My good friend warned me about playing with broken toys.
I didn’t listen.
I was too busy examining my time-worn scars wondering if I too was cracked in bits and place.
Embarrassed that I wasn’t perfect and overly friendly I paid humbly my dues.
Crossroads
I stand.
I sit.
I pace.
I wait.
I sit on the edge of my mind’s rumblings.
I skip reluctantly in the spaces I miss as I hurry along to connect stories backwards.
I sit. Again.
I wish for pauses.
I have not moved.
Starting over
So I started my new book project yesterday. Just like that. No pressure and no coaxing. The words just flowed and I kept writing. I am completely at peace with the process and I amazed myself.
Given my angst about real life romance, I suppose there is a lesson to be learned here. If it’s meant to be, it will be. Everything has it’s time. The right thing for you will find you at the right time. What you seek is seeking you. There’s so many common expressions and platitudes about timing and patience and letting things come as they will.
I guess I am so used to working hard and getting shit done that I expect everything to be a hardship and when it is not, I am shocked. I mean, it’s like an event!
But I am beginning to see that life has a rhythm that I only have to tune into… Or maybe it’s just a mindshift that I am experiencing… either way, I am not having as hard a time setting my intentions and following through. It’s really lovely not to struggle. Even better to keep promises to myself especially on word counts!
I am starting over a new book project but it feels like it’s the beginning of everything I have ever wanted to do and be.
Sometimes I am slow – part 2 of 2
And now, the letter…
Mmmhhh… so continuing from the previous post, here’s the letter that I wrote. Somehow I am not as enthusiastic about it as I was before. I don’t even know why it was so important for me to write it or even post it. I guess it’s me needing to be heard.
I am of two minds now. Not sure if I have resolved anything. Except maybe the chance to have a one-sided conversation and make up for being really slow… Anyway, here’s the letter:
Dear Lover,
You know one of the most beautiful things about me, I think, is how much I love love… it’s kinda my thing.
My biggest wish has been, and remains, to find this Big Love. The other night we spoke and I was not clear about the things I thought I wanted. You insisted that I knew what I needed. And I said I was not sure. I was not being disingenuous— my processor was overwhelmed by you and so things were just not ringing true in that special inner place where true wishes do.
Afterwards, nearly a week later to be honest, I was able to access myself in a way that I have not done in a long while.
It probably does not matter but I finally realized what I want. Lover, I desire to be loved deeply and truly. Being with you the other night showed me how intimacy could be. How much I missed being connected to someone. How much I really wanted to love someone back, to touch them, to nurture them, to fulfill their desires, to be close — and perhaps to give them the things they secretly wish for too — and maybe help them uncover bits and pieces of themselves they thought were lost to life experiences and disappointments.
Sometimes, like now, I am overwhelmed by how romantic and idealized my thoughts are regarding love. I am afraid that my desire to be loved in such a specific way stands in the way of me finding love. But while I know there is a good chance that these could remain longings (I am so aware of time passing), I am so totally convinced about the one thing that I cannot possibly give up: I deserve to be loved fiercely and decisively— not to be someone’s ambivalent number one. But to be wholly and boldly desired. To be chosen as the One.
Despite being now so clear about what I desire and seek — I am terribly scared to admit it — sometimes, even to myself.
I want to thank you, Lover, for helping me realize how important it is for me to be loved and wholly accepted and to be able to bear witness to this showing of love without confusion. Without hesitation. And without shame of the sometimes bearing of my insecurities and neediness.
(I am so incredibly aware of my own imperfections and inadequacies).
So you were right. I do want to be able to point and say, “Mine.” But above all this, I want the chance to be loved and to love unconditionally — and desired too — with unwavering conviction!
Conviction… Not a very romantic notion, huh?
xoxoxo
So now…
So that was the letter. I am so hopeful that I will find someone who will be sure about me.
And one who will (gasp!) give me their heart.
And that I shall be in the privileged position of loving them too and hopefully doing it in the way they desire the most.
Sometimes I am slow – part 1 of 2
Oh boy…
I recently had a bit more insight into myself and what I found was quite exciting. Well, to be honest, it was more terrifying than exciting but oh! the stories I tell myself!
I found that I am often slow to process my thoughts and emotions, especially when I am feeling tenderly for someone. The sharp wit, the quick come backs, and the articulate expressions often leave me. I probably will need to unpack why this happens but I now understand how people can get overwhelmed by feelings and emotions.
While I was thinking about how slow I go, it occurred to me that maybe all my senses are so tuned in to that one moment, that my brain cannot do the quick thing it does and I am at a disadvantage.
So you can guess by now, that I was in a position of disadvantage recently. I was trying to have an honest conversation with a very important “Him” … and I was incredibly frustrated by my inability to access myself and be true in the moment. I was apprehensive. I felt under pressure to appear cool. Maybe my ego didn’t help because I was already so enamored by “Him” and quite unable to process as quickly, that I was being really slow.
It wasn’t until days later that I began having the conversation, with myself obviously, that I should have had with “Him.”
It took me a week nearly to figure out my thoughts. I couldn’t go back to have a conversation because well, it was a week later. I wasn’t too keen to be as open just yet, because, well… ego… Still, my inner romantic teenager was screaming at me to ventilate my issues. I have written about ventilation before and how satisfying it is to just put things out there. Of course, the post has a different context but the theme is the same: confront the fear, deal with the issue. Anyway, I decided to write a letter.
So there’s a bit at stake here, right? There is the exposure and vulnerability of being so open. And there’s the risk of discovery— right now, I have the privilege of being undiscovered and unread. It’s so much easier to write when no one’s watching. Even better when I can disguise my most innermost thoughts and feelings as an exploration of myself as Writer (yes, with a capital W).
So anyway, I wrote this long letter. I haven’t the courage to share with “Him” so I decided to confessional it. It’s actually pretty poetic because I want to copy and paste it into the post just as the bells of a nearby Church are pealing… I will take that as a sign to proceed.
I think one of the fringe benefits of being a cowardly romance writer should be the ability to use my own inadequacies as material, not so? But I think I will create a whole new post with the letter. This one is a bit too long anyway.
You know, as I was drafting the letter, I did feel an abnormal amount of satisfaction— not only in having articulated myself as I wish I could in what I think was a defining moment of romance, but also in being honest with myself.
In my twisted romantic mind, I sometime think that one day, I will have magically earned the level of honesty with myself that will allow me to truly connect to another human being and perhaps enjoy love. Every time I am able to courageously express my innermost desires, I feel as though I am closer to finding my Big Love.
Of course, maybe I am completely off. But some romantic teenager inside me whispers, “What if you’re not wrong?”
Coming up next: Part 2 of this post.
Exposed
I have been trying this honest confessional thing for a few posts now. I think it is quite refreshing. But it is also quite bare.
I think, sometimes, that being vulnerable creates the most beautiful and relatable art. I suppose my world view has been colored by watching many hours of America’s Got Talent and perhaps The Voice. But I think this view is largely true. Beyond just being relatable, I feel like being open brings me closer to myself.
I don’t know when this happened but I got it in my overthinking head that I needed to be this perfect person — and that I could only be good or worthy if I maintained certain standards of propriety. So on the outside there’s this little Proper Miss of myself that parades herself, seeking everyone’s approval and relishing in receiving it. Then deep inside me is a more open and free-spirited version of Proper Miss who sits waiting for the day when she’ll be let out to play — because she’s the embodiment of every longing, dream, and being that Proper Miss wishes she had. Hidden Miss holds the dreams, inner fulfillment, wisdom, innocence, enchantment, and essence that would make life that much lived. Hidden Miss believes in magic and kismet and the importance of softer things. Proper Miss believes too but she’s a realist and her priorities are pragmatic. Proper Miss has little patience for unfolding and letting things that’ll be, be. Hidden Miss holds life in wonderment and enjoys every morsel of life’s simple joys. Hidden Miss wouldn’t think twice about jumping off a cliff to dive into crystal blue waters or taking a walking tour in a foreign country to discover a writers’ cafe — she is all about adventure.
I am not naive. I understand that I can’t walk these streets as Hidden Miss all the time. I would be chewed up and spat out before I could say, “YOLO” … no matter how important it is to create a life that is true and “authentic”.
Besides, Proper Miss has accumulated experiences and skills that have been equally enriching and useful in navigating through this ride. Proper Miss is a winner but also knows how to wear the scars of defeat with the grace of a warrior.
So in a way, the best version of me is both Hidden Miss and Proper Miss.
I have also found that these two versions of myself couldn’t be farther apart from each other. And what’s more, some of my most miserable life experiences have been because I was trying too hard to be one or the other.
This also affects how I write. Proper is about technical ability and getting it right from a craft perspective. Hidden is about telling the story because it is crying out from within my soul. I think it’s clear that both have a place and a purpose.
This past year has been quite interesting because I have been experimenting with trying as much as possible to be honest with myself and make decisions where truth rings internally. I have found that this exercise of being honest with myself has narrowed the distance between Proper Miss and Hidden Miss. I have felt rewarded in my soul. I have felt incredible peace about some of the most difficult decisions I’ve had to make this year. My sister insists I am a much nicer person to know. I think my compassion for others has increased.
The exercise of being honest with myself requires more reflection than I thought. I process a lot through writing — and documentation can be jarring. I feel exposed and uncomfortable in the moment when I feel I have hit an especially difficult truth. But I feel rewarded when I think I am one step closer to bringing Proper and Hidden together.
Gawd I hope the lesson is mastered now. I want the next phases of my life to be less miserable and more peaceful. Is this what they call “finding yourself?” — that shit ain’t for kids.
Pull of the past
So I wrote this whole post about the pull of the past but I lost it somehow.
Anyway, I was musing as usual about how I feel the pull of the past. I am nearly done with my first book project – the short stories – which I think are coming along nicely. I don’t think I am this great literary but I love to tell the stories… hopefully some people will agree with me. But as I near the end, I am feeling a little sad that the mad rush is over… next is the phase of other tedious tasks – editing, graphics and layout, and then at last publishing. I am proud of myself for getting this far but it’s got me thinking about my next project.
Lately, I have been fantasizing about writing a historical romance. There is something about being able to place myself in the time of two lovers who wished their story could be told that is quite appealing to me. And it sounds romantic doesn’t it, to write about 11th century Malindi and maybe two young lovers indulging in a forbidden affair. But of course, I worry about the authenticity of the writing – will I be true to how love was conducted in the time… how did they love? How did they woo? How did they express their longing for freedom to be who they are and to celebrate who they are?
My fantasy tells me that I would enjoy immersing myself in the time and the culture. Learning little known facts, revealing them slowly, and savoring the outcome. I can nearly see it. Sneaking love notes on a wall – tucked into some nook. Moving quickly past each other so that no one can fault them for familiarity and knowing. Solitude and longing. And maybe I could salvage a little of what’s lost about the Swahili coast and the living that was to be had there.
I wonder if it is bad luck to think this long about a story — but I will write it. And I am hoping some two lovers, across time, will reach me and tell me how to tell their story.
Damascus experience
So I talked about changing direction in an earlier post and how this year was a major year for me. In the post I talk about having a “Damascus” experience — yet another biblical reference — been so full of those lately. But my use of the expression was really to capture the life changing aspect of the experience I have had this year.
I have been struggling with grief and depression for a while. It’s been nearly three years of being in this deep dark hole. You know the kind where you sit in a corner, knees to your chest, and wait it out because there’s just nowhere to go except to sit in the muck of sadness. I swear I cried so much in the shower, wailed for God to help me, and called upon every ounce of will power in order to make it through the last year.
But earlier in the year I also realized that I needed to get better. I kept looking for a solution. I wanted to try anti-depression pills but got spooked out the first time I took a dose. I continued with talk therapy but I wasn’t really getting through. We tried this technique with my therapist and it was a success. I was able to get to the root of my immediate issues and I am not sure how it all works… all I know is that I have relief. It’s been a process of peeling back the layers and dealing with the surprises that I find. Now, the burden of sadness that plagued me everyday, making it hard to do even the littlest of things, is loosening its grip on me. I feel like I can breath.
It was tough dealing with depression and for such a long time. I can do the moods and the depressive episodes — I know that we are not promised all sunny, freaking-hippy-happy days. I can do the ups and downs like everyone else… I just couldn’t do the every day of it. It was draining and it was like this secret I kept inside… not because I was keeping things secret but because depression is isolating.
The breakthrough with the treatment has been slow but steady. I definitely knew something had changed but it wasn’t until a few weeks after the treatment that I realized how badly I had been doing. I can only describe it as waking up the morning after a whole night of storms and walking through the damage. I didn’t realize how much my writing had suffered. I had neglected my physical health too — my quality of sleep was bad, no exercise, wild food binges — and well, I was just not happy.
As I am getting better, I am also realizing how much work has to go into reclaiming the time… the reflection, the focus back on my physical health, writing, and staying healthy. The change in direction for me is about this effort and it extends to about what I write, how I share myself, and experience life in general.
Big Love
I feel like I have written a confessional with this same title before.
Let me let you in on a secret. I love to write about love partly because of my journey to finding love. So let me lay the ground work so that you understand why writing about love is so linked to my own experiences and search. First, I believe in the big love. I think there is that quintessential experience of love that we are all entitled to as human beings. This experience comes as part of your package for going along on this journey called life. Some people are so fortunate to have this experience multiple times, others have near misses, but you are guaranteed at least one Big Love experience.
The Big Love experience, to me, begins with finding the match.
For some people, the experience of match finding is like a comet flying through space and into the atmosphere — all fire — and it is good for them. Everything about them is explosive: the way they love each other, defend each other, fight each other, etc. And while the explosion fools people into thinking that they are wrong for each other, there is a sacred place of balance where they regularly check into and moderate their issues so that they fire does not consume them. Sometimes, though, the comet lovers forget to check into the sacred space and well, things fall apart. And not in the sophisticated way that Chinua Achebe writes in his book.
Other Big Love experiences are like a warm, gentle fire burning under the skin… just enough to warm the blood and skin, but not enough to cause injury or harm. Because the fire is delicate and just beneath the surface, things can be a bit sensitive to touch. The ones who experience this kind of match are like those animals you heard in church choruses that walk two by two into Noah’s Ark. Or like the picture of lovers pricked by Cupid’s Arrow… a little cliche but so well match. Their experience of this beneath-the-surface affection is fulfilling even for those watching from outside. It’s like always having a mug of hot chocolate, warm socks, and a beautiful grey sweater, looking outside the window on a cold, damp day. This under-the-skin Big Love is steady, safe, and always present. It is comforting, rarely explosive, and easy to approve of — especially where judgey friends are concerned. There may a bit of passive aggressive behavior in this love but there’s no doubting it. But often doubt creeps in through insensitive behavior or taking things for granted. Because it is so steady and present, it is easy to forget to nurture its glowing embers.
Then there is another experience of Big Love that begins deep in the heart. And this one has the absolute ability to shift your insides. Sometimes the love is so consuming, it makes your insides hurt. And if you sit right, you can feel the tightening of the muscle that is your heart because this deep love physically manifests itself and makes itself known. Sometimes when I try to describe this type of Big Love, I am reminded of the Kiswahili proverb (methali) — Mapenzi ni kikohozi, hayawezi kufichika — Love is like a cough, it cannot be hidden. It’s so full of big gestures and events and monumental happenings. It can be quite exhausting especially if unhealthy competition sets in. And it can end up being belittling and can kill the healthy roots that settle this love in the inner core of the heart.
My absolute favorite of the Big Love is the one that is not obvious and is hard to figure out. For an overthinking lover, it can be a nightmare because it is not quite rational. It is mismatched. And because it just is, it can’t be explained. This particular love almost always never fits the typical ideas of love … this experience is filled with mystery and surprises and not knowing. It’s hard to predict which way this Big Love will go. It is as fulfilling as it is nerve wracking. It is a pure exercise in faith. There are no guarantees but the ride is worth it all.
So where was I going with this again? … aaah yes… we are all guaranteed at least one Big Love experience and I think I already experience it once before. But the Big Love experience did not materialize into a Forever Love. So I keep looking…. because surely my story is not over yet, right?
About dimensions
It’s quite human — and somewhat convenient — to paint people simply. It’s much easier to label someone as all good or another as all bad. I am learning that people are far more than just one “thing.”
I am also conscious that this is the same thing for me… it is possible for me to exist in these seemingly contradictory spaces. I have had a hard time understanding for instance that being angry and expressing my anger does not make me an inherently evil person. I have a lot of guilt when I express anger — and I don’t know where I got this false belief that being angry equals being a mean person. Especially when I know that anger is a healthy emotion and that it is basically a way of signaling that I feel an injustice has been done or that I object to how a story is unfolding.
But I think what I have learnt that is truly humbling is that because I was previously opposed to letting myself comfortably occupy these contradictory spaces without losing my identity, I was unable to lend this grace to others. And it is really sad. I think I used to see the world as black and white — and in some ways, I still do (but hopefully less so). Living that kind of life can be quite difficult…
I suppose with age I am softening and learning to live in the grey areas and getting more comfortable with not having this purist view of life… It is both refreshing and terrifying… but it fills me with great compassion.
Fringe benefit – this realization of dimensions makes it easier to really enjoy the Meredith Brooks “Bitch” song as popularized by Alanis Morrisette:
I’m a bitch, I’m a lover
I’m a child, I’m a mother
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint
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’m a child, I’m a mother
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint
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
So take me as I am…