Now You're Speaking My Language

I read somewhere that there are an estimated 250 different dialects spoken in China.  I am starting to think there are actually millions of dialects of every language spoken worldwide, and that understanding this may be the first key to relationships.

I’ve spent more time than is healthy considering the dynamics of relationships, love, marriage, and (God help us all) dating.  And in my search for the answers to how these things work, I’ve decided there are no answers, or to be more specific, an innumerable number of answers.  No two people are alike, we all know that.  So how could there be a checklist of to-do’s and not-to-do’s that would give everyone the ability to breeze through dating and love like a car with bad breaks on San Francisco’s Nob Hill?

I know many couples with years of successful marriage under their belts.  And many of them even seem to have the great gift of being happy in them too.  So what is their secret?  How did they find this perfect mate, and how did they stay “right” for each other?  Did they read some Dr. Spock-of-Dating book and get lucky with the advice they chose to take away from it?  We they “raised right” or have some closely-held information handed down from generation to generation that gave them the key?  Did they meet on “The Love Connection” and go down in game show history?

My theory is simple.  They speak the same language.  More specifically, they speak the same dialect. 

It just seems like some couples understand each other better than others.  Notwithstanding the debate over soda/pop/coke, ya’ll/you guys, etc – I think there are just certain combinations of language, eye contact, body language, chemistry, and maybe thought patterns that give certain people an advantage when communicating with each other.  You may be perfectly content with the adequate level of communication you have with most people in your life, including family (who, in this theory, can speak as many different dialects as China) but have that one person that just “gets” you like no other.  You would still argue.  You’d still irritate each other.  But you would have that certain “one-up” on everyone else, because you both speak dialect 2,378,357. 

Example: When a guy says, “I’ll call you”, and his girlfriend interprets that as, “I’ll call you in five minutes because I’ll miss you so much for the next four minutes” – and then he doesn’t call for an hour and finds her pissed off and making no sense – they are both left wondering what the hell just happened.  Obviously, they speak a different dialect.  But when the same guy says that very thing to his NEW girlfriend (we all knew that break-up was coming), she may actually hear what he says, understand it, and happily answer an hour later when the phone rings.  It’s simple.

So, as much as I love to cling to the annoyingly-romantic idea of fate, I think this makes much more sense.  I think there is something in our make-up as humans that makes us uniquely in tune to some others, but not all others.  Something that makes each combination of people different.  Something that gives some couples that special bond, other couples a basic compatibility, and the rest a recipe for disaster and domestic violence.  At some point, the great couples found one of the people that share their dialect.  They didn’t just get lucky.  They listened…  

Amorous Musings

It's a hard thing, knowing your own mind. It changes, and makes sense sometimes, even when it conflicts with everything else. But maybe the hard part is actually deciphering what you THINK from what you FEEL, and understanding where the middle ground lies. There are a few things I believe I know AND FEEL that agree with one another.

A person can know you physically, and meet your needs, without bringing you any real, lasting satisfaction or happiness. It may work for you for a moment in time, but before long, you will realize your lack.  Your body may be satiated, your lust slaked, but eventually you know you require more.

You can be known mentally.  You may share interests and speak of them with enthusiasm. You may have similar bits of knowledge which make for what can be pretended as inside jokes, giving you pleasure at having a pool of common facts and anecdotes. But you can't always rely on mind to get you through to body, much less anything outside of secure friendship. 

And then there are those that only want to love. That share a romantic notion of life or have been indoctrinated with definite mores of commitment and traditional appropriateness. Those that freely give their own futures to a fated union that is immediate and beyond reproach. Those that breathe forever without having any clue about today or tomorrow or how that love will thrive. 

But after all, time and history and omnipresent entities say there is something; something of a blend. Even in today's less-human, less-natural environment, I have seen it. I know people that fit this description. These are a love salad. A bit of warm and needy attraction, a dollop or three of mental compatibility, and a hefty helping of heartfelt dressing. That dressing congeals the individual parts and ensures that one part does not overpower the others -  nurturing mind, body and soul. 

It's common, I think, to deny this last possibility. It's easier to content yourself with safe and consistent, or physically desirable, or to simply not consider how you feel about it at all. It's my own fear that I will feel I've found this perfect combination, only to have it reveal itself as false and open up a fresh, vulnerable wound, a mortal wound to my hopeful heart. But I look around me at the relationships starved for body or mind or heart, and the relationships that are insidious and fatal, and I am fortified in my decision to hold out.  I would rather take that chance.  I would rather have the dagger of heartbreak tear my insides to shreds than feel nothing at all, or feel something less intensely good than oneness.  

I am determined to live my own life, be patient but be OPEN, until the day I can be sure all three are embodied in one person who will recognize the perfect match. One who will cherish it.  And then return it.   

S.O.S. (Sound of Silence, A.K.A. My Happy Place)

Last year I went to a seminar purporting the use of hypnosis as a method of smoking cessation that was guaranteed to work AND be easy.  I went in skeptical, not because I don’t have any faith in hypnosis, per se, but because it seemed unlikely that I would sit in a group full of complete strangers, listen to some smooth psychobabble for a couple hours, and leave hating cigarettes more than I love them. 

To be clear, I currently hate them equally as much as I love them, which doesn’t help in the least.

The seminar was actually more interesting than I thought it would be.  The guy leading it had that effective combination of charisma, humor, and well-practiced lines that gives those who possess such gifts the ability to sell anything to anyone.  The pre-hypnosis spiel inevitably included vast amounts of information on the chemical and mental effects of quitting cold turkey and in no uncertain terms, assured the wary listeners that they did indeed have ways to help eradicate the horrible, nasty feelings we’d experience after leaving the seminar as non-smokers.  For just a nominal amount (in the hundreds), you could leave with vitamins and supplements that would leave you craving and side-effect-free, never to darken a huddle of stinky smokers again.  That was the point where I decided I’d wasted my time and my money, but I stuck it out for no other reason than curiosity. 

The hypnosis, I loved. 

Loved, loved.

Like, I almost would've bought the wildly over-priced vitamins if only I could get this guy to do this with me every day.

It wasn’t so much what I think of as hypnosis, but more of a mass meditation.  The lights were flicked off, the room became quiet.  The voice of the sales-guru was soothing and melodious.  He led the way to a state of alert relaxation that I didn’t realize existed and then deftly guided us to our own personal happy place.  I think I’ve always been a bit of a daydreamer, and I’ve always had images of happy places to choose from, but this atmosphere was focused.  I was being led, instead of wandering around my own mind willy-nilly with no real purpose.  That made it much easier for me to surround myself with the images and smells and sounds of a place where I feel at ease. 

For that however-long-it-was, I sat Indian-style on a rise in the middle of a velvety green valley.  The grey craggy mountains arose on both sides of me, and rays of sunlight pierced the clouds above, tracing patterns across the landscape.  I was naked, and devoid of self-consciousness, ageless and proud of lines of motherhood tracing my belly.  The air was warm on my skin, but a faint breeze, smelling softly of grass and earth and also slightly of salt, made the hair on my arms rise, tickled the back of my neck.  There was no movement, no sound.  I was comfortable and peaceful.  I thought of nothing, or everything, but as though the thoughts were merely colorful strokes of a paint brush in my head.  I was alone, and not alone.  I could’ve stayed that way forever, just stayed and done nothing but “be”.

It was so good, this meditative state, that when it was over and the lights came on, I had no sense of time or place for a moment.  In fact, it had been a very LONG time since the lights were turned off, and my toes were numbly asleep.  I had been awake the whole time but still had the urge to stretch.  I knew the minute I “woke up” that I would keep smoking too.  But, I left with something else in my peace-of-mind arsenal: a better understanding about how good it feels to step away from the hustle and bustle of life and spend a little quiet time in a happy place.

Cranial Chaos

I often wish I were a better storyteller.  Written or spoken, storytelling is a gift.

As it is, I am given to abstract.  I can maybe paint a small picture with words, and hopefully in doing so, expel some of those words from the swirling mass inside my head. I could write non-stop about most any topic, and can be passionate about many of them.  Sometimes I wonder why I don’t write more often, even if its just for me, and even if its just to purge the excess thoughts.

But these days there is a sense of suffocating anxiety.  It’s not stress per se, but this growing sense of waiting.  Waiting for what?  The feeling is gradually building and causing not a little internal confusion, making me mind-numbingly pensive and very distracted.  All of a sudden, I feel like I’m living inside my own head.  

There is something in my gut that feels like its more anticipation than anxiousness, and that I’m waiting for the coming of some moments of pure joy; that unadorned, weightless feeling of happiness that can only happen in bursts because to have them last any length of time would leave one trembling and vulnerable.  I can sometimes snatch little pieces of this feeling, like plucking fireflies from the damp summer air, and make every attempt to be conscious of them when they happen.  All of these, I get from natural sources too.  It helps if I close my eyes and sense them, rather than see them: the delicate sound of birds on a crisp spring morning, the smell of the air just before a June rain and the warmth of the mist clinging to your face after it.  The unexpected laughter of your children when they’re unaware you’re in earshot.  A smile from a stranger that reminds you you’re visible and that we’re all human.  

These moments do more than just make life bearable.  They feel like a premonition, or like little instructions meant to show you how to open up and be capable of letting the good things in; or reminders to simply notice those little fireflies.  But in turn, it makes me nervous, to think about the bigger happiness, because you can only lose something you possess.  

Deep down I feel maybe that I’ve needed to get to this place by trial and error and that I wouldn’t have been capable of fully grasping the importance of this thing…this whatever it is I’m waiting for, without wallowing in the dark and becoming intimate with solitude.  And I’m scared, even still.  Scared that it’s all in my mind, and that my imagination has finally pushed me over the edge into semi-reality, or even made me crazy enough to be half way between eccentric and lunatic.  I have become so good at alone, have had myself convinced for so long that I prefer to be alone, that I fear the intimacy of almost everyone.

And especially the someone.  Because that’s where the anticipation reverts back to anxiety.  I have waited for so long to get to the point in my life where I can focus on finding myself, when my children become independent of “mother” and go down their own roads, that I cannot help but feel uneasy at the realization that instead of “me time”, I may be faced with something entirely different.  My belly clenches every time I think about it, but I can’t help it.  I believe in that overpowering, undeniably human, stuff of stories from the beginning of time.  I believe in that complete trust, and in the seed of intimacy that once sown, grows and flourishes between two people that meet in that spot of mutual openness meant for only them.  I believe souls can speak to each other, through lingering looks and gentle touches and shared strength.  I believe that two people can love, and suffer, and celebrate and grieve and do it as one.  I believe in true love.

And also, I believe one day I will have my own story to tell, even if I only tell it to one single listener.  

Adventures in Dater Sitting

I love giving relationship advice.  I admit, while I take it very seriously, there is an element of entertainment in the fact that someone might listen to anything I have to say on the subject.  After all, few people can compete with the sheer magnitude of relationship mistakes I have catalogued in my history.  In fact, one might say I have so much experience with this that I am an expert.  They should probably give me awards.  Or maybe do a documentary on my life.  Ooooh, better yet, give me an honorary doctorate for my accomplishments in this area.  And if I’m a doctor, well who better to give advice? 

See there, I’ve done it.  I’ve rationalized the whole thing and now I feel emboldened.  I am ready to take on the biggest, most terrifying relationship demons out there.  I am ready to research and hypothesize and theorize and send some poor sap back out into the world prepared for make-ups, break-ups, first dates, blind dates, weddings, divorces and in-laws.  (Maybe not in-laws.  I have absolutely no experience with them)  In all honesty, I do think that’s what makes me a halfway decent confidante when it comes to this.  I am prudent and judicious.  I can outplay Al Pacino as the devil’s advocate.  I am mind-numbingly rational.  At least until the moment the relationship/date/problem is mine.

So, here it is.  Take it, leave it or use it to make a paper airplane.

Before you dive in head first, make sure the pool is deep enough:  I’ve seen it countless time.  I’ve done it more than once.  People love to enter a relationship in overdrive and can’t understand why the brakes work nearly as well as the gas.  I love the thought of soul mates, and love at first sight.  However, I’m fairly sure those are about as common as Republicans that love Obama.  Relationships that build and grow slowly over time last with time.  “Love” that happens overnight is usually about as steadfast as M&M’s in a toddlers sweaty little palm.  Attraction is not the same thing as love.  Having a lot in common doesn’t mean the things you haven’t discovered you DON’T have in common will be easy to overcome. 

Start with the schmuck in the mirror:  I know there are people out there who just hate being alone, who need another person to make them feel complete.  However, I think it’s important that you have a positive relationship with yourself before you can properly handle one with another person.  If you can rely on yourself, you don’t have the need for someone else, and you won’t have a debilitating fear of losing them.  However, if you do insist on needing someone, at least have minimum standards.

Trust is not just for rich kids’ funds:  If he or she doesn’t trust you and is constantly mad about the fact that you once knew someone of the opposite sex, or maybe even kissed them under the bleachers in high school – there is no trust.  If you think he or she has been secretly conspiring to make you look like a fool by flirting with every living thing and by saying things like “Hi” and “Supersize it please” to people you suspect he or she is cheating on you with – there is no trust.  There will never be trust.  This will never change. 

Which leads me too…

It’s history - rip out the chapter and use it for kindling:   We’ve all had past relationships.  We’ve all had dates that lead to more dates, and dates that ended in waves of tears in a pint of Hagen Dazs.  But the fact that the love of your life, the most perfect human being on earth, the end-all, be-all of your entire existence at some point went crazy and decided you weren’t the one – doesn’t mean the person standing in front of you will decide that too.  Even if the rotten-scumbag-dogshit-eating-slimeball you dated last year cheated on you with your sister’s best-friend’s yoga instructor, doesn’t mean the new guy in your life is showing signs of being like him just because you best-friend’s sister’s manicurist heard he jilted the girl before you.  Don’t bring your baggage with you.  Treat every new beginning as just that, not as a poorly-made, low-budget sequel.

What it all boils down to is this – if you grow to care for someone, after getting to know them – give them your best.  Give them a self-sufficient, self-assured you.  Give them respect, trust and time.  If you begin to feel like you’re doing all the giving, give them the respect of sharing your feelings.  And if you then feel like you’re giving them too much, give them their freedom.