"Love" and "purity" are words we often hear linked. But "love" and "clean"? When my roommate told me "love is clean," she was talking about our home; loving our home means maintaining its cleanliness. But is that where it ends? The sentence has stuck with me. As I move forward in life every day, I find myself in messy romantic circumstances. Which brings me to apply this quote and question myself and the lovers in my life. I have always been of the firm belief that messy and clean are not inherent opposites. I used to claim this vehemently because I used to be extremely messy in my home life. Those who knew me in my teen years can tell you that I lived in piles of clothing and books and jewelry and nail polish and journals. My dad used to joke (and crack himself up, of course) that my room was a hazardous waste zone (a recycling administrator's humor). Much like my life now, except that now my mounds of clothing hang neatly on hot pink hangers, my jewelry in little colorful bowls from the 99cent store, my nail polish in a canvas bag designated for all things manicure-related, and my books and journals line my window sills and press heavily down on a small bookshelf that sits outside my door. The act of organizing these things for me now translates into loving these things and loving my home.
So back to people: is love clean? If love is dirty, if love hurts, if love is hard and complicated and the lines are blurry and fuzzy, is it not still love? And if the answer is yes, it is still love, now I must ask: which type of love is to be desired? But maybe this is the wrong paradigm all together. Maybe what I need to ask is: which type of love helps me grow? I have to admit, though I'm afraid to face the fact, that the answer feels a little filthy.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Sweetest Thing
Lately I have been extremely homesick. This is also the happiest I have ever been in New York City. Brooklyn is home and beautiful and life is good. Last night a best friend and I cooked pasta, sauteed spinach and mushrooms and cherry tomatoes, and dined on my fire escape, watching the sun set over the Manhattan skyline and Brooklyn backyards. So why the hollowness in my stomach at random intervals throughout the day? Why the yearning for where I am not--for Oakland?
Last night, in addition to the almost-Autumn breeze and avoidance of school work, I realized what I am missing so ferociously. It is my Oakland men. Now, before I go into my full-on appreciation, I will say that this is not to ignore, negate, or pretend away the far-too-frequent wrist-grabs, cars that hover behind you down a block, honks and whistles and hands that should not be in action. The elements of pimp culture that imprint and blueprint our male-to-female relations in the Town are real and must be addressed. This post is not about them.
Freshman year of college, Year 1 in NYC, I sat in the freshman dorm of another college, reflecting on relationships with a girlfriend who also hailed from O-town. Though I have no clue what I was saying, I remember how she looked as I said it. Increasing perplexity clouded her face, until she cut me off. "But Lillz, you have to recognize that not everyone has a Roy*. A lot of women don't have friendships with men who tell them they love them every day." My non-romantic relationships with males in Oakland have nurtured me in ways I am just now beginning to understand the impact of. Though we no longer talk every day, Roy still tells me he loves me. He still tells me I am the most beautiful woman in his life, after his mother and sister. And we never, ever have considered dating. We probably never will. The compliments are not motivated by sexual tension. The fact of the matter is quite simple: we love one another, deeply and fully, and we verbally share this. And he is not the only one I share this dynamic with.
I miss the multiple directions that a, "Good morning, gorgeous!" and a, "You're hella pretty" come from, and the multiple places they lift us to. The little blushes when we tell them how handsome they are, too. The way their heads raise up a little higher, shoulders straighten out and smiles broaden. The arms that curl around us, the way we walk, understanding that we are joined by an endless and limitless beauty that we both understand. I tell these men how attractive they are without desiring them, and the same goes for them with me. The only desire we operate with is the itching to be linked with another bright spirit. The closer the bond, the brighter our inner lights shine, and the more radiant our outer shells become. I am (and, for as far back as I can remember, always was) able to tell many, many men that they are the epitome of handsome and mean it with all my soul.
I am convinced that there is something special in the water in Oakland, California. I miss this sweetest thing.
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who don't know they're in my blog. ;)
Last night, in addition to the almost-Autumn breeze and avoidance of school work, I realized what I am missing so ferociously. It is my Oakland men. Now, before I go into my full-on appreciation, I will say that this is not to ignore, negate, or pretend away the far-too-frequent wrist-grabs, cars that hover behind you down a block, honks and whistles and hands that should not be in action. The elements of pimp culture that imprint and blueprint our male-to-female relations in the Town are real and must be addressed. This post is not about them.
Freshman year of college, Year 1 in NYC, I sat in the freshman dorm of another college, reflecting on relationships with a girlfriend who also hailed from O-town. Though I have no clue what I was saying, I remember how she looked as I said it. Increasing perplexity clouded her face, until she cut me off. "But Lillz, you have to recognize that not everyone has a Roy*. A lot of women don't have friendships with men who tell them they love them every day." My non-romantic relationships with males in Oakland have nurtured me in ways I am just now beginning to understand the impact of. Though we no longer talk every day, Roy still tells me he loves me. He still tells me I am the most beautiful woman in his life, after his mother and sister. And we never, ever have considered dating. We probably never will. The compliments are not motivated by sexual tension. The fact of the matter is quite simple: we love one another, deeply and fully, and we verbally share this. And he is not the only one I share this dynamic with.
I miss the multiple directions that a, "Good morning, gorgeous!" and a, "You're hella pretty" come from, and the multiple places they lift us to. The little blushes when we tell them how handsome they are, too. The way their heads raise up a little higher, shoulders straighten out and smiles broaden. The arms that curl around us, the way we walk, understanding that we are joined by an endless and limitless beauty that we both understand. I tell these men how attractive they are without desiring them, and the same goes for them with me. The only desire we operate with is the itching to be linked with another bright spirit. The closer the bond, the brighter our inner lights shine, and the more radiant our outer shells become. I am (and, for as far back as I can remember, always was) able to tell many, many men that they are the epitome of handsome and mean it with all my soul.
I am convinced that there is something special in the water in Oakland, California. I miss this sweetest thing.
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who don't know they're in my blog. ;)
Monday, September 13, 2010
Why do you smile so much?
"Why do you smile so much, even when you shouldn't?"
Though she was referring to my use of emoticons, she is in no way the first or the only to call me out for excessive smileage. People get uncomfortable. Many of my close friends told me that before we became friends, they just knew me as the really smiley girl. I guess that's not a bad thing, but far too many people seem to equate smiles with naivete.
But it's like the line in the poem "The Invitation," by Oriah Mountain Dreamer: "I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain." How you deal with sorrow, grief, and traumatic events speaks volumes about who you are in your life. My girl told me she laughs her way through hard things. I personally shut down and hibernate while I process, or if I am unable to steal away, I force those with me to process alongside me. But when my former student said that I smile when I shouldn't, I got to thinking: maybe my smiles are offensive to others. Maybe they make me seem frivolous and unserious. As much as I like to think that is the baggage and issues of the people offended, I can not escape the fact that we are participating in this interaction called life together.
I won't stop the smiles, especially because psychology knows that a smile can impact your mood in a positive way, takes less muscles than a frown, and helps me win the battle between negative and positive in my head. But it's not quite so simple. Too many times in my life when my face has been resting in a non-smile, men have ordered a smile. Too many, "Smile, baby. You're too young/pretty to be frowning." Which is incredibly offensive, invasive, and--as much as I hate to admit it--effective. Though my facial expression can not be craved and requested like an item on a fast-food menu, clearly these comments have stuck with me, ruminating and building new ideas, thoughts, and emotions. My smiles are not to be produced on command, and at the same time, the command then begs the questions of who they're for and who they touch.
This is no longer verbal, but facial intentionality. Because the truth of the matter is that the smile is not just for myself. Even I can not control my smiles most of the time, and am proud to discover that my resting face is a smile. Dig a little deeper, though, and I can not deny that I put it on and take it for walks for you, too.
Though she was referring to my use of emoticons, she is in no way the first or the only to call me out for excessive smileage. People get uncomfortable. Many of my close friends told me that before we became friends, they just knew me as the really smiley girl. I guess that's not a bad thing, but far too many people seem to equate smiles with naivete.
But it's like the line in the poem "The Invitation," by Oriah Mountain Dreamer: "I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain." How you deal with sorrow, grief, and traumatic events speaks volumes about who you are in your life. My girl told me she laughs her way through hard things. I personally shut down and hibernate while I process, or if I am unable to steal away, I force those with me to process alongside me. But when my former student said that I smile when I shouldn't, I got to thinking: maybe my smiles are offensive to others. Maybe they make me seem frivolous and unserious. As much as I like to think that is the baggage and issues of the people offended, I can not escape the fact that we are participating in this interaction called life together.
I won't stop the smiles, especially because psychology knows that a smile can impact your mood in a positive way, takes less muscles than a frown, and helps me win the battle between negative and positive in my head. But it's not quite so simple. Too many times in my life when my face has been resting in a non-smile, men have ordered a smile. Too many, "Smile, baby. You're too young/pretty to be frowning." Which is incredibly offensive, invasive, and--as much as I hate to admit it--effective. Though my facial expression can not be craved and requested like an item on a fast-food menu, clearly these comments have stuck with me, ruminating and building new ideas, thoughts, and emotions. My smiles are not to be produced on command, and at the same time, the command then begs the questions of who they're for and who they touch.
This is no longer verbal, but facial intentionality. Because the truth of the matter is that the smile is not just for myself. Even I can not control my smiles most of the time, and am proud to discover that my resting face is a smile. Dig a little deeper, though, and I can not deny that I put it on and take it for walks for you, too.
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