All posts tagged relationship

I recently started working Cerra™, an inspiring new website that’s helping busy women embrace personal awareness, act with thoughtful intention, and reflect on our experiences, thus leading to a happier and more balanced life. Their organizational philosophy is rooted in what they call the Seven Intentions— Creative Energy, Gratitude, Courage, Wisdom, Loving Kindness, Grounded and Inspiration. Thus their prescription says that living with these Seven Intentions produces balance and well-being.

I admit… not all of Cerra’s Seven Intentions resonated with me. Not at first…

”Loving Kindness doesn’t mean anything to me,” I promptly announced to my team at BlogFrog. And I meant it. Bitterly. It seemed as vague and intangible as a bumper sticker. But everyone else seemed to really GET IT. Nodding their heads, yesssss. How profound, how meaningful, they said. And since I don’t like to be left out of the loop… I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. Everyday actually.

I began to notice how Loving Kindness was present in my behavior, in my experiences, in my life. And I realized, it’s all over the place. Both in what I contribute to the world, but also in what I choose to exclude from the world…

Sure there are those moments of positive feedback: teammate has bad day, teammate receives random gift card for a pedicure. Boyfriend breaks ear-buds, new ear-buds magically appear on kitchen table with sticky note: I love you. Friend has interview, friend sees encouraging text message first thing in the AM. I think human beings are good at positive feedback— fundamentally, we understand how to help eachother smile. 

But what about preventing a frown, a tear, or a bust up in anger? The truth is, my greater contribution to my relationships is knowing when to refrain.

I have a friend who is getting married soon. And I think she is a mistake by choosing that guy as her life partner. He is not the sort of person I would want for her. And she knows— I’ve expressed my concerns. She knows. And even though there is a part of me that wants to (leap leap, me, me, meeeee!) when the pastor says, “Does anyone here have any objections…?” I won’t. This is my gift.

My gift is to let her make her own decisions. This is my act of Loving Kindness.

More than what I give or add, for me, Loving Kindness means not blaming someone else for my pain, a violation of my beliefs, a pinch, a button push. Sure I can share my feelings with them… but I can not expect that they are going to take responsibility, or change in any way to accommodate my sensitivities. This realization has helped me push through, smooth over, and release many tense situations. So thank you, Cerra. In Jodi world, it turns out Loving Kindness is not just another bumper sticker.

Networking. The dreaded term. The act, we all put on. Some better than others. Some just plain hideously. And when I say hideously I don’t mean without skill. I mean intending payback.

We all know people who call themselves good “networkers”—shake so-and-so’s hand while walking into dinner, name-drop “My good friend, Mr. Blah Ba Blah” mid-conversation, get invited to events based on relationships, claw themselves up up up the social and professional ladder—with drive.

THIS is NOT good networking. This is transparent, false, superficial, yeah-we-totally-know-where-your-real-intentions-lie-honey kind of behavior. The key being—they expect a return on investment. And THAT FACT completely disables human connection.

It’s a lonely affair this “networking.” And, from my perspective, an empty use of life.

One of my friends, Grace Boyle, is no such “networker,” although her social and professional network far exceeds that of ten of my other friends combined. I’ve spent some time studying her—her social and professional relationships— and here is where she is both brilliant and unstoppable. Grace gives without the expectation of return. She gives work to a struggling graphic designer, “just to help out.” She gives rides to her carless and pregnant friend, “because she needs me.” She gives advice, time, recommendations, introductions, wisdom, hugs, love, inspiration, tools, lessons, short-cuts, make-all-better-aid. She gives and gives and gives. And never, ever expects anything back. Grace changes lives… because that’s just her nature, nothing more.

An altruist is a natural and superior “networker.”

I’m no Grace Boyle, but here is what she and other relationship building rock stars have taught me:

1.     Step outside your comfort zone to make new connections. Sign up for that meetup. New friend wants you to come over for a barbeque? Your “errands” can wait.

2.     Help, even when it’s a pinch. Your ounce could very well be their waterfall.

3.     Help anyone. Even if they don’t own a startup or have a bunch of letters at the end of their name. Bill Gates was a nobody, too, once.

4.     Do your homework and remember details. Find a system of remembering titles, kids names, city or origin, favorite restaurant. People like to feel significant. They’ll never forget YOU if you remember what makes THEM tingle.

5.     Set others up for success—know a Harry who might love a Sally? Hook ‘em up. A writer who needs a client or a job? It just takes an email intro.

6.     Keep contact information (in a disaster-proof place) and dive in to create solutions, connections, smiles.

7.     Stay in constant contact. There is no such thing as “free” time. You must MAKE TIME for important people.

8.     Any dummy can fulfill requests. A superior people-person unpredictably acts in kindness.

9.     Ask questions—delivering a monologue is as uninteresting as it is ineffective.

10. Appreciate, appreciate, appreciate. “Thanks” is not enough. If some act of kindness moved you, allow yourself to become vulnerable and express why.

When I grow up, I hope to be like Gracie. But until then, I will simply mimic her. Forever in awe of and moving towards embodying the genuine altruist, and (by default) the superior networker.

It turns out… some of it was my fault.

Even without M, I still feel the compulsion to take responsibility for the people who are closest to me—even when, especially when, they don’t ask.

I still believe self-sacrifice is the most powerful expression of love and sacrifice myself, silently, automatically, and without request. And then resent it later.

I still try to control… everything.

I still overreact.

I still PMS and don’t know “it’s only PMS” until I’ve cried for no reason.

I still implode, shut down, and cannot speak when I am upset.

I am still intermittently insecure about my physicality and need to be convinced that I am beautiful.

I still leap headfirst to conclusions.

I still don’t know how to trust.

I still am secretly waiting for every romantic relationship to end in deception and/or infidelity.

Without M, I would have had the same ugly parts. Our lives together revealed them. (Those nasty little fuck-faces). And I guess… I am grateful to him for helping me discover the hidden pieces of me.

1) If you are mean to us, your penis size may just happened find its way onto the Internet

2) Your mistakes are expressed and discussed in real-time not only with friends and family, but potentially every online human being in the world

3) Our make-outs, breakups, and make-ups—with other dudes—are described in unnerving detail

4) People you don’t know will comment on any reason you’re a “douche canoe” or “motherfucker”

5) You cannot send an email post breakup without being quoted

6) Our fights are archived and relived indefinitely

7) Men all over the Internet are secretly pining for us

Dear Soul Mate,

Thanks for detailing my car yesterday. I could lick coffee ice-cream off of the steering wheel it’s so clean (well, it might taste like coffee/Armor-All ice-cream, but…). And when I get into it I think what a lucky frickin’ gal I am. To have you and your surprises and your gorgeous green eyes and your Vidal Sassoon hair and…. Ahem…

But I still can’t claim you as mine on Facebook.

I am sick and twisty and I want to be better and different (Iknowthis…). But if I claim you as mine on Facebook, M will see it. And there is a part of me that still moves IN HIM, THROUGH HIM, BECAUSE OF HIM. And I’ll hurt when he hurts. And he’ll hurt when he finds out that you are my boyfriend (Ghah! Boyfriend, boyfriend, man-friend?). When he sees your pretty face where his once was, he will sting. And I don’t want him to sting, Soul Mate.

Part of me knows that he knows about you. I CAN FEEL IT. But he is in denial. Thinks maybe we’re temporary or superficial or casual. He doesn’t know that I want your babies. Like, umm, nowish (Just kidding, God!). And he doesn’t know that I put a muzzle on the impulse to ask you to marry me, like everyday (especially as I’m falling asleep and dreaming of one super-duper, special, BIIIIIGGGGG engagement party and a honeymoon in Italy and endless champagne served in sexy, long stemmed glasses, and future Italian/German babies…). I get gooey over you on a regular basis and wish I could just skip the whole boyfriend phase and move straight into husband. (Side note: what do you think about taking a quick but epically romantic trip to VEGAS this weekend?? Too soon? Just thought I’d check…)

Why do I feel like I’m having an affair with you?

Naw, stop it. I’m not still in love with M. (Or maybe I am?). It’s just hard to compete with five years of relationship building, investment, happy-ness, Peanut loving, giggle infested, love growing, dedicated-ness. Right?

ICKY FACT: M is the love of my life (thus far). Shit, that sucks. Will be true for another 4 years and 6 months. Whoa, Soul Mate, are you sure you want to hold out that long to earn the title? Mara-THON!

So yeah, I’ll confess… there is a (slight!) possibility that I am transferring my love of M to you, Soul Mate. Or maybe combining/channeling the love I have for both you and M, into what is healthier and more tangible. And that is YOU, for every reason under the sun. You cool with that? Because it’s silly how much I’m silly over you. I mean, it’s like POW, super POWerful. And it kinda came out of nowhere. So I’m thinking maybe there might be a weeeeee bit o’ transference. (Is that why I want babies, and a wedding, and a honeymoon, and a let’s-grow-old-together-promise type stuff? Immediately? And with more enthusiasm and more confidence then I ever had with M, ever?)

I am in love with you, Soul Mate—I feel it. I know it. So why can’t I change my status on Facebook?

I thought about M today and cried, violently, for the first time in weeks. Dipped into the part of my canned heart that remembers the way his skin smells after he showers, before he sprays cologne and charges quickly through it.

He is deliberate like that—folds his towels the same way every time, ribbon facing out, creating a pattern in the stack. He is concerned with proportion and aesthetics and giggles. (Or he used to be concerned with giggles, before MIT raped him of his bliss and he could only giggle 3/5ths of the way into a bottle of Jamison).

Giggles or no giggles, it is Thanksgiving week and I miss the familiarity of M. I could almost imagine him walking through my front door, a door he has never seen, and sitting with me on the couch. And I would smile… and feel LOVE. The deep-fried kind—juices reserved, marinated. God, I loved that man. I loved him more than anyone, anything, ever. So much of our relationship was poison. But I would have made him my life… if he had let me.

So what if his mother thought I was deserving of Hell. (Cuz the Bible told her so-ho-ho).

So what if he wanted to live in London, or New York, or Basel. I could MAKE myself happy in a city that is far too large and far too far away from my family. For him.

So what if talking through things with me was “exhausting.”

So what if he never understood the concept of “teamwork.”

So what that he let other (strange) men put their hands on me in public—without saying a word of protest.

So what that he essentially has three mothers and expected that I cared for him, support his every wish, love him, appreciate him, with zero expectation of return anything. Just. Like. A. Mama. Would.

So what that he took credit for the work, contributions, and value that I added to his life.

So what if his career came before me when it counted the most.

So what if he never understood who I am as a spiritual person and how that shapes my life, love, and choices.

So what….?

So everything. (It hurts!) But so everything.

I guess this is part of being a grown-up… choosing what’s healthy(er), responsible(er), forever(er). It comes down to this. I love(d) him. Obviously. In spite of and because of his flaws. I forgave him for hurting me countless times and began again. Anew. Virgin. Fresh. I saw through incompatibilities and red-flags. I imagined and dreamed and worked toward a shared and beautiful life with him. I molded and remolded me for him. Out of love, out of commitment. And out of necessity. But the unfortunate price I paid for having the love of my life in my life was my own happiness. And I am a grown-up. (Or at least aspiring to be). And I have a choice, in all ways and always. And since happiness and love seem mutually exclusive when it comes to M… I choose happiness.

I choose happiness.

So apparently 94% of twenty-somethings believe in soul mates. Soul. Mates. Souls that merge, have intercourse, dunk into each other‘s personal bits. Wiggle around and feel better together. And according to that same article, 87% of us think that we are going to end up marrying that one, predestined person, who makes us stronger, faster, and more perfect. Oh, and then? Dot, dot, dot. Here is where I become skeptical… I become concerned whenever the story ends with shrugged shoulders and a, “You know, dot, dot, dot…” Naw. C’mon now twenty-somethings. Get a grip.

Or so I thought…

I am the last person I know who would ever leap forehead first into the pool of non-logical, soul mate proselytizing. Nope, not this girl. I intentionally coat myself in logic, in check-lists, in vision creating, in tests and re-tests, in we’ll just “make it work,” in partnership-seeking and building. I think (thought. Yes, it’s coming…) of relationships like a financial investment. Like a venture capitalist—analyzing, evaluating earning potential, calculating risk, consulting experts, board of directoring, ass covering. That’s me—boom, boom, boom, chhhhh. But something happened on Sunday that turned my logical ass on its ass…

Jamie…. Sigh…. O, o, o, he’s magic.

I looked at him and recognized him. I felt him, I knew him. And I couldn’t look away. I felt his skin against mine and suddenly lost the ability to clearly differentiate where my physical body ended and his began. It was as if our essence, our molecules, and protons, and neutrons, and electrons, were all reduced, beyond quarks, to their immortal essence. And the vibration of that essential energy was THE SAME. Our vibration was the same. I felt us pulse—starting from inside my chest where my former heart used to live. Beat, expand, push. Beat, expand, push. I couldn’t hear my thoughts or feel my feelings… because I didn’t have any of my own—they were OURS.

He put his palm against my chest and took my hand to his… and asked me if I could feel that. THAT. Electric, ridiculous, stretching of feelings, and love, and magic and beliefs. THAT. Melting of disappointment and heartache and whatchagonnadoaboutit fears. THAT. Destruction of isolation, of alone-ness, of disconnection.

Yessssss….. I could feel that. I WAS THAT.

I wanted to pull away. Afraid of him, of us, leafing through what had not yet been seen, or experienced. And what desperately wanted to remain under wraps… to keep me as THE SAME: delusional, and separate from other forms and beings and lives.

Please don’t pull away, he said… because he heard me desire it. I cried. Stayed put. And pooled into an ever expansive ocean of Jodi. And he cried, too. And wrapped himself around my separation from M, my anger, my loss, my void, my drained and discontent and wounded. He said he thought he was processing my sadness, because I couldn’t do it on my own. We sobbed.

And then, POOF, gone. No more pinchy, ouchy, hurting. My heart(ish area) felt like putty. And I could see myself, better. I could see myself at the end of the grief, looking back, like phew. HE DID THIS. This magical man…

It occurred to me that this is what GOD had in mind when he created the concept of teamwork. I KNOW THIS: I will never again process a single challenge alone. He is suddenly, inexplicably, and necessarily a part of my everything. So yes, we are stronger together. And yes, he makes me more perfect. And yes, I believe him to be predestined. Goddammit! I want to scream in public. Okay, OKAAAAAY. You got me… I FUCKING BELIEVE!

Conveniently he looks great on paper, too. (So CHECK that off my list). But all that is now a moot point… because I’ve realized something so beautiful… this is a zero risk investment. Because how could I possibly hurt him when I IS him? How could I accidentally stomp on my own heart? How could he ruin me when his bits are ours? Not possible. Nope, not possible.

Well hello, Soul Mate. I’ve been waiting for you. Dot, dot, dot.

He didn’t do anything for my birthday. And I’ve been saying that it’s okay… and it IS okay… it’s okay… really… it’s good and beautiful and natural and understandable and means that he is letting me go and that he’s moving on… and I want him to, because I am… I want him to let me go…

So why can’t I stop crying?

I thought he might have sent me flowers—two-dozen long stemmed red roses that were sitting outside my front door yesterday—but they were from Dad. And my heart sank into my feet. And I cleaned each stem, anyway, with the same TLC that I would have cared for his gift. Removing the thorns, throwing away the leaves, stirring the plant food into the water filled vase. The way I did each time he would bring me flowers in apology, or in celebration, or in just-becauses.

I thought he might have mailed me a letter, but my mailbox remains crushingly empty. I can feel the drought from in here, from inside my living room. I imagined he might have written that he loves me (still), that he wishes he could be there to help me blow out my candles, that he thinks I deserve all the magic in the world, that I mean everything to him. I imagined that he would say, “Everything will be okay, Peanut, because we have each other” like he used to every night before bed. I imagined that I would have believed him…

I had a yellow and black UPS slip on my front door-“signature required.” And I didn’t admit until tonight that I found comfort all day yesterday thinking it was from him. But it wasn’t…

No emails. No phone calls. No-thing.

I am bleeding sadness. It’s really over, isn’t it? (Why do I keep having to reminding myself this…………………………….?)

Last night I opened the bottle of wine that he and his family bought me for my graduation a year and a half ago—when things were different—when I still believed he was my til-death-do-us-part. Well wishes written in silver pen all over it. My hands shook violently… and I swear if I hadn’t had the collective strength of my five Twisted Sisters, I never could have uncorked. But I did and we drank it, consumed the last juicey evidence of my former life. New family digesting the old. Making new. Dissolving old.

….I just thought we’d drink it together, Pean… I thought we’d cheers to what we had done together. What dreams we had realized. My success, OUR lives. US. I thought we’d sit on OUR couch and clink OUR wineglasses, me with a wine charm, you without (because the noise annoys you). I thought you would hold me and touch my face…

But as I write that I realize that I don’t remember what it would feel like. I don’t remember what your weight feels like on my chest. I don’t remember how your mouth tastes or how your belly heaves when you laugh out loud. I don’t remember how long you held my gaze before you’d kiss me. I don’t even remember when the last time you told me that you love me… or what it meant when you said it.

I’m loosing the memory of you…

I remember how you put on your socks—how you would kick three times to air out your toes while sitting on the bed. I remember how you used to coax me awake by sitting beside me and rubbing my back. I remember that you can’t drink your Americano until it cools. And that my hands were literally consumed by yours. I remember how I loved your enthusiasm, your energy, your positivity. I used to listen to you talk about design, criticize, analyze, dream out-loud and I thought you were brilliant (even before you earned the accolades to prove it).

Didn’t that mean something to you, Pean? I loved you before you were the man you’ve become. I loved you insecure. I loved you tired. Scared. Immature. Undeveloped. Broke. Breaking. I loved you silly. Small-town-eee. Before “stuff” mattered so much. Before your resume was developed. When architecture was about inspiration, not success. When your image didn’t matter…

I loved you just because…

I asked James Dean the other night if he could explain something to me. I pointed to the photos on my wall. “See those up there?” He looked. “Half of them were taken when I was living in Boston. And even though I’m smiling, my eyes are empty. I remember being that woman and feeling dead inside because I was so miserable. And I know that I don’t want that life back… so why am I so sad to have lost it?”

“You know what I think?” He said after a time. “I think you are grieving the loss of hope of the future you thought you would create. You’re grieving the loss of hope, Jodi.” And he’s right… I don’t want it back, that empty excuse for a life. The M I am remembering, he died a long time ago. And the person who replaced him I want nothing to do with.

I just thought it would be different. Thought it could be different. Thought we’d be growing old together—the old M and me— building careers together, creating family and home together. I thought Boston would be nice to me. Take me in and encourage my evolution. But none of this happened. Nor is it going to. But the loyalist in me doesn’t want to let go of the vision. The hope that eventually it’ll be realized.

I think I am starting to dream about another life—with someone else’s face where his used to be. With new traditions, with new “family,” with happy times, and loving gestures, and surprises, and growth, and til-death-do-us-part. A new story of hope. Shall replace, will replace, is replacing ours.

Or maybe it’s just growing side by side?

Now that M’s let me go I know I need to do the same. But not in the practical, change-of-address, close bank accounts, way. Did that. I need to let go of the hope of a future “us”. I need to stop believing that WE will continue, that there will be an insertion of his presence, of our former love, in chapter 23 or in the epilogue or in the sequel of my life story. Because I know it won’t happen.

……….. But wait! Stop. Stop it. Oh god. My heart. It aches. Oh goddddd. I donno if I can do it. I don’t think I’m strong enough yet. Or believe it. Or want it??

How do you stamp out the existence, the commitment to a lifelong vision of someone by your side? How do you fully erase their face and paint someone else’s on top? Or do you not EDIT the story? Do you let the old one age, uncreated, like a make-believe book growing dust on the shelf? Do you simply start to author another future? Or do you stop dreaming altogether?

And wait for your new story to unfold…

I would like to take my hat off (and hell, while I’m at it maybe my pants off) to the manufacturer of one Mr. James Dean, Mr. Italian GQ, Mr. Hugh Jackman’s younger brother, Mr. oh-my-fucking-god-you-take-my-breath-away. You done good. I didn’t know men were built this way. So much care you took on this model! Bra-vo. I give it a five out of five. Two thumbs up—-waaaaay up. Standing ovation. Best in show. Yeah, yeah, all that. You done goooood.

Duuuuude, I totally get that a few months in CHEMISTRY IS USUALLY A BLARING. I think there are like four maybe five spikes in “happy hormones,” which make us all (in turn) gooey and drooley and oh my goodness this person is my f-ing DESTINY-eeee—in the beginning. And maybe that is what is happening… and maybe it’s just that we have LIFE-BLOWING chemistry… and maybe it’s just that he is the most physically attractive male I have ever seen IRL. But I’m starting to think there may be a little bit-o LOVE a bloomin’. (holyfuckingshitholyfuckingshitHOLYFUCKINGSHIT!). Love or adoration? Love or gratitude? Love or evolution inspiration? Love or connectedness? Love or… ummm…yeah, love. Happy face. Freaked out face. Addicted face. Wanna let him in face. Wanna fall face. Falling face.

Here where some of the not-so-original, let me rant about how great this man is, crapola comes out- IN FULL FORCE. May I get you a cheese plate anyone? Anyone?

What I love is in the details—in the way that he looks at me, REALLY LOOKS AT ME. Right eye, left eye, back, and forth, in and out. Sucking in the details. Worshiping my every bit. (How’d he learn how to do that? I’ve never been ABSORBED that way before…).  In the way that he occupies his space socially, personally. Likes he owns the joint, BUT DOESN’T WANT ANYONE TO KNOW IT. (Is THIS a genuine alpha male??). Like he is comfortable enough in himself that he doesn’t need to BUILD himself in public. Like he is there to showcase me—and loves every second. In the way that he tends to my every fleeting need/desire/preference. Like he was made to and finds no bigger pleasure than in pleasing me. Like he cares more about making me happy than anything else. In the way that he gets me, and knows when to listen, when to kiss me (and where! Swoon…), and when to tell me that I am full of shit and need to check myself. (WTF? I mean, c’mon… did somebody give him a cheat-sheet full of TO-DO/under no circumstances do’s??? Fess up, people…). In the way that he finds me… under all my pretending, under makeup and mishaps. In his dedicated investigation of WHO I AM. In his obvious reverence for each discovery. In his willingness to RISK his heart on a girl who he knows is still a shit-show. In his readiness to fall. And his unwillingness to look back in doubt.

Grocery list aside… it’s just a FEELING. Scared, I-am-I-am, of feeling based anything. But this is a feeling. Like maybe he’s worth diving for. Like maybe the other shoe won’t drop. Like maybe he will actually restore my faith in love-ish-ness, in romance, in meant-to-be’s, in ALL THAT JAZZZZZZZZZZ. Like maybe this one is the real thing? The good fit. The better-together. The… dare I say it….? Gulp. The TIMES TWO?

Holy shit. 40% of me is panicking. I don’t wanna end up in crumbles over this boy once he finds out how truly idiosyncratic, bizarre, f-ing torn up and scarred I am. This part would rather SLAM! the OFF button now, before it’s too late and my mind is sprinting, net in hand, after my crazed heart.  But that 40% is ticking slowly downward (39%…….38%……..37%……). Day by day. Surprising by refreshing, who knew that men could behave, think, believe this way moments. Confidence is rising, tip-toeing to the edge…one painted toe at a time. Preparing for the plunge, the downward spiral(?), the upward climb(?), the free-fall(?)…. THE WINGED FLIGHT.

I think I might be ready. I feel I might be willing. To think, I feel, I love.