just have to describe it for you). Basically, what grabbed my attention was a column along the left side of one particular cover, which read “15 stoere vrouwen in bikini (zonder photoshop).” For the non-Dutch speakers, this can probably best be translated as “15 bad-ass/fearless/ballsy women in bikini (without photoshop)”. Interesting! Under this caption were three small pictures of  three very different women, each strutting their stuff in a stylish and respectively flattering black bikini. The picture that intrigued me the most was one of a woman who I later read was 125 kilos, probably one of the largest women I have ever seen wearing a bikini. There she was - posing for all the world to see,  hand on her hip, hair coiffed, shoulders back, with  a confident smile on her face. She looked fabulous! And then, in big, bold letters just below these snapshots, it read DIT IS MIJN LIJF, which means “This is my body”.  I saw all this and I thought to myself, “The rest I have to see!”

Now, I know we have the Dove ads that try to show a girl who is “normal,” who is not stick-thin like so many cover models, or perfectly curvaceous like the Guess girls or Victoria’s Secret pin-ups, and now we’ve also got Lena Dunham of the HBO TV show Girls. She is a feisty young woman who has stirred up a little controversy and been called “a pathological exhibitionist” and a “little fat girl” because she almost weekly takes off her clothes in front of the camera to unabashedly reveal a body that does not quite match the western world’s mainstream societal standards of beauty. But this magazine in my hands seemed somehow different.

Later in the day, stretched out on a lounge chair at the beach (how fitting), I started flipping through the pictures. The girls in this particular photo shoot, were not, as far as I could tell, models- stick-thin, “plus-size” or otherwise. They were just average everyday students, cashiers, social workers, mothers, real women- some with small waists and wide shoulders, some with large breasts and larger hips, some flat-chested with strong and solid legs- they spanned the spectrum of tall, short, thick, thin, stout, pear-shaped,  but were all proudly “imperfect”. The lighting here hid nothing, and while these women had certainly sat for a good session of hair and make-up, everything was visible- stretch marks, cellulite, pores, rolls, moles- everything.  I read and reread, and looked and looked again at these ordinary women volunteering to participate in something extraordinarily empowering, and the whole experience got me thinking about something that has been on my mind for a while now.

You see, I’ve recently had some back-to-back instances of negative body image bullshit. It started a few months back when I had a good look in the mirror post-shower and heard myself say, “Girl, you certainly aren’t as young as you used to be” and an unnecessarily extensive, super close-up inspection of my face revealed lines and pigmentation spots and aging that I had never really noticed before. Soon after, in preparation for summertime, I stood in front of my full length mirror and tried on all my bikinis and warm weather wear to determine what should stay and what should go, and I just remember that experience bringing on a whole lot of discontented sighing and head-shaking. Then, just a few weeks back, on a balmy beachworthy day, a group of my girlfriends decided to go to the public pool for a session of sunbathing and swimming. A great idea! I didn’t go- partially because I had an overdue to-do list in need of attention, and partially because I am not a fan of spending a day surrounded by shrieking children, but also very much so because I have absolutely no desire to flaunt my pasty, veiny, bumpy bits of flesh in a public place where I might run into students, colleagues, and acquaintances. No desire whatsoever.  To top it all off, a few days after I left to come here on my vacation, I saw a picture posted on facebook of friends having a late afternoon dip in a nearby swimming hole, and I realized that if I were still in town, I would probably have been invited, and more importantly, I realized that I probably would have declined the invitation. Late night skinny dip (i.e. nudity in the pitch black dark): no problem. Hanging out in a bikini on a beach with strangers whose opinion I give less of a shit about: maybe. Midday early summer bathing suit-clad swim with friends (i.e. absolutely no tan yet to at least somewhat camouflage the pasty, veiny, bumpy bits): no thank you.  

That’s messed up.

And what’s even more messed up is that this is not something new, not some new kind of discontentment that has evolved with the recent realization that I am in possession of an aging, gravity-obedient body. This has been an issue for as long as I can remember. I would have reacted with the same hesitation to a late afternoon swimming invitation 10 years ago, 15 years ago, 20 years ago.

Messed up.

The thing that struck me, thinking about this collection of recent body-conscious moments, the history before it, and then this experience now of taking in the images of these bold, bikini-clad women bearing their (almost) all on the pages in front of me was this: I am 35 and have spent almost my entire life being discontent with my body. That’s a really really really long time, and, quite honestly, I am tired of it.

Now, many of these women in the magazine had lost a substantial amount of weight and were proud of themselves for overcoming such a life-defining obstacle, or they had recently given birth and were getting used to their newly shaped body, or they used to be shy and had finally begun to feel comfortable in their own skin. My reality is that I have never really had any *significant* body issues or particularly noticeable shifts in body image. I don’t have any disfiguring scars or skin conditions or disabilities or any kind of otherness that make me look significantly different from my peers or that might lead me to feel self-conscious. I am not overweight or underweight. I am tall, but not exceptionally tall. I pretty much fit squarely in the category of totally and completely average. Nobody’s ever called me “fat” or suggested I don’t eat a second cupcake. Nobody’s ever called me “ugly” (except maybe one of my siblings mid-fight sometime a gazillion years ago) and while teasing is an unfortunately prevalent activity among kids, aside from my long, lanky preteen self being teased about the flatness of my chest and told I should eat something or the wind might blow me away, little of the bullying I endured as a child centered on my physical appearance.  Very little guilt surrounds my mealtimes, even if I sometimes have a few more bites than I need. I have a gym membership I barely use, which sometimes causes me teensy little waves of shame, but that’s more about the wasted money than untoned muscle. What I mean to say is that the common body image issue that many women often struggle with- this everpresent awareness of one's shape and size, and how that relates to the shape and size of others or to the shape and size of the past self (or the ideal self), doesn´t generally permeate my daily routines.

So some might say, really, what’s the problem? The problem is that, in spite of being without what one might deem “significant” body image struggles, in spite of being a reasonably confident woman who recognizes my worth and the fact that my worth extends far beyond how I look, I still insist on continually being unkind to my body, picking, judging, harping on all the little imperfections I see when I look in the mirror. I try not to be a public harper (aside from this grand reveal), one of those girls who constantly goes on and on about my thighs and my zits and my hair and my this and my that. But privately, when it’s just me and the mirror, I am a downright critical bitch- like, a clipboard in hand, tsk-tsk-tsk, displeased, disdainfully eye-rolling, critical bitch.

This is my point. My body is healthy and strong, my face is joyful and expressive, and generally everything seems to work as it should, so why why why do I give so much attention to creating, maintaining and bemoaning the long list of little things I don’t like, all the features I find out of proportion or unattractive?  And the sad truth is that this list of mine is absurdly long and embarrassingly detailed.  It includes the size of my eyes, the shape of my nose, pores that are too visible, and a face that is never ever ever without a blemish. It includes my smallish breasts (I mean, I think God could have easily blessed me with an extra cup size- I am certain I could pull it off). It includes my slouchy posture, my full upper arms, my worker hands, my pasty white complexion. It includes my ever-growing web of spider veins-  the rivers of blue that wind underneath the transparent skin of legs that are, by far, my least favourite feature. I have long felt that these too-thick ankles, and sturdy, muscular, Dutch legs, designed for bicycling or speed skating, belong on a girl with a bigger frame and a shorter torso. And this intense dislike for my lower limbs reaches way way way back into my youth. I remember once sitting in the summertime on a bench with friends and being very much aware that my thighs spread out so much more than those of all the pretty girls around me.

This is part of the problem, perhaps where it starts- the self-sabotaging act of comparing oneself to all those pretty girls. I look at their big, lashy eyes and their flawless skin and their jiggling breasts and their slender legs and their itsy bitsy little ankles and I feel envy. I felt envy as that 14 year-old girl sitting on a bench, and I feel it sometimes still. In fact, I admit that I have wasted a significant portion of my life feeling jealous of beautiful women, of my perfectly photogenic sister, of my fashion model high school best friend, of the carelessly pretty popular girls, and my collection of gorgeous girlfriends . Envy is dangerous, because it leads to insecurity and discontentment and sometimes even resentment, and it leads us to view difference with judgmental and ungrateful eyes, and these states of being are far more unattractive features than fat ankles or pasty skin.

I know that I have, for a very very long time now, often tried to compensate for feeling less beautiful by being louder, bigger, bolder, wilder, wittier, artier, smarter or sweeter. I suppose this is because a very long time ago I decided that I would probably never be a “head turner,” in the traditional sense of the word.  Someone won’t walk past me and give me a second look because of my physical beauty. I can believe they might stop and take another look because they got distracted by my fabulous shoes or my hearty laugh, or perhaps they got a kick out of the animated way I was telling my friends a story, or they might have been impressed by my vocabulary or my wicked trivia skills, but “Hey girl, you’re gorgeous” is not something I have often heard, except maybe at the end of the night when the bar is closing and buddy is drunk and looking for a companion to take home. Cute, sometimes maybe. Gorgeous, not so much.

Now, why am I sharing all this? Please rest assured that this is not some pathetic, self-pitying solicitation for my friends to pile on the compliments and make me feel better about myself. I generally, in the grand scheme of things, when evaluating the combination of my inside and my outside me, feel pretty good about myself. I can see the good in me, and I am very much aware that much of this stuff I have allowed myself to believe for so long is more or less ridiculous, irrational, trivial, and maybe some of it isn’t even truth. I know that, and I also acknowledge that it is deeply unfortunate that I have wasted so much time and energy on disliking a body that has generally served me quite well.

Unfortunate. Ridiculous. Irrational. I know. But still, I can’t help but wonder where these absurd ideas about beauty come from, as well as these tendencies towards needless comparison, discontentment and self-criticism. And I wonder how these beliefs manage to remain so strongly etched across time and space, beyond the me that was a young, insecure teenager getting used to her body, all the way into the adult life of a strong, reasonably successful woman. And I wonder- most importantly- how to finally and completely override those beliefs. Because that’s the point, isn´t it? It’s not really about what’s actually standing there in front of the mirror. It’s about what I choose to see, what I choose to believe.

I know I have certainly made some progress over the last decade or so in terms of accepting, maybe even sometimes enjoying, this body of mine. Small and simple steps have positively impacted my appreciation of my body, little things like finally having no issues throwing on a pair of three inch heels, even if results in me towering over some of the men around. My younger self would have felt that kind of tallness was unfeminine. I have also come to recognize all the excellent bonuses to my smallish breasts- I can run without them jiggling and causing me discomfort, I can spend pretty much this entire vacation braless, I can wear things that women with a more ample bosom probably couldn’t get away with. And I have taken to snapping “selfies” to document moments when I am in a good space or with good people, when I feel happy and confident, because it seems that when I feel good, I am more likely to feel like I look good, and all these self-portraits provide a kind of reactionary evidence  against the infinite piles of pictures of myself over the years that have made me moan and groan. So, there has definitely been some progress, but it’s not enough, because as long as there are still moments when I look in the mirror and snarl a little, then that’s a problem- one that must be remedied. The sooner the better.

Now, this moment- here, now, of being confronted with the reality of a body image that’s still in need of a little improvement-  is not exactly something new. I mean, that’s how life works, right? Growth isn’t really a linear process but cyclical. Lessons, emotions, experiences recycle themselves until we finally actually get it. So, we find ourselves again and again in a familiarly uncomfortable situation, with ugly emotions we recognize from the way they sit in the gut or bend the spine or press on the lungs, and hopefully, each time we arrive in that spot again, we have wiser eyes, and a stronger character, and a more patient heart, and a mind that is ready for a new idea to root itself deep down.

So, in this particular revisitation of the body image issue, the fifteen bad-ass women staring back at me remind me that there is still work to do. They remind me that not only is beauty in the eye of the beholder, but that perspective and perception is everything, because it is not really body issues that so many of us struggle with, but body image issues. The problem arises in the act of our own beholding. These women remind me that beauty, like intelligence, exists in a delightful multitude of forms. They remind me that, just as we can all agree that the IQ tests of yesteryear made a nasty little mess of trying to evaluate an abstract, culturally-dependent , individually-defined concept, we should also be able to agree that the idea of a bunch of women with different backgrounds, stories and values all striving for a uniform standard of beauty is slightly ridiculous. Put these ideas together and out of it grows the unmistakable truth that somebody somewhere out there is bound to find attractive the very things about my body that I so fervently dislike. I mean, I can think of dozens of examples of a friend sharing one of the aspects of her body that gets in the way of her smiling at her reflection, and my response being one of complete disbelief because I hadn’t even ever noticed it, or I personally think that feature is beautiful or unique, or I simply can’t wrap my head around how it could possibly even qualify as an issue. Now, there is of course the reminder as well that far too often my ideas about what is beautiful are too greatly influenced by what I believe society in general, and men in particular, think is beautiful, and so I am reminded that I need to be able to appreciate my body in spite of/without outside commentary. But, it is good to remember that it is often easier for us to see the beauty in others than in ourselves, which means that maybe me should more often practice looking at ourselves through the eyes of another, or –even better- looking at ourselves with the same gracious eyes we use to look at others.

Then, of course, there’s the whole sticky problem of this word “beautiful” because while it is, by definition, just a harmless little adjective, it is actually oh so much more. It is different from other descriptors like funny, serious, introverted, extroverted, these words that exist on a spectrum where the different possibilities at each end are both valued and respected as desirable attributes. “Beautiful” is problematic because it is a very weighty word, carrying this massive value judgment that is connected to all kinds of personal and cultural baggage. I wonder if we can move away from this idea of “beautiful” altogether as the universal deciding determinant of whether or not we are allowed to be happy with what we see in the mirror. This idea of striving to be able to look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that  I am beautiful feels a bit silly to me. I wonder if there is a way to have a more positive relationship with my reflection without having to rely on these kinds of value judgments. We might also want to consider, of course, the complicated semantics of other descriptors  used when discussing our bodies, and their connectedness to our perception of what is attractive and acceptable: “stocky” and “skinny” feel much more negative to me than “strong” and “thin.” I don´t know, but it’s something I’d like to think a little more about.

Anyways, back to the reminders.

I am reminded this time around that pretty much every woman I know- even, it seems, those pretty girls- has a list as long and detailed as mine, and I am reminded that perhaps we, as women, need to do a better job of appreciating our fellow womankind, of making sure that we frequently tell our friends  and loved ones what we value about them, how they enrich our lives, what makes them unique and awesome. We need to try and balance out all the superficial, surface stuff, to bring perspective to the abundance of messages concerning what we should look like that are stuffed down our throats by Hollywood and Paris, by storefront windows and magazines, by our would-be boyfriends and well-meaning mothers . And when we venture out into the territory of commenting on the outer shell of the women around us, we need to make sure our compliments are sincere and selfless, rather than the far too common dirty compliment such as, “God, I love your hair. I wish mine was curly like that” or “Look at you. You´re so skinny. Do you even eat? You’re lucky. I am constantly on a diet but could never get as tiny as you” because these aren’t really compliments at all but rather self-focused complaints, and I mean, how exactly is someone supposed to properly respond to a “compliment” like that? “Um, thanks….I think.”  

I am reminded that how I talk about and treat my outer self reflects my relationship with my inner self. I am also reminded that, like it or not, given my line of work, I have a moral obligation to the teenage girls sitting in my classroom to model positive body image, to show them what self-acceptance and contentment look like. Actually, to be quite honest, I don’t really like that term “self-acceptance” because acceptance insinuates putting up with something that isn’t ideal, which is about judgment and evaluating and agreeing that there even is something ideal to aim for, and I don’t like the term “contentment” either because it also implies being happy with meh, with not bad, with good enough. I want to strive for self-celebration instead of self-acceptance, and delight instead of contentment.

So, these are all certainly important reminders, reminders  I will likely need to hear again and again and again, but this time there was also a new realization in the cyclical lesson of learning to look on my reflection with greater kindness and grace. And that new realization was this: my body tells a story- an evocative, complicated, fascinating story. As I was looking through that magazine, the body and posture and facial expression of each woman told a little bit about where she came from and what she’d been through. One woman had fresh stretch marks which told the story of her new motherhood. Another woman had considerable rolls of skin above her belly, which made her feel both pride and insecurity, pride because those rolls were evidence of the weight she’d worked so hard to lose, insecurity because those rolls still got in the way of her fully appreciating what she sees in the mirror.

My body tells its own stories. I, like many other people, have a nice little timeline of awesome scars- there’s the burn mark on my forearm from the first time I cooked a Christmas turkey by myself, the slice across my ankle where I was attacked by an angry, spiky palm tree leaf, the hairless line in my eyebrow that tells of the close encounter my toddler self once had with the corner of a coffee table. There are also the metaphorical and metaphysical stories layered underneath the obvious and superficial. My pale complexion, for example, reminds me of the need to slow down, to pay attention, to take the time to respect and protect myself, to resist the temptation to urgently and eagerly just get out there already. My slouchy back and my ongoing struggle to straighten up and fully embrace my tall stature speak of my internal struggles to stretch out and up and take the space I need, to stand firm and tall so I don’t waver when others need/expect/disagree/disapprove/demand. The importance of perspective and interpretation factors significantly into this storytelling business- again, it’s not so much what is there but what we choose to see. Recently, after revealing to a friend how bothered I was by my increasingly veiny legs, she turned to me and told me she thought  those veins were beautiful because they signified vulnerability. What a fascinating perspective. What a wonderful thought.

Perhaps, however, the most interesting and important story told when I look in the mirror is the story of where I come from. This story reveals itself when looking at family photo albums with my Oma. I see faces I may not have ever known but still recognize, and I see myself in the younger versions of my parents and grandparents. I experience this story when I meet people here on the island and they tell me they could see that I am the daughter of my parents because I have my father’s eyes and my mother’s smile. I am reminded of it when I think of my little nephew and how often people naturally try to claim ownership of his feet, his eyes, his mouth, his hair. We carry in our body, in our reflection, the stories of our family and our roots. I am, after all, not a sculpture chiseled in an artist’s studio, not some kind of on-line avatar clicked together by a gamer, not a Gattaca baby, with all my phenotypes and genotypes deliberately selected before my conception. I am a patchwork quilt of family features stitched together, grown, blended, passed on. That means that when I sit here bitching about my ankles and my thighs and my eyes, I am not only being unkind to myself but I am disrespecting the ancestors who passed them on, disrespecting the gifts given to me by those who love me and delight in seeing themselves in me, disrespecting my mother and my Oma and my sister and my cousins who share some of the same features as me.

There is the story as well of what I was designed to do. None of us, obviously, were evolutionarily intended to lie around on beach chairs looking pretty or to sway our hips and flick our hair as we strut down the runway in high heels and a tight skirt. I look at myself in the mirror and I know I was designed to work.  I can picture myself one hundred years ago in wooden shoes, shoveling hay and milking cows and fixing fences. I have a long, lean back and strong hands and strong arms and even stronger legs. I can work hard and I can keep going. I can pull, push, lift, carry because I was intended to be strong. Probably,  I wouldn’t be so strong with skinnier ankles and leaner legs and tinier upper arms and a smaller stature.  So if I really really think about it, when I am standing there at the shore line with my bikini on, and the sun is glistening off all my freckly, pasty whiteness, bouncing off of the blue veins winding through my calves or a dimple in my jiggly butt cheek, and I firmly plant these sturdy, solid legs on the ground, and I know with great confidence that when Opa grabs my arm and holds my not so girly hand, he can trust my strength, that I will be able to support his unsteady, 70 kilo frame, well then, I suppose I’d have to admit, if anything makes me appreciate my body, that does, and if anything is truly beautiful, that is- pretty damn beautiful actually.

A Summer Prayer of Thanks for All Things Good and Wonderful

I am grateful for this new day, for the sun who faithfully ushers in a fresh start each time he takes his place in the sky. I appreciate that no matter what events have transpired the day before, no matter how dark the night, he can be counted on to shine with the same vigor each and every morning. I appreciate his graceful entrance, how he politely eases himself into the sky so I have a few moments to get used to the idea that it is time, yet again, to rise and begin. I am grateful for the sounds that rouse me from sleep- the rhythmic rustle of the palm trees beyond my bedroom window, and the excited tweets of the birds overhead. Their melodies blend together and I can’t help but smile a little as I eavesdrop on their chirpy conversations. I am grateful for the sounds of family, for the reminder that I exist in community, for crying babies and barking dogs and laughing children, for the swoosh of splashes in the pool, the whistle of a tea kettle, the clinking of cutlery and breakfast plates.

I am grateful for a strong body, for legs that are eager to explore new paths, for a back that is straight and a mind that is clear, open, and ready, for lungs that breathe easily, and for an abundance of fresh air to fill them. I am grateful for inquisitive eyes and alert ears and thin skin that feels the subtle nuances of changing temperature and shifts in energy. I am grateful for the goose bumps that involuntarily cover my flesh when I come in contact with something beautiful, for the skip of a heartbeat, the flip of the belly, the gasp for breath, all those glorious reactions that take place when this strong body and open mind witness the extraordinary nestled right in there with the ordinary.

I am grateful for the fresh smell after a short summer rain, and the mystical synergy of sun and shower. Here, now, there is no either/or, but both in turn. I appreciate the way in which the midday sun sometimes backs away from his centre stage for a while. He sneaks behind a curtain of clouds and allows the grey to roll in with choreographed grace. How wonderful to look up and catch that exact moment when the clouds open up and pour just enough rain to bring all the thirsty, sunburnt plants back to life. Everything then is fully alive, and the sun returns to his rightful place, and all is in perfect harmony. I am grateful for the presence of green and brown existing side by side, the reminder that death and life belong together and grow from each other. I appreciate the circles and cycles that shape the path of all things living, because those circles prove that none of this is ever really over. I appreciate the lessons learned from the solitary plant that survives in spite of its surroundings- its roots make their home in nurtured soil, but also in the tiniest crack in a hunk of rock, or even in old, lifeless, used up dirt. I watch the wild goats and donkeys feast on the only speck of green found in the grand scapes of brown, and I am reminded of the intensely powerful force that is Life, the desperate desire of anything born into this world- no matter what its beginning or current circumstances- to live, survive, and eventually thrive.

I am grateful for all the colours and shapes and sizes I see around me- so many different kinds of flowers, birds, fish, leaves, people; and all that variety enriches my experience and my understanding of how this world works. There is always something new to discover and appreciate. I am most intrigued by nature’s “mistakes”, the unintentional hybrids and mutants whose specialness and fragility make them all the more beautiful and teach me that conformity is overrated and that few things are actually impossible. I appreciate the unique blend of cultures, languages, art, music and food that has been birthed here. A messy mix has brought about an awesomely distinct flavour. I appreciate the fluid way words here have evolved, and the incredible story the language of this island tells of its complicated roots.

I am grateful for the peace found at the beach, the perfect juxtaposition of manmade joyful noise and nature’s meditative soundtrack. The crash of waves, the whisper of swaying trees, and the caws of hovering sea gulls mix in with the giggles of teenage lovers, the boom boom boom of the Caribbean DJ, and the sighs of an exasperated mother trying to keep her toddler from drowning, from burning, from falling. All these layers of sound lull me into an accidental afternoon snooze.  There are few things I appreciate more than an accidental nap on the beach, protected by the shade of a giant tree and cooled by a gentle breeze. I am grateful for the vastness of the ocean, the ancient tales it keeps safe, and the way in which it holds this world together with its connective and protective force. I am glad that I am no longer afraid of it like I used to be. I respect its power and I am intrigued by its mysteries but I am grateful I can now swim out into the dark deep and trust my own strength to bring me safely back to shore. I appreciate the delicious jolt of that first dive under water, how the salt stings my eyes and scrubs my skin clean. I appreciate the restoration and meditation found in the simple act of swimming- the breathing in and breathing out, the kicking, and propelling forward. All this clears my mind. I always exit the water holier than I entered.

I am grateful for the perfect temperature right here, right now, but I am also grateful for the less perfect temperatures during the rest of the year as they allow me to appreciate this all the more. I am grateful for the luxury of a vacation, and for the hard work that comes before it. I am grateful for a job that pays me well to do what I love to do. I am grateful for a beautiful living space that has become my haven, and I am grateful for finally having a city I can sincerely call my hometown. I am grateful for the sense of settling, for finally feeling at peace and ready to grow roots. I am grateful for a secure home base that allows me to step out and seek out adventure. I appreciate that I can go far away for a while and know I will safely return to a familiar sense of community and belonging. I am grateful for a family who loves me unconditionally, who accepts me and my swirling mass of contradictions, who helps me see myself when I forget who I am, who offers me wisdom, empathy, encouragement and grace. I am grateful  for my “urban family,” for the strangers who have become acquaintances who have become friends who have become my sisters and brothers, my soulmates and confidantes. I am my best me in the presence of their loyal and comfortable company.  I am grateful for the abundant collection of enduring friendships I have amassed from all the places I have called home. I appreciate the wonders of technology that have allowed me to stay connected to the many beautiful souls who inspire me, motivate me, teach me, and ground me. I am grateful that my heart is open and roomy and has near infinite space to let people in. I am grateful for the lessons learned from the friends, lovers and strangers that have come across my path. They each teach me new lessons about trust and love and authenticity. They challenge my preconceived ideas about living and loving, my stereotypes, my egocentricities, my insecurities.

I am grateful for the beautiful gift of memory. It always reveals itself here in this place. The stores and shores and seaside bars are filled with familiar faces, smells, sights and sounds. I appreciate that I can come back to this island again and again, and smile when I remember again and again the people I can now only access through standing for a moment in the past. I am grateful for the stories of my grandparents, for the afternoon teas spent reminiscing, for photo albums overflowing with black and white slices of life. I like watching their faces as they recreate the past for me, seeing the smile of what was once a shy young man in love, eyes that show remembered sorrow, shrugged shoulders that convey a time when all you could do was say “C’ést la vie.” Those stories make me feel connected to the ancestral souls who sourced my DNA and shaped my history.

I am grateful for time. I am grateful that it faithfully keeps on ticking, that if you wait long enough, fruit always ripens, wounds eventually heal, storms inevitably cease, and seeds sown long ago promise to someday be ready for harvest. Time is perhaps the most precious gift- both constant and fragile, a blessing and a curse. I am grateful for the hope that exists in knowing there will be a tomorrow. I am grateful for the lessons learned from all my yesterdays. I am grateful for an awareness of the fleeting nature of the now, not an awareness that sparks urgency and anxiety, but one that makes me smile with secret glee that I turned in time to see the sun seconds before it set, I looked up just as the chick hatched from its egg. I want to make sure I am able to clear my mind- even if just for a split second- from worry and regret,  long enough to truly feel the awesomeness of all of this, of being fully and completely here now. I appreciate the importance of learning how to attain that delicate harmony between remembering yesterday, imagining tomorrow, and being present in the present.  I appreciate the connectedness of these realms, their interdependence. None can exist without the others. I am grateful for the ongoing lesson of learning to let go of the fear that time is running out, the fear that there is something somewhere out there that I am missing out on. If I cannot be everywhere with everyone doing everything at once, then I suppose there is no place I would rather be than right here, right now, in my today. Perhaps, of all the things I am grateful for, I remain most grateful for today.

Happy anniversary to me!

On this long weekend, fifteen years ago, I got married.

Crazy. I know.

The funny thing, though, is that when I think back to that day, I don’t really feel any sadness about something lost, I don’t feel regret for making a decision that pretty much changed my life, and I don’t feel anger at myself or him or the universe for the whole thing falling apart. Instead, I feel this kind of pleasantly amused and nonchalant nostalgia.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. I remember the warm glow of spending a full day in the presence of so many people I loved. I remember the thoughtfulness and generousity of the words spoken and gifts given by friends and family. I remember feeling beautiful and happy and so so ready, but most of all I remember the incredible certainty and conviction with which I spoke my vows, these intense feelings and thoughts that had been sitting in my belly and swirling around in my head for months and were finally scribbled down on the back of a used envelope the night before the big day. And remembering all that makes me smile. In fact, it even makes me laugh a little- appreciatively- at the boldness of my 20 year old self’s complete faith in our ability to be together forever, to love each other always, and to- no matter what- just figure it out.

It seemed surprisingly simple. You hear people talk about getting “cold feet”, about having doubts before they walk down the aisle. I don’t remember feeling even a drop of doubt or the slightest twinge of fear. I just knew. I knew he was the one for me. I was in love- and not in that cutesy, desperate, you complete me, I’m lost without you kind of way. I was a relatively independent girl with a fiery spirit and huge plans. I was not one of those young women who dreamt of playing house. I aspired to so much more than simply being somebody’s wife. I had grand visions of changing the world and leaving a legacy, and while I thought that I would certainly someday marry (after I had sufficiently changed the world), I never thought it would be so soon. But when I met him, and found his audacious, brilliant, quirky self to be my match, it felt like the most normal and natural thing in the world to just agree to be together. I believed with every ounce of my being that I was a better me with him by my side, invigorated but oddly at peace, challenged but unconditionally accepted, inspired, supported, motivated, affirmed, safe, at home, and I was quite certain that the two of us together would be completely invincible.

Here, far far away from my past, many people are surprised to discover that I was once married. It’s seems to some as crazy a confession as if I were to share that I did hard time for a string of B&Es or that I had a lion act in a traveling circus. Crazy! The further away I get from the life I once lived, and the more settled I become in creating this here and now, the less he and us come up in conversation, but they still do. It’s inevitable. We were together for over a decade and we essentially became grown-ups together, which means that much of our life story overlaps and many of our memories are intertwined. Also, there’s no escaping the fact that me as a one-time wife is an essential component of the me I am now. Those experiences have shaped me, and provided me with lessons and insights about love and life and heartache and decision-making and forgiveness and self-discovery and commitment and all that good stuff.

The most common question people ask me once they get past the initial “What??? Married?? For that long??” is, of course, “Why?”.  Why on earth would any twenty-year old kid deliberately choose to be with one person for the rest of your life? I mean, even if you’re in love? Why? The natural assumption many make when they discover another aspect of my past, namely, the fact that I grew up fully submerged in the evangelical subculture, is that we got married in order to avoid the big Christian NoNo of premarital sex, which is simply not the case. I have always been a bit of a flexible interpreter of biblical teachings, and my interpretation of the conditions of God-ordained intimacy was as personalized and lenient as my interpretation of scripture on eating habits and Sunday dress. We certainly didn’t go around announcing our night-time activities at bible study, and I suffered from the occasional pang of Christian guilt, and we probably waited much much longer than heathens would have, but official permission to go ahead and….you know…wasn’t exactly a big motivator. Plus, really, since when is marriage just about sex? It's about togetherness and sharing in all its aspects, right? Looking back though, I see that many non-Christian young folk in our state of in loveness would have probably opted to just move in with each other rather than to tie the knot. Moving in together would have most likely been frowned upon by our parents, as both our fathers were men of the cloth and familial reputation was somewhat of a priority, and also it wasn’t really something people in our social circle did, but an even bigger factor than all of that was the fact that my weird little young ego had this idea that if he decided he wanted to live with me but didn’t want to marry me, it was kind of like he needed a test-drive before he committed to the full deal, and my all or nothing self wasn’t exactly cool with that idea.

People often also ask what our parents thought, if they or anyone else tried to talk some sense into us. Aside from the fact that young marriage is totally typical of this subculture we belonged to, I don’t really think anyone could have talked me out of this decision I had whole-heartedly made with my big, bad grown-up self. At the time, I was in school and working as a waitress, and some random customer threw her head back in laughter when she discovered I was getting married. She scoffed at me and proceeded to tell me I was too young and didn’t yet know who I was or what I wanted, and I remember feeling patronized and ridiculed by a jaded, cynical, pathetic woman who just didn’t get it, and that experience made me furious and furiously determined. That’s the thing about being twenty, and that’s the thing about being in love. Nobody can really tell you anything, because you’ve got it all figured out or at least you feel totally capable of figuring it out, and you always think your situation is different from everyone else’s and that they just don’t get it. Plus, I think my parents saw us together and saw how much we loved each other and how happy we were and that was enough. They also knew me well and they knew how I made decisions, and I think they also knew that, really, it was my decision to make. The truth is that people could have told me their opinion and tried to share their wisdom but I don’t think I would have listened. In fact, I probably would have been more motivated to prove them wrong!

Sometimes, when I see other “child brides” (the term some of us have very affectionately dubbed our young, naïve, eagerly married selves) excitedly make the decision to walk down the aisle, there’s this wee little part of me that wants to tell them to slow down. I want to remind them that there’s no rush, and inform them that they might want to consider the fact that the male brain isn’t fully developed until age 25, which is also, by the way, right around the time when mental illness tends to reveal itself. I am tempted to encourage them to get to know themselves a little more before they enter into this kind of a union, so that they don’t compromise their dreams and goals. I want to tell them that the tone they set from the get-go will likely remain unalterable throughout their relationship, and I want to remind them that boundaries and roles and expectations become very difficult to change. But then I remember myself at twenty, and I think, really, what’s the point?

What’s the point, not only because they, like me, won’t listen; not only because it’s not really my business in the first place, and they’re right- I probably don’t get it; not only because they might be one of the lucky ones whose young love grows securely and solidly and healthily in the same direction, but most importantly, because no matter what happens, even if they are not one of the “lucky ones,” when it comes right down to it, intense, fully committed, trusting, brazen young love is this ridiculously beautiful and powerful thing that sometimes seems irrational or completely insane but is something you really only ever experience once, and who wants to get in the way of that?? I mean, I am very much committed to keeping an open heart and an open mind. I still believe in the awesomeness of love, and there’s a part of me that believes that I will someday get the chance to experience true love again, but I recognize that it will be of a very, very, very different variety. And there’s no value judgment here. It is tempting to either romanticize or scoff at young love. All love, in its different forms, is good and great. This is just an observation, rooted in my own memory. But the truth is that no matter how hard I try to resist cynicism, to resist the temptation to protect myself from disappointment and heartache, to willingly and fully let someone in, I will never ever ever ever be able to enter into a relationship with the same level of unconditional trust and brazen faith that I did when I was twenty. And again, it doesn’t matter if you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing. It just is what it is.

I guess what I am saying is that I can look back on that day fifteen years ago with my pleasantly amused and nonchalant nostalgia because I can now, finally, after the hurt and the bitterness have long passed, admire my young self’s fearlessness in wholeheartedly pursuing love. I can respect her certainty and her completely unconscious choice to live from her heart. I can appreciate the commitment she made to be with another that wasn’t based on rational cost/benefit analysis and future thinking, but also wasn’t based on flighty in-the-moment feelings, but instead was firmly rooted in this kind of faith in her own knowing. And I guess what it really comes down to is that all love- like, the really really good and true stuff- can never be properly explained or understood or predicted. You can make lists of criteria to try and avoid past mistakes, you can evaluate compatibility and predict the likelihood of relational success, you can try and weigh which kind of love is a higher love, but all that caution and rationality can eventually dilute that deep down knowing that we often- at some point- stop trusting, and it can taint that real deal love with fear. I mean, it’s love, not a freaking business deal. No matter how much you try to negotiate and evaluate and predict, it’s always going to be complicated and flawed and maybe a little messy, and there’s always going to be bits of good and bad layered together. The big point here, which I am hopefully finally getting to, is that when I look back on all of it, even the messy and broken bits, I recognize that it was totally worth it. Love- even when it falls apart- is almost always worth it.

More later.

Q is 2!!! I wonder what he will do....

So, my nephew turned two this weekend, and we had a big ole party to celebrate. He really seemed to enjoy all the attention and affection and presents, as well as a massive assortment of playmates and three varieties of homemade cupcakes.

It was a good, full, happy day.

At this point, he wants for nothing toy-wise. The kid has everything he could possibly need to practice his hand-eye co-ordination, stimulate his imagination, promote numeracy and literacy, develop his fine motor skills. Whatever aspect of his little toddler self needs to be developed, there is certainly a toy in his playroom designed to develop it.

Alongside all the creative and thoughtful gifts of toys and books were generous gifts of cold, hard cash, which will quickly find their way into Q’s bank account, where the coins of this year will join the coins of last year and will all grow, grow, grow in value and interest, so that when the time comes that he has finished high school and is ready to head off on his own adult adventure, he will have some savings to help cover the cost of an education which, at that faraway point in the future, might very well be the equivalent of a mortgage on a mansion.

It’s funny how quickly children become their own people, how they so early on show off quirks and traits that are unique to them alone, and while all of us who love him want him to grow up in an environment where he feels nurtured and safe yet encouraged to explore and discover, we can’t help but wonder who he is later going to be.

So, in the spirit of celebrating a special little guy who has stubbornly and persistently grown from helpless baby to do-it-myself toddler, and also of planning for his someday training and education, may I present to you- based on my current observations and experiences- my top ten predicted possible career paths for Little Man Q.

1. Masterchef

While Q is always interested in helping out, he is particularly intrigued by the kitchen. As soon as anyone is busy making something, he pulls up his stool, and often even climbs up on the counter. “Mix, mix, mix,” he says, or he asks for a “mes” so he can help cut up fruit and vegetables. He helped me make granola once, though his enthusiastic “mixing” resulted in half the bowl spilling out onto the counter and the floor. Luckily, he is a hardcore “poetser” (not inherited from me, that’s for sure) and insists on the broom or the cloth to clean up any mess immediately. We have gone through a good number of bananas as they are soft and easy to cut (or at least smush) with a children’s knife, which gives him the sense that he is participating in creating culinary magic, without risking the loss of any of his cute little fingers. Where does the “master” part come in? Well, given the home he is growing up in, with parents who are skilled in the art of cooking and eating, genes that are infused with creativity and a drive towards perfectionism, and shelves filled with annotated cookbooks and culinary delicacies, I can’t see him becoming any other kind of chef!

2. Michelin Star Food Critic

Q has always been a pretty good communicator and has very little problem offering up his opinion, even without an extensive vocabulary. A few months back, if something was on his plate that he found particularly unacceptable, he simply chucked it on the floor. While that approach has recently been replaced with the more civilized act of removing the undesirable from his plate and placing it to the side, there is still the no-fail technique of simply opening his mouth and letting the unwelcome food spill out. Truly disgusting offerings are sometimes spat out with great vigor, and accompanied by hand gestures, a squished and twisted face, and creative sound effects. He is equally expressive about food he likes. “Nog, nog, nog,” he will demand (more, more more), even if his plate is already full of the good stuff. His taste buds, while sometimes intrigued by the samplings on the adult plates at the table, are most pleased with yogourt, dessert, dessert, dessert, and a whole lotta meat. He went through a phase of being especially fond of a sandwich with paté, though he would often lick off the paté and leave the bread. I admit that his table manners need a little refinement still before he can be sent on assignment, as his go-to food insertion method tends to be too big pieces shoved into an already full mouth, with minimal chewing, but we’re working on it.

3. Rock ‘n Roll Tour Bus Driver

Q loves all things motorized: cars, trucks, lawnmowers, planes, trains. When the road in front of the house was under construction, he stood with his face pressed up against the window and watched for hours on end. If he hears a lawnmower whirring away in the neighbourhood, he shouts out “motor,” and he becomes particularly frustrated when a plane passes by and we are not able to reproduce another the moment he excitedly demands “Nog”. But the bus seems to be a favourite. He has several t-shirts emblazoned with a bus, and “The Wheels on the Bus” tends to be one of his main songs of choice. I have sung to Q for a good long while now, and often when I’ve started to sing a song, he has said, “Nee, nee, nee,” which at first I must admit I took offense to because I thought he was commenting on the quality of my voice. It turns out I was often just singing the wrong song, and sometimes simply switching to “The Wheels on the Bus” is enough to get him smiling and bopping his head. For a while, he loved that song so much that on a recent babysitting visit, I put on good ole Raffi and started- of course- with this favourite tune. Once the song was over and the next began, Q reacted with a “Nee, nee, nee” and became so insistent that we essentially listened to that one song on repeat for two hours straight! Now, my prediction that he will be a rock and roll tour bus driver, as opposed to a city bus driver is simply rooted in my knowledge that he is an incredibly cool dude who loves good music, is often awake in the middle of the night, and has a great spirit of adventure.

4. Librarian

Q was a very early fan of books. He already has quite the collection, and while his attention has recently been drawn away from books by the delights of the world outside, he seems to be particularly fond of pop-up books and books about animals and automobiles. But almost as much as he enjoys “reading” books, he loves to organize them into piles and put them away, or take them all off of the shelf and then stack and re-stack. He also has a wicked memory, which I think could serve him well as a librarian, when people ask him to help them find “you know, that green book with the snake on the fifth page”.

5. Landscape Artist

Q is one of those hardcore outdoorsy kids. As soon as he wakes up, he wants his shoes so he can go “boete, boete” (outside, in dialect). He stands by the back door, deeply distressed, when it’s raining, and he is super content in the backyard wandering around, spinning in circles, kicking the ball, blowing bubbles, throwing sticks. One of his favourite toys, though, is his toy lawnmower. He also loves flowers and shoves his face into each bud to take a good, hard sniff. He likes to move sticks around from one pile to another, and enjoys carrying buckets full of weeds to the compost pile. He also likes to rake and dig and pull out grass. Some possible obstacles to this career path, however, could be the fact that he seems to be terribly afraid of bees and that he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.

6. UN Translator

Q is daily surrounded by three different languages- English, Dutch, and the dialect of the region. He already has words in all three languages, and seems to understand instructions in all three. Given that he is smart as a whip, a good little problem solver and quick thinker, extroverted and has such an expressive face, I feel this path seems a natural fit. 

7. Traffic Controller

Q gives orders in a very authoritative manner. “Mooze,” he says if I am in the way (in other words, not where he wants me to be), and if I don’t mooze fast enough, he has no problem marching over to where I am at, pulling me by the hand to the desired location, or pushing, if necessary.

8. Stand-up Comic/Potential Finalist on the X Factor

This kid is already a comic genius. He is very in tune with the energy and reaction of his audience and will repeat the most ridiculous acts just to get a laugh. Laugh just once, and he does it again and again and again. Slapstick is his main schtick- you know, intentional falling, dancing, jumping, face-pulling, spinning around in circles until he hits the ground. He’s got a great smirk and is already quite the tease. He loves nonsense singing, is an expressive storyteller and expert peekaboo-er. It also helps that his laugh is a contagious cackle, and that he is a head-thrown-back, full body laugher (much like his crazy aunt).

9. Manager of Housekeeping at the Ritz Carlton

I have never encountered a kid so interested in cleaning. He has a toy vacuum cleaner and a kid-sized broom. As soon as he spots a spill, he wants to clean it up- thoroughly. He loves taking things out of drawers, wiping everything down and then putting it back. Why do I think he will be the manager rather than the maid itself? Well, he has a natural predilection for being in charge and bossing people around, combined with tendencies towards perfectionism and a surprising capacity for empathy. He is also terribly persuasive. Good management material, I’d say.

10. Zookeeper
Animals have long been an area of concentrated interest for Q. It started with a flap book filled with all sorts of different animals. Then there was another animal book and another and another. Then he learned many of the sounds and actions of the animals. (He does an impressive giraffe and iguana, and- believe it or not- knows the sound a water buffalo makes.) He has an extensive toy farm collection, and now, he frequently plays with a whole host of plastic animals, lining them up, grouping them together, moving them to a new location. He also has a great, always growing family of stuffed animals, all of which he has named appropriately. The best name, I think, is "Hap" (Bite) given to a massive stuffed crocodile. Now, of course, a love of animals is not sufficient to become a good zookeeper. Q, however, has a great eye for detail. He notices as soon as a member is lost from the group, and recognizes what differentiates one individual from another. He has already shown his ability to care for animals by frequently trying to feed the "meow" that lives in his house, and his sensitivity to living creatures, as well as his cleanliness, lead me to believe he'd be an excellent candidate for the job. On trips to the petting zoo, he is often a little hesitant to get too terribly close, which he might have to overcome, but maybe this isn't such a bad thing if he is to be dealing with lions and tigers and bears. Oh, and he also really likes playing with keys. From what I know of zookeepers, they usually have a good, hefty ring of keys. Bonus!

There you have it. 

It's fun to speculate, but of course, we all know the unintentional pressure that can be brought on by asking a kid what he wants to be when he grows up, or the anxiety connected to the desire to please our family and make them proud of us, and the delicate balance caregivers and family members must aspire to in helping a child uncover their talents and hone their skills without forcing our own will. The key, I suppose, or at least one of them, I think, is ensuring that this little guy knows that no matter who he chooses to be or what he decides he wants to do with his one precious life, he will be surrounded and grounded in unconditional love and acceptance, and reminded that, above all else, more important than making a lot of money or even making a difference, more important than being the best at something or being remotely successful, I think those of us who love him really just want him to be healthy and happy, because joy makes all the difference really between an okay life and an awesome life, and joy, as far as I can tell, is pretty intricately connected with being in a home where gratitude and freedom and stability and love and acceptance of difference are fostered and modelled. And if I'm wrong, and this is not the key after all, then I'd say it's a pretty good kind of wrong to be.