You've seen it before. Chances are, you've even done it. And despite all good intentions, all self-admonishments, all promises to the contrary, it will happen again. Why do we always have so much trouble saying goodbye to our exes? And I don't mean the slam-the-door-in-your-face kind of goodbye. I mean the really-I-have-moved-on-and-truly-wish-you-happiness goodbye.
The pattern is so well-established it could be cookie cutter. You break up, you weep backslash get bitter backslash party like you're 19 again, you may or may not find someone else for a time, but then like the inevitable repeal of the boomerang you discover you miss your ex and have to see them just one more time. Just talk to them that once. Or if the ex caved first, you get that call and decide it's a good idea. No. Not. Stop. Before one or both of you gets hurt, yet again.
So you put your frock on, do up your hair, and put on that scent you know will ram nostalgia like a wrecking ball in your ex's gut. You look fresh, new, vibrant...yet still seductively comfortable familiar.
Let me skip ahead. It ends badly. One of you might actually have moved on, and begging to change their mind will only cause you both grief. But even worse, if one or the other of you hasn't had the good sense to say no, you will have gotten back together for the simple, inane reason that you miss each other and still love each other. It is inane because it is a lie you tell yourself in your weakened emotional state, when caring is too easily mistaken for loving, and loneliness is too often more powerful than self-preservation.
Missing each other and thinking you still love each other is NEVER enough to save a failed relationship. It might be the first of a mountain full of steps, but it is never enough. In time, the giddiness at your reunion will wear off and the stupid fights, the outrageous arguments, and the infuriating habits will resurface and drive you just as insane as they did the first time. Remember? There was a reason you broke up in the first place.
The only thing, I repeat, the only thing that can save a failed relationship is some seriously deep soul searching and a commitment to both partners changing. No matter the circumstances, both of you did at least something to contribute to the relationship's demise. I'm not trying to place blame or say it's your fault your ex was a lying, cheating slut/bastard (so wait...why are you going back?). I'm merely saying that from every experience there is an opportunity to learn how to be a better person and a stronger couple. It is only until the two of you sit down and really evaluate what fears, insecurities, poor habits, and line of thinking led to the break up that you can figure out what you need to know and do to prevent it from happening again. And that is just the beginning. It's not enough to say you will change. You actually have to do it, and have the courage to help each other do it.
So the next time you consider going back, I challenge you to ask yourself two questions. One, are you strong enough to do what it takes to make it work? And two, is your ex really worth it?
If you can honestly answer yes to both questions, then good luck and best wishes to you. I say you can get past old hurts, you can learn to trust again after infidelity, and you can make something strong, beautiful and wonderful out of something that was once failure. But you must first change the ways and thinking which brought you there in the first place.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Thoughts of Shantaram
"We know who we are and we define what we are by references to the people we love and our reasons for loving them....I'd lost my closest freiends and with them I'd lost the mark on the psychic map that says You Are Here". --Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram
Why is identity so amorphous? Why is it that the things that are so intrinsic to our sense of selves, our worldviews, our entire understandings are precisely the things we can never truly understand? In my research I do a lot of work with things like identity, conflict, power...acceptance and understanding. These words...we use them so effortlessly. And when we use them, we most certainly mean something by them. We have an idea in our heads of what power is, what identity is. And yet these concepts remain elusive, intangible and unquantifiable. In my own life, how I see myself today--what defines me--is most likely something very different from what I'll see tomorrow. I haven't changed per se, but what becomes salient has.
These things are not merely abstractions either. Wars have been fought, people killed, damaged and forgotten over competing claims to identity, righteousness, home and family roots. Does "home" come from ties to land or other physical, material things, or does it come from the people who become our references? Does the physical world define us, or is it the people who make us feel comfortable in our own skin?
I struggle with these questions in my research because scholars need to define their concepts to ensure they're using them properly, and not just abusing them with loose rhetoric to suit the argument. But countless of other scholars have struggled with the same thing. It is a jihad, and equally as fruitless and insurmountable a task. The more we try to pin these words down, tie them to physical observable objects, and put them in a neat tidy box, the more I feel affronted. I feel we are robbing these words of their power, of their own identity, making a stick figure out of a fully dimensional being with a life of it's own. Language is too flat to capture the essence.
I struggle with this is my own life because I feel I haven't quite caught hold of the essence of myself either. When I was about 6 or so, I remember standing in the shower and staring at the drain beneath my feet. The water dripping in the drain looked so strange from above. Have you ever seen the top of a drop of water? It looks like a little shiny ring, there for just a second and then it disappears. But right after that, another would appear. I used to spend ages in the shower staring at these drops trying to figure out what they were, and trying to stick my little fingers in the drain to catch them, only to come out of it frustrated and with pruny fingers. Somehow I feel like that again now, standing naked in the shower, trying desperately to capture the shiny little ring.
Why is identity so amorphous? Why is it that the things that are so intrinsic to our sense of selves, our worldviews, our entire understandings are precisely the things we can never truly understand? In my research I do a lot of work with things like identity, conflict, power...acceptance and understanding. These words...we use them so effortlessly. And when we use them, we most certainly mean something by them. We have an idea in our heads of what power is, what identity is. And yet these concepts remain elusive, intangible and unquantifiable. In my own life, how I see myself today--what defines me--is most likely something very different from what I'll see tomorrow. I haven't changed per se, but what becomes salient has.
These things are not merely abstractions either. Wars have been fought, people killed, damaged and forgotten over competing claims to identity, righteousness, home and family roots. Does "home" come from ties to land or other physical, material things, or does it come from the people who become our references? Does the physical world define us, or is it the people who make us feel comfortable in our own skin?
I struggle with these questions in my research because scholars need to define their concepts to ensure they're using them properly, and not just abusing them with loose rhetoric to suit the argument. But countless of other scholars have struggled with the same thing. It is a jihad, and equally as fruitless and insurmountable a task. The more we try to pin these words down, tie them to physical observable objects, and put them in a neat tidy box, the more I feel affronted. I feel we are robbing these words of their power, of their own identity, making a stick figure out of a fully dimensional being with a life of it's own. Language is too flat to capture the essence.
I struggle with this is my own life because I feel I haven't quite caught hold of the essence of myself either. When I was about 6 or so, I remember standing in the shower and staring at the drain beneath my feet. The water dripping in the drain looked so strange from above. Have you ever seen the top of a drop of water? It looks like a little shiny ring, there for just a second and then it disappears. But right after that, another would appear. I used to spend ages in the shower staring at these drops trying to figure out what they were, and trying to stick my little fingers in the drain to catch them, only to come out of it frustrated and with pruny fingers. Somehow I feel like that again now, standing naked in the shower, trying desperately to capture the shiny little ring.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Prologue to "Fatima in Corinth"
I have finished my new manuscript! Well, the draft is written anyhow, but now the revisions must start. But in the meantime, I thought I would give my readers a little teaser. Here is the prologue for your reading enjoyment.
Prologue
The sun glittered over the ripples in the water, like a million stars in a turquoise sky. Fatima breathed in the rich, salty air and spread her arms open wide.
She relished this first trip over the Aegean, as different as it was from the camel caravans on which she and her father customarily traveled. What wonders would Corinth have in store for her? She let her imagination run wild as the sparkling, gleaming, white city gradually came into view. Excitement for the newest adventure bubbled up inside her. She could barely sit still, waiting impatiently for the long, wooden ship to dock. She glanced quickly at her father in anticipation, and he gave her the tiniest of winks and a smile. It would be one of the last of his smiles she would ever see.
A sudden shiver raced up her spine, surprising her momentarily, as she turned to greet the new city.
Prologue
The sun glittered over the ripples in the water, like a million stars in a turquoise sky. Fatima breathed in the rich, salty air and spread her arms open wide.
She relished this first trip over the Aegean, as different as it was from the camel caravans on which she and her father customarily traveled. What wonders would Corinth have in store for her? She let her imagination run wild as the sparkling, gleaming, white city gradually came into view. Excitement for the newest adventure bubbled up inside her. She could barely sit still, waiting impatiently for the long, wooden ship to dock. She glanced quickly at her father in anticipation, and he gave her the tiniest of winks and a smile. It would be one of the last of his smiles she would ever see.
A sudden shiver raced up her spine, surprising her momentarily, as she turned to greet the new city.
Sending love from Santa Barbara, CA to Weston, FL
One of my bestest friends in the world, my matron of honor, my confidante lives all the way across the continent. I think the only reason it really works is because we're each other's best friend. We can't seem to make a decision--at least not any of the important ones--without running it by each other first. We talk at least once a week, even if we don't have time, and even if our husbands complain about us racking up the cell phone minutes. There are priorities in life, right?
Thank God it's not a romantic relationship! I did the long distance thing in college, for WAY too long. Why is it girls have trouble giving up their high school sweethearts when they move to college? It never works out. Let it go. You grow up, you change, meet new people, discover yourself, and grow apart. And the boy who is still at home waiting for you stays the same. And somehow it becomes all too difficult to telling when loving someone slips into caring for someone. And it all ends in pain two years after it should have.
Being Happy Trumps Being Right
In family dynamics, one of the saddest things I see is the destructive nature of trying to prove that you are right. This "I told you so" attitude can rear its ugly head in nearly any situation where two people disagree. It comes in basic arguments about nothing of import. It shows up in stupid arguments about who forgot to do what on the honey-do list. And worst of all, it displays itself proudly in serious arguments, where the very foundations of trust and respect in a relationship are at stake.
Let me give you an example: Johan and Marie.
Johan and Marie have been married for several years, and though it has been rocky from time to time, they still love each other and have made it work. But Johan feels a bit unfulfilled in his career and wants to try something new. He used to play bass guitar in high school and college. He had even been part of a band. Now he is wondering if maybe he can make something of it. He picks up the guitar again and starts writing songs.
Marie sees this and she is worried. She knows how competitive the music industry is and how difficult it would be for a 40-something to break into the industry and make anything of himself. The last thing she wants to see is Johan pour his heart into song-making only to fail and have his heart broken. She knows he would be devastated and insecure. But how can she say that to him? Obviously she can't tell him he might fail so it's better not to try. So what does she do? She passively-aggressively undermines his attempts, making it difficult for him to have the time to practice or to work (more on passive aggressive manipulation in a later post).
And it works. He never writes anything completely, and eventually his dream falls by the wayside. He still dreams of it, wishing it could have been, but ultimately he has given up. Marie is sorry he is sad, but she figures he will get over it in time, and in any case, being sad is better than being heartbroken. But the trouble is, in the end, Johan is heartbroken--just in a different way.
Her passive-aggressiveness has not gone unnoticed. Johan thinks back and remembers why he never had time to practice music or write, and he ends up resenting Marie because somehow, however vaguely, he senses she has not supported him in his dream. Now he feels he would never know how he might have fared because she didn't give him the opportunity to try. Resentment, anger, sadness, distrust and betrayal build up slowly over time, undermining their marriage. He retaliates in other ways, perhaps by engaging in power plays with her, trying to reassert his power over her. Of course, by doing so, they can never actually talk about the real problem, because they are too busy dealing with superficial things covering up the true pain they should be addressing.
Marie was so sure she was right, she was willing to sacrifice Johan's dreams. And very probably, she was right. But did that spare anything? No, it didn't. It only caused bitterness and distrust in their marriage, and Johan was still heartbroken for not having achieved his dream. If she had only supported him, regardless of the outcome, then it is possible the two of them could have found happiness. Even if the worst had happened and Johan failed, then she could have been the bedrock of support to comfort him and help him stand up again. In his mind, the blame for his failure would have lain with the industry or himself, not with her.
This is just one example, and the need to prove ourselves right comes in a myriad of guises. But underneath it all, when we find ourselves in a conflict, we can always ask ourselves what is at root. Are we really hurt and angry, or are we just trying to prove our idea is right and the other is wrong? Are we really so insecure that we need validation, that we need to prove someone else wrong? Sometimes, it is enough just to know that we are right. Sometimes it is more important to soothe a loved one's feelings than it is to prove to them why they shouldn't feel that way. Sometimes it is better to resolve the conflict than to win the conflict--because when the conflict is resolved, everyone wins. Think of it this way: if you "win" the conflict, that means your loved one loses. And in what world is it a good thing if someone you love loses?
Let me give you an example: Johan and Marie.
Johan and Marie have been married for several years, and though it has been rocky from time to time, they still love each other and have made it work. But Johan feels a bit unfulfilled in his career and wants to try something new. He used to play bass guitar in high school and college. He had even been part of a band. Now he is wondering if maybe he can make something of it. He picks up the guitar again and starts writing songs.
Marie sees this and she is worried. She knows how competitive the music industry is and how difficult it would be for a 40-something to break into the industry and make anything of himself. The last thing she wants to see is Johan pour his heart into song-making only to fail and have his heart broken. She knows he would be devastated and insecure. But how can she say that to him? Obviously she can't tell him he might fail so it's better not to try. So what does she do? She passively-aggressively undermines his attempts, making it difficult for him to have the time to practice or to work (more on passive aggressive manipulation in a later post).
And it works. He never writes anything completely, and eventually his dream falls by the wayside. He still dreams of it, wishing it could have been, but ultimately he has given up. Marie is sorry he is sad, but she figures he will get over it in time, and in any case, being sad is better than being heartbroken. But the trouble is, in the end, Johan is heartbroken--just in a different way.
Her passive-aggressiveness has not gone unnoticed. Johan thinks back and remembers why he never had time to practice music or write, and he ends up resenting Marie because somehow, however vaguely, he senses she has not supported him in his dream. Now he feels he would never know how he might have fared because she didn't give him the opportunity to try. Resentment, anger, sadness, distrust and betrayal build up slowly over time, undermining their marriage. He retaliates in other ways, perhaps by engaging in power plays with her, trying to reassert his power over her. Of course, by doing so, they can never actually talk about the real problem, because they are too busy dealing with superficial things covering up the true pain they should be addressing.
Marie was so sure she was right, she was willing to sacrifice Johan's dreams. And very probably, she was right. But did that spare anything? No, it didn't. It only caused bitterness and distrust in their marriage, and Johan was still heartbroken for not having achieved his dream. If she had only supported him, regardless of the outcome, then it is possible the two of them could have found happiness. Even if the worst had happened and Johan failed, then she could have been the bedrock of support to comfort him and help him stand up again. In his mind, the blame for his failure would have lain with the industry or himself, not with her.
This is just one example, and the need to prove ourselves right comes in a myriad of guises. But underneath it all, when we find ourselves in a conflict, we can always ask ourselves what is at root. Are we really hurt and angry, or are we just trying to prove our idea is right and the other is wrong? Are we really so insecure that we need validation, that we need to prove someone else wrong? Sometimes, it is enough just to know that we are right. Sometimes it is more important to soothe a loved one's feelings than it is to prove to them why they shouldn't feel that way. Sometimes it is better to resolve the conflict than to win the conflict--because when the conflict is resolved, everyone wins. Think of it this way: if you "win" the conflict, that means your loved one loses. And in what world is it a good thing if someone you love loses?
A Letter to my Loved Ones
I am returning to my blog in an attempt to turn blogging into a daily (or at least 5-day-a-week) habit. The hope is develop a readership who will then be interested in picking up my novel(s) if I should ever be so lucky as to get published.
The trouble is, blogging 5 times a week is a lot of work--and words! And what could I possibly have to say that's of any interest, that I could discuss that much? There's only one thing: love. Family, love, relationships. That's what I do best. That's what makes me get up in the mornings. That's what I think about the most. And that is what I feel most qualified to talk about. And while my novels will primarily focus on issues of identity, themes of family, love and relationships will all be prominent as well. So if people enjoy my observations here, they'll have a good sense of what they're going to find in my novels as well.
However, I also realize that all my observations and ruminations written here are going to be based on my own personal experiences and my family and friends may not totally appreciate having their own stories pasted on the world wide web for all to see. The only thing I can say in my defense is I will never use names and will endeavor to keep things theoretical to avoid pointing fingers. Hopefully no one will be too bothered by this, and please know it was always well-intentioned. The things I say here, the things I think about...it is because I love you all.
A note on the title: This blog was formally titled "The Chinaman Is Not the Issue". It was a reference to The Big Lebowski, and it served my purposes as being both humorous (to me) and (in my mind) an oblique reference to my biracial identity. But it does not seem to fit a blog on family, love and relationships, so I've decided to change it. My working title now is "Tasting Grace". It has a dual meaning. One, I love and adore food, especially really divine food and so when I have a really superb bite of chocolate or sip of cappuccino in my mouth, I believe it is like tasting grace. Two, I am moved by and inspired by transendance, and the strength to move beyond pain to grace. The efforts we make as human beings to be more--our epiphanies, our triumphs--that, to me, is tasting grace. So we'll see how well that goes.
The trouble is, blogging 5 times a week is a lot of work--and words! And what could I possibly have to say that's of any interest, that I could discuss that much? There's only one thing: love. Family, love, relationships. That's what I do best. That's what makes me get up in the mornings. That's what I think about the most. And that is what I feel most qualified to talk about. And while my novels will primarily focus on issues of identity, themes of family, love and relationships will all be prominent as well. So if people enjoy my observations here, they'll have a good sense of what they're going to find in my novels as well.
However, I also realize that all my observations and ruminations written here are going to be based on my own personal experiences and my family and friends may not totally appreciate having their own stories pasted on the world wide web for all to see. The only thing I can say in my defense is I will never use names and will endeavor to keep things theoretical to avoid pointing fingers. Hopefully no one will be too bothered by this, and please know it was always well-intentioned. The things I say here, the things I think about...it is because I love you all.
A note on the title: This blog was formally titled "The Chinaman Is Not the Issue". It was a reference to The Big Lebowski, and it served my purposes as being both humorous (to me) and (in my mind) an oblique reference to my biracial identity. But it does not seem to fit a blog on family, love and relationships, so I've decided to change it. My working title now is "Tasting Grace". It has a dual meaning. One, I love and adore food, especially really divine food and so when I have a really superb bite of chocolate or sip of cappuccino in my mouth, I believe it is like tasting grace. Two, I am moved by and inspired by transendance, and the strength to move beyond pain to grace. The efforts we make as human beings to be more--our epiphanies, our triumphs--that, to me, is tasting grace. So we'll see how well that goes.
Friday, March 13, 2009
An Ode to Coffee
Santa Barbara is really a gem of a little city to live in. It's not a big city, so doesn't have quite the flair and pizazz of San Francisco or London, but it's got a lot of funk. And the best thing about it is that even though it is a small city (in a gorgeous location with perpetually perfect weather), it has a plethora of good eats, if you know where to go. Amazing sushi, decadent Italian, artful healthnut stops, fabulous tapas and drinks, to-die-for Indian, and quite a few places that have made sandwiches an art. And the list goes on.But the one thing that Santa Barbara lacks is really, really great coffee. The locals are quite proud of their mom-and-pop varietals like the Daily Grind, the Coffee Cat, or Santa Barbara Roasting Company. And major chains like Starbucks and Peet's Coffee do very well. (In fact, between the two of them, I think they own a quarter of the real estate on State Street.) But I have yet to find a single place that does really, really fine Italian coffee, the likes of which you get when you are actually in Italy. Most of the coffee here is about mid-range and tastes fine, but some of it verges on bitter and you can actually taste separate layers of weak mediocre coffee flavor, artificial flavor as a pathetic attempt to mask the mediocrity of the coffee, and then oils from the beans.
The Italians have it down to an art: the high quality of the beans, the perfect degree of roasting, the exact grind, the temperature of the steam and press of the grounds. All of this combines to create a rich, smooth level of decadence that is unparalleled. When I first discovered true Italian coffee in a little cafe in Florence, I actually thought I might have found heaven. I even brought some Illy home with me, but alas, could not manage the artistry of the Italian barista.
I looked everywhere for good coffee, and eventually succumbed to my fate, thinking I wouldn't be able to find such good coffee anywhere but Italy. But then we went to Costa Rica and discovered Costa Rican coffee. I was astounded. Costa Rican coffee does not have the decadence of Italian coffee, but it does have a wild variety of smooth flavors that make for a different, wondorous java experience. I was so surprised since normally developing countries export all their good stuff and the locals have to make do with the dreck. Not so with Costa Rican coffee. They hoard all their delicacies so that even the chain bakeries have coffee superior to that of the States. Apparently, they export all their dreck. Smart.
So I sighed, again wondering why the U.S., which has access to the best of just about everything, continues to have only mediocre coffee (yes, I am spoiled and discerning when it comes to my taste buds). And then I went to New York. Besides the bagels and other baked goods which are divine, Manhattan offers real, true, primo Italian coffee. We popped into a little Italian bistro called Via Quadronno and ordered a couple of cappuccinos to go as we were on a trek across Central Park to the Natural History museum. I took my first sip and practically melted into a little puddle of delight in the middle of Central Park. It was so good I couldn't decide if it was heavenly or a sin. Still, perhaps that little bistro could have been an aberration. A bright spot; a diamond in the rough, so to speak.
And then we found Joe the Art of Coffee. Well, I can't exactly claim that we found it as the place was recommended to us by friends who had lived in New York. But they have several locations across Manhattan and they have mastered the art of truly fine coffee. They select the finest beans, and they have a policy of never using any artificial flavors, and when they serve up their coffee, it is an actual artpiece with designs swirled into the foam.
With the offer of places such as these and Employees Only (which has turned cocktail-making into an artform as well), I could almost consider happily trading my sunny apartment in Santa Barbara for an over-priced shoebox in Manhattan.
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