Friendship

My whole life I have sort of trudged ahead, relentless, in pursuit of the 'next goal' and 'that which I presumed would bring me recognition and respect from others' in a shallow hope of finding peace with myself. I've sought to please others as a means of validating my own presence. I've gone above and beyond what is a very basic representation of respect in order to secure some kind of favor and/or commitment from my intended target of affection or devotion. I've given much more of myself than I've ever received. In platonic, professional, personal relationships, I've essentially sold my soul for the price of admission and acceptance into the other person's Ego Faire. The result of friendship is often one where I feel left out, desperate and inauthentic.

I looked up friendship online and the result was this: true friends consistently demonstrate the following (Wikipedia definition of friendship):
1. Empathy: The tendency to desire what is best for the other;
2. Honesty: even in situations where it may be difficult for others to speak then truth, being honest regardless of fears;
3. Mutual Understanding: enjoyment of each other's company or ability to express one's feelings and make mistakes without fear of judgment.
4. Compassion: ability to go to each other for emotional support;
5.Reciprocity: equal give-and-take between the two parties; ability to be oneself.

All of these, coincidently, I did not have with my ex-husband. How did I ever expect to retain a functional relationship with this person should we not have these very basic tenets between us?
I have a rare set of friends and family for which most of these tenants are part of the relationship. Gosh, I wonder, do I create this environment for my son?

Is it possible that the degree of implement-ability may indicate the depth and strength of the friendship?

In different cultures, the word "friend" means different things. For instance, I know from experience the nuance of using the term "Amigo or Amiga" in Spanish to refer to someone you know. Because in Spanish, you must differentiate the sex or gender of the person, whereas in English, you can simply refer to someone as a "friend" not indicating in any measure for which one could extrapolate if there was a romantic connection or not.

Not that opposite sexes cannot be friends. But let me just say, that from my experience, I've not met many guys who have wanted to be friends with me without also wanting something more, and for me likewise. It's when you truly find someone who is willing to trump empathy, honestly, trust and reciprocity in favor of sexual pleasure that you begin to embark on a winning platonic relationship.
Now, can friends become lovers? And, more interestingly, what is the success rate? According to several online sources on Google, friends becoming lovers is a rather popular topic. The keyword search for "can friends become lovers" gets over 85 million hits. There are numerous articles and blog sites expounding on the topic.

There is research that suggests this can be quite possible, and that, the stronger the bonds of trust are between two people in a relationship, the greater chance of survival. And, ultimately, bonds are developed over time, through trials and experiences that test the level of supportiveness and responsiveness of partners are to one another. Friendships are great testing grounds for such pilot projects of love.

If I could find a person who said to me, “let’s try and build a friendship first and see if an intimate relationship makes sense” I guess I would be at first confused and then secondly, I’d be quite attracted to the idea of learning how to be with someone prior to actually committing to being with someone forever.

And where does this leave the BFF? I've had many a good BFF throughout my years. Women who stood by me, regardless of my mistakes, women who held me when I fell apart and women who helped build me up to who I really am. And where do they fit into this discussion?

Do BFF's usurp our bonds with family? Can a friend take the place of a family member? Is the friendly exchange and humorous banter something that can survive months of authenticity? Years? Decades? How many people can I say I've been friends with for over a decade? One, maybe three at most. How do I compare to our cave-dwelling ancestors? Just curious.

I try and imagine what life was like for the average cave-girl. Did she visit her BFF's family cave and check out the latest kill? Did they spend endless hours pouring over the latest in wolf's skin clothing? And, as one developed, both mentally and physically, were they supportive of each other or were they competitive? Because, as we know, survival was more important than connection at that time in our history as a human race. Or at least, we presume.

In the end, I can say that friendships have been one of the richest and most rewarding part of my experience in life. Not to say that my family relationships are not as meaningful, but I guess, that, to a certain extent, I give my family a lot more in terms of empathy and understanding, whereas, with those I am not physically related, I expect a bit more in terms of their overall demonstration of character before I divulge my deepest, darkest secrets.

Sweaty Bicycle Mama

I commute most places via bicycle.  I have a child seat on back, where my 3.75 year-old son rides co-pilot, snacking on dried fruit and juice.  In front, there is a huge basket,which is often heavy-laden with bags and totes filled with daily necessities.  Many days, I arrive at meetings, to work, or special events and even social gatherings sweaty and worn out yet proud.  My makeup is melting.  My panties are all bunched up.  I can barely exit my bike without toppling over.  It is in this moment that I quietly summon courage and strength to smile graciously. 

I’ve seen the fairly put-together; high-maintenance women stare at me in wonder.  I’ve seen the well-groomed and playful metro-sexual men raise an eyebrow then casually make steadfast to the previously-mentioned put-together woman standing attactively across the way.  Some people respect it.  Some people are envious.  Some people are curious.  Some people simply don’t get me.  And yet, I wonder.  How does a professional, educated, self-aware single-mother in her late 30’s continue to ride a bicycle like she’s a teenager riding home from soccer practice?    

And the truth is that I don’t know why I do it.  I could choose to drive my car instead.  It’s comfortable, convenient, efficient and considerably more professional.  I could try and be more organized; for example, pack my make-up, clean clothes and heels to change into later.  But I don’t. I am often late and frankly I am disinterested in being “organized”.

Recently, a man commented on my appearance in general, saying, that, when I put effort into how I look, I look good.  Otherwise, he said, I am sort of plain and unappealing.  He’s obviously been crossed the list of “possible suitors” and yet, he has something for which makes me ponder.  How much of whom I am is embedded in what I look like?  How much of whom I am rests on my outward appearance? Part of me indignantly barks out that it shouldn’t matter what I look like in any moment.  My old favorite quote was “to know me is to love me”. But, with age, and as I spend more of my life single than coupled, I start to wonder; maybe I should re-think this indignant stance on beauty.  What is beauty?  The old saying, beauty is more than skin deep makes me think of the story of The Ugly Duckling or Shrek.  Aristotle said beauty is a gift from God and I think Ernest Holmes would agree.  Beauty is a “God Quality” that we, in Science of Mind, attest is something inherent in our very being.    

So, being put-together and pretty in appearance is one aspect of beauty for sure.  Being pure in heart and completely authentic in oneself is equally as beautiful. Being both is extraordinarily competent and impressive.  Being okay with yourself, just as you are, and being surrounded by others who accept you unconditionally, is exactly where I want to be. 

Something's Gotta Give

September 5, 2012

I immersed myself in my past these last few days. Thinking about the “what if’s and what for’s”. I try to believe that I have no regrets. I see my son half of the time he is alive and that is a blessing. When I see him, it is as if he has grown a year in one week. He’s thoughtful, amazingly creative, funny and very, very sweet. His voice, his kisses, the way he opens up to strangers and friends….. I am so blessed to have the life I have.   I am glad that he is happy and healthy.

And yet….

I am so sad for the lost time away from him. I feel, somehow, like a failure, a wretched, selfish, loser who has no right to be his mother. I feel like I am losing time with him.  Time that is irreplaceable; forever lost. I feel weak and unable to fight back.

I recently watched a movie I hadn’t seen in years. “Something’s Gotta Give” with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson.  When I saw it years ago, to me, it was trivial and unrelated to my life. Today, it spoke to me.   Amazing how a few years can add on perspective, eh?

For those of you who have not seen the movie, the basic plot is that there is this womanizing man in his mid-sixties who hooks up with a girl in her pre-thirties and they drive out to the family summer house where, unfortunately, her mother shows up unexpectedly.  Things happen, and he has a heart attack and has to stay at the house for an extended period of time. Hence, the ensuing romance between the like-aged main characters. They fall for each other but life, alas, always draws them apart into conflict, therein continues the plot for the movie. She was tense and unhappy. He was blissful yet, lonely. In the end, however, with much romantic fanfare, they come back together and it is, after all, how Hollywood has ingrained in us since birth,  we all will live“happily ever after”.

At one point in the movie he says more or less, that he has found that he arrived at being himself from hearing the same story over and over again. It was in this way, he says that “my life begins to add up”.  To me, it seems he is trying to say that it was other's opininons that shaped who he became. 

We live our lives, at most times affected without intention or understanding as to what or how or to whom things happen the way they happen. A lot of times we live in judgment and fear with our explanations held tight around us like security blankets. Many times, we avoid reconciling the events which displace us, in an attempt to ‘move past’ that which makes us sad or feel vulnerable. We live embroiled in the pain and forget to reflect on the bigger picture.

As a single parent, attempting to co-parent with my son’s father, at times, unsuccessfully, I see this idea of our human stories as preeminent in our development as individuals. How often I want to hold onto the story that “he just doesn’t understand” or “he’s selfish and impetuous”. But the truth is that, I live this tragic story daily out need for consistency so that I can remain the comfortable space of who I have become. That feeling is most often based upon what my misguided ego perceives as my true self.   But my true self does not rest in stories and in egoistic visions of my past. It is always lives unteathed in the Now. 

What an amazing invention to have at our very own fingertips. The power to reinvent yourself at this very second. Your thoughts create your reality. Choose another thought and your reality shifts.

My son is in the hands of someone who loves him unconditionally. And I am at peace knowing that there is only good in this world for him. I choose NOT to focus on the old stories. I know that, for happiness to prevail, something’s gotta give.

The Line Drawn in the Sand

As I learn more about setting good boundaries, I realize that it is less like drawing a line in the sand as if to say, "don't cross this line", but rather it seems more appropriate to see boundaries at the waters edge, where ocean meets the land. Here, the line is more fluid, dynamic & present. And if one can imagine that the whole ocean is like our universal source of Spirit then, perhaps we can also imagine that the place where water meets the land is a Spiritual place, a sacred place, just as we are Spiritual, sacred beings.

The more rigid and defined my boundaries are, the less likely they are to be adhered to or respected. The more fluid they are, the more I find them to be less offensive and more accepted.

It can be with my son, my ex, a co-worker or a friend, and the spiritual truth I discover is one of understanding & playfulness when my boundaries are like waves on the shore. I find it can be a spiritual feeding ground for the wildlife of my life. Rich with nutrients and vitality, littered with toxic baggage, and and generally a place of commerce for my spiritual vendors and shoppers.

Why do I resist this fluidity and grace in my decision making? Why do I resist the feeling of letting go and letting God?

I have an intense urge to control outcomes, I have high expectations and I am fearful of losing something I have. But, now I ask myself, "am I really ever in control? Do these high expectations serve me well? Do I ever really 'have' anything that I can lose?". If I can lose it, is it really mine in the first place?

Floating aimlessly in the sea of Spirit, or waiting shyly from the shore of Ego we can misplace a lifetime. A rigid line does no more good than no line at all. And that can be the most creative tool to employ: defining the line moment by moment, means creating a life lived fully in the Now. Whereas, that rigid line set one moment in time has long since lost its precedence the moment it has been drawn.

The older I get, the more I see that life is less about delineation of territories and more about busting down boundaries. Letting in the litter of life, the wildlife, the waves, the strangeness and the new, enlivens us, enriches us and most importantly expresses the Universal Oneness, Beauty, Truth, and Power that we are, as we are.

Bitch

 

Even though I had a great week, I had a hard day. I almost hate the world today. I feel like a Bitch when I say that.

Tonight I cried. I was a little relieved to do so. I am so confused. On one hand I am livid and on the other I am hurt like a child. I guess I'm a little bit of everything all mixed up.  Raw.  I am sure that life is moving on without me and that is infuriating. Why isn’t everyone else paying attention to me and what I want or need?

I looked up Meredith Brooks’ lyrics for her song, “Bitch” because right now, I feel like it fully explains how I feel.

The chorus goes: “I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm a mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint, and I do not feel ashamed. I'm your hell, I'm your dream, I'm nothing in between. You know you wouldn't want it any other way.”

I spoke of the Coyote the last blog. Funny how we can immediately manifest our worst nightmares. So, it already happened. The feelings of unworthiness, falling for the same fucking trap, and then the self deprecation afterwards. Am I always destined to be the Coyote? Can I meditate myself into a new totem animal? If I go to a sweat lodge will things be different? If I do a 3 day fast on the mountain will my soul switch over from consistently insecure to somehow miraculously centered? Do I have to learn to live with what I have?

Meredith sings, “So take me as I am. This may mean you'll have to be a stronger man. Rest assured that when I start to make you nervous, And I'm going to extremes: Tomorrow I will change, And today won't mean a thing. Just when you think you've got me figured out, The season's already changing. I think it's cool you do what you do And don't try to save me.” Way to go girlfriend.

I want to say these things and believe it but the truth is that I am still a hurt, jealous, insecure, little girl deep down inside. When the shit-storm rains down, I am out there, crying, without an umbrella.

And today it hit me. I so wanted to play the victim. I wanted to blame the other person for how I felt. And then I realized, that it was my own reaction to what was happening that was really the only thing under my control. I am the one that feels hurts, less-than and unlovable. And I ask myself, “is this 100% true?” and the answer is quite honestly, “NO! Maybe even HELL NO!”

As much as my Ego wants to beat me up these days, my true self has been showing up and kicking some serious psychological butt! I am proud to report, that even though I fell for the same old bull shit that Wild E Coyote always falls for, I realized it upon entering the trap and went in anyways just out of curiosity. And frankly, the hurt isn’t as bad as I thought it might be. I am learning to handle the little disappointments a lot better. Things are no longer as dramatic as they once were.

Lesson learned: just freaking chill out. Shit happens and sometimes it hurts but that by no means that you are less than or somehow fucked up. Always, Always, Always remember WHO YOU ARE. Because you are amazing just as you are. And so it is. 

　

Roadrunner, Coyote and Peanut Butter

So after a year and a half of weekly counseling and countless hours participating in spiritual development classes at my church, I came to the realization the other day, that, if hit with something big, like, say, a relationship, I’d F_#k it up all over again. Why do I say this? Because the truth is, that no matter how much I practice mindfulness and no matter how many times I correct myself when I say hateful, hurtful things to my inner child, I am still ruled by the Ego and my Ego really doesn’t like me at all. It’s like my Ego is a Fashionista and wants to judge me for my outfit even though, the outfit is my skin and that isn’t really something I can crawl out of…

It was a brilliant conversation. One about how far I’ve come; how good I feel. Life was going so good. And I made an innocent comment about how there was this person I am interested in romantically.   And then I incoherently hemmed and hawed about how I wouldn’t pursue it because…. I’d be rejected or eventually we’d fall into the trap of unhappiness and control I see so typical of other people’s relationships, or because he was too this and I was too that.   I was already planning the breakup and I hadn’t even gotten to know if the person likes peanut butter or preferred cashew butter instead.

It got me to thinking about just how often I do close the door to possibility based on my fears. How often do I let my Ego’s Jackal intimidate me, distract me, and otherwise lead me astray?

So, what is the deal with my Ego anyway? What beef does she have with me?

Well, first off, she’s confused, big time. If things are NOT chaotic and sort of unnerving, she doesn’t really know what to do. She WANTS to create drama and exert stress. And as far as I can see it’s only to remain in the comfortable nature for which has become the norm for her. Since birth I’ve been left with the understanding that I am not good enough to just be. I was always left to assume what I was up because no one actually was present enough with me to guide me in a greater truth.  And it is certainly not their fault! Everyone else, in short, was being directed by their own Ego Jackals.

When I look up “low self esteem” or “inferiority complex” on Google, one definition catches my attention on Wikipedia.

An inferiority complex, often used to mean low self-esteem, is a feeling of intense insecurity, inferiority or of not measuring up. An inferiority complex can be seen in the negative or "useless" reactions to problems in life. These reactions are useless because they do not solve the problem at hand, but only serve to guard one's self-esteem by avoiding the task or by placing the blame for the failure outside of the individual's control. Although the inferiority complex may be seen as comparing individuals or groups as one being superior to another, it more closely describes how one deals with a fear of failure.

My mother the other day said to me, “Jill, you are so gorgeous. Have you been working out?” and I explained that I had been and that I do, in fact, feel amazing right now. The sadness and fear associated with last year has clearly made way for brighter days. She then said, “well, don’t F_#k it up! Jesus! This is precisely the point where you make a major mistake.” And she is right. I am not hurt by what she said.

A while ago, I researched animal totems. And the Coyote seemed to call to me because, while smart and cunning, the Coyote falls easily for the same gig over and over again. Think Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. Yes, I am imaginative and resourceful but man, the freakin’ bird gets me every time. If you think about it, the entire premise for the cartoon was that regardless of what contraption Coyote could configure, he wasn’t self aware enough to see the simplicity of the Roadrunner’s solution to every gig he threw at him. And of course, we were left to believe that somehow, it was Roadrunner’s fault, perhaps in a devious and malicious way for which Coyote always ended up under a pile of rubble in the bottom of a canyon. But the truth is Wile E. Coyote was certainly a product of his own Ego, forced by his inferiority complex, he routinely put himself into challenging, drama-prone situations, to remain in his comfort zone. The problem solver. But, if he would just take one step back and look, perhaps he’d figure out that he was the problem-maker.

So, as my dear friend Pamela once told me, to sit in the uncomfortable silence of what is, I wiggle and struggle with it like a toddler in a Sunday best suit. If I could just rip it all off and run naked through the green grass I’d feel so free but it sticks with me like peanut butter on the roof of a dog’s mouth. That darn Ego Jackal is my Coyote Animal Totem and I’ve not quite figured out the buttons yet. There’s got to be a way to shed this suit for something with less of a complex.

Is it really as guileless if you stop to engage and simply just be with what is? It wouldn’t be much of a story….the Roadrunner and Coyote cartoon would it?  If, instead of trying to outwit each other they, instead sat down and just talked, would it be as fun to watch?  But, maybe the story isn’t the dramatic part. Or at least, for our own sanity, maybe the boring stuff is worth savoring. It’s like Russell from the kid’s movie UP said, “sometimes it’s the boring stuff that I remember most”.

My Ego Jackal is as afraid of becoming as irrelevant to me as I am afraid of being rejected by some cute boy. So, maybe, I could simply say hi and see where it goes? What do you think? The image just came to me of the dog licking the peanut butter. How in the present dogs are. They don’t worry about whether or not they slobber. They just lick and lick and lick until it’s all gone.

　
　
　

Juan Marcos - the Hippie Bee-Keeper

So, there I was, stranded, more or less. I had ridden some 100 km into the bowels of Mendoza and made a wrong turn. I was in the middle of nowhere and had broken a spoke. I was carrying about 25 lbs and I didn't have any tools that would fix my current situation.

I did find a little restaurant and hotel at the end of deserted highway, which literally ended in a few km because I guess a few years back they built a dique or dam and the road just stops.  That is typical in Argentina.  There was a fancy resort just up the road, but as I looked down upon it from my highway vestige, I could tell we’d not make a good fit; me with my sweaty riding clothes, broken bike and my seriously drowned spirit. No, down at the resort, they seemed to be having the time of their life.

So, as I pondered my situation later that evening sitting at my make-shift campground in the lawn along side the restaurant, I saw, much to my surprise, a cyclist riding up the road. He was in full cycling gear, an obvious sign of being “authentic” and I almost stuttered as he passed by me…. I yelled, “Hey, Che!!!” and he stopped. He turned around and well, all I can say, is the rest is Argentinean history….

Juan Marcos Guevara. A student of “sistemas y administacion” he was also an avid cyclist and bee-keeper. We made immediate friends. He offered to assist me, should I make it back to his town of Godoy, which was only about 50 km from where I was now.

He took off that evening for home and I went to sleep that night with a renewed sense of purpose and joy for my ever-expanding experience in Argentina.

The next day, I rode the 50 km into town. I found his home, a small, cinder-block structure, not unlike the others in the neighborhood.  He took me to a local bike shop and we purchased the necessary supplies. He fixed my bike. We spent the evening hanging out in Mendoza cafes and bars. It was awesome. I slept in his sister’s bed. His home was littered with dead bees. Odd, but somehow endearing. His mother?? Divina!!! She seemed rather elderly to have a son's Marcos' age; but she was very kind and had a youthful spark in her eyes.  I do not remember what was the deal with his father...

We rode to the top of Parque San Martin, which allowed us a view of the whole valley.  We picnicked among the trees. We laughed and drank copious amounts of this amazing wine, Santa Ana…. I’ve yet to find anything like it anywhere else.

The next morning we went to the Mercado where I purchased supplies for the next two days because he was taking me to his cabin in the mountains nearby. We headed to Valle de Upspallata in the Argentinean Andean foothills.

His cabin was more like a tiny house set in the most picturesque countryside. Here, there were wildflowers, bees and butterflies everywhere. We rode around town and he took me to his bee boxes which he had strategically placed all over the countryside. He introduced me to all kinds of interesting friends that I would have NEVER met had I stayed on the regular tourist route. I can’t even put into words the experience because it was so much like a movie that it still does not seem real to me. 

I find the comparison between the two cultures fascinating.  Here, in the US, we stuff our homes, garages, storage units, back porches and basements with stuff!  We have RV's, ATVs, VCRs, DVD players and more and more stuff than we possibly use in a lifetime.  There, in Argentina, they have less 'stuff' and maybe someone might label them as "poor" but to own a small house in the magnificent place is something even the "middle class" can afford.  Maybe it is because they understand that time spent with family and friends is more rewarding than a garage filled with stuff. 

From the moment we met, there wasn’t even a seconds hesitation that we were connected in spirit. But for some reason, however, the first night we spent together in the cabin, there was a little bit of tension upon deciding where to sleep. There were probably ten beds in the cabin. I insisted upon sleeping in the bed upstairs, alone. He honored my boundary with the utmost gentleman-like manner.  He was eternally sweet and trustworthy.

The next morning we went for a hike to the top of Cerro de la Plata.  Just a few km below of and with a spectacular view of the highest peak in South America, Aconcagua.  We celebrated our achievements, shared our deepest secrets, solved world problems and vowed to remain friends forever. 

We dined alfresco that afternoon in the courtyard of his little cabin.

It’s amazing to think that I was given such an insiders view, such a local’s perspective of such an impressive and illustrious and yet undiscovered and pristine region.

Marcos had climbed Aconcagua once before and was in the process of preparing to do it again. He’d later send me the pictures. I was quite jealous when I received them.

When I left Mendoza, I felt an odd mix of satisfaction and joy that I had not felt in years. I was torn by my obvious love for Marcos, but yet, strange aversion to him, as if he were like a brother to me…. I mean, how could we of had that kind of experience, that deep connection and not fallen in love?

The last night we spent together in the cabin, we wrote love letters to each other. I have not pulled mine out of my journal in several years. I know that it was sweet and heartfelt. But we left it there.  To be honest, this post makes me sort of want to dig it out.  I never saw Marcos again.

It’s sad to me that we’ve lost touch with each other. We remained in contact for a year or two after I left Mendoza via email. He kept saying he’d come visit me in Buenos Aires but it’s expensive to travel if you are not a foreigner. I understood. I left without saying goodbye.

I contacted him again when all of my shit hit the fan last year, seeking, I guess some kind of validation that I was acceptable to some Argentineans at least. He was gracious, as expected.   I miss him terribly. I can’t get near a bee without thinking about him. I wish him the best. He was one of the most inspiring, humble, generous, kind, humorous people I have ever met in my life. I wish him well. To Marcos, the Hippie Bee-Keeper!!!