Relationships...Are Not:
an institution
for "soul mates"
necessarily "meant to be" (in some cases, perhaps)
a way for another person to "complete" you in every way
something bigger than the individuals themselves
I used to see relationships as more institutional, like something that was bigger than you that you joined or became a part of, like the Kiwanas. But thinking of it that way, the responsibility for the success of the relationship did not depend on me at all. If you rely on a relationship's "meant to be" quality, then if it succeeds, it was destiny. If not, it just wasn't the right person or right time or whatever. This is fatalistic. I think the power to having a successful relationship is in our hands. A relationship is nothing more than two individuals committing and binding themselves to one another. There is nothing that HAS to hold them together. Not fate. Not destiny. It's a choice. Someone told me recently that in some country in Eastern Asia (can't remember which), the fathers tell their daughters not to be picky in choosing a husband. But to focus all their energy on making the marriage work.
This is totally backwards from our society, where you have to nail down your personality and find someone that complements it perfectly (a "soul mate"). This sets impossible expectations. People grow and change, and they have to have the freedom to do that and to be who they are. I used to think more along these "meant to be" lines, but I now know that relationships take work! You don't feel a happy magical feeling every day. The truth is (in my mind), if you find someone you love, someone you want to be with, someone you want to commit yourself to, the most important thing is to be faithful, loyal, and committed. Be patient and understanding. And love at all times, even when it's hard or you are in a fight.
I wrote this because I am sometimes too controlled by my emotions. Loving only when it's easy. Also, I just realized that relationships are really fragile things. You have to fight for them. It's not going to be easy to commit to someone long term. And there is nothing that holds you together except for the commitment of both parties. And if you are committed but the other person isn't, better let them decide for themselves. You can't force someone to love you. And chances are, if you ease up, they will probably come to their senses. : )
Relationships...Are:
a commitment
a sacrifice (but a much greater gain, MUCH greater)
a product of willpower at times and love in action
a continuous effort
and lastly, a choice
I don't encourage anyone who is in an abusive relationship to stay and fight (I guess that would be circumstantial), but for the most part, I think relationships can last if we choose to make them work. Don't just throw in the towel. Even a relationship that has unhealthy aspects can be restored. Our society is characterized by broken relationships, and I think it's because we want what's convenient and what satisfies all our needs for the moment. We don't want to give or lay down our "sense of individuality" to be in a relationship of compromise and understanding. So, yeah, just some thoughts. And encouragement.
If you want to make it work, you can. It's in your power.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
poem by Wendell Berry...very comforting
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
a poem i wrote in class
Trees
Voices dying, diminish to soft squeaky
noises, squawking, in the back-and-forth. Shout louder.
Brings me down, drags me
along the rough ground,
getting snagged along the way,
along the mind’s labyrinth
black hole agape—
But the voices fade and I am not there,
in the midst of them anymore.
Instead—
I fall back into myself,
a beautiful alone, a necessary escape;
The window pulls my gaze away from the frenzy.
it’s raining out, the trees of the oak look like spider’s legs, stretching black and long,
reaching for me.
Outside of this mess, all the mind’s work,
is peace, a still and quiet calm;
Trees standing strong, not fighting the rain;
The beauty of them speaks to me deep and
louder than all their words.
Suddenly, I am angry.
I have seen the trees so little.
Voices dying, diminish to soft squeaky
noises, squawking, in the back-and-forth. Shout louder.
Brings me down, drags me
along the rough ground,
getting snagged along the way,
along the mind’s labyrinth
black hole agape—
But the voices fade and I am not there,
in the midst of them anymore.
Instead—
I fall back into myself,
a beautiful alone, a necessary escape;
The window pulls my gaze away from the frenzy.
it’s raining out, the trees of the oak look like spider’s legs, stretching black and long,
reaching for me.
Outside of this mess, all the mind’s work,
is peace, a still and quiet calm;
Trees standing strong, not fighting the rain;
The beauty of them speaks to me deep and
louder than all their words.
Suddenly, I am angry.
I have seen the trees so little.
Monday, August 4, 2008
first chapter of my book (maybe)
I have been wondering lately at what age I might have begun to sin. The Catholic Church, in particular, speaks about an “age of accountability,” which makes me think that before this age, one might not sin, at least not in a truly willful or rebellious sort of way. Still, it is obvious in any culture that a battle between obedience and defiance play a major role in a child’s upbringing and lifestyle, and an interesting thing to think about is a child’s growing awareness of his or her own sin nature. At what age this awareness might come and under what circumstances. A good part of my childhood consisted of testing out the proverbial waters, pushing the envelope, and struggling to find at least a “sense” of freedom. My parents were the oppressors, and I lived under their iron fists of justice, daring every now and then to find a few more loopholes in the law code.
One day, when I was around two or three years old, my mother was cooking in the kitchen at our home in rural Mississippi. Steam rose above a pot on the stove, as it shook and gurgled, occasionally sending a piping hot droplet of water onto the floor. When the macaroni noodles were done boiling, my mom removed the pot and walked over to the sink to drain the water. “Don’t touch the stove,” she warned me, as I looked up at her with the sort of desperate curiosity you come to when you “push through” to the other side of boredom. I hadn’t even thought of it until then, really, but now that she mentioned it, it would be interesting to know what the eye of a stove felt like when it was still glowing orange-red. I had to get over there before it faded back to its original dull and black state. I took one more look at my mom, who, by that time, had made her way to the kitchen sink and was standing there with her back to me, using a measuring cup to dole out the right amount of margarine into the mix. I knew I had little time before she would turn around again, so I quietly shuffled up to the stove, and not thinking about why I wanted to disobey (other than the fact that perhaps my mom was keeping me from something really grown-up and exciting), I grabbed the eye of the stove.
This lesson proved to be a meaningful one for a time, but after the pain wore away, I would find another way to “buck the system.” In first grade (not that I was the paragon of obedience between these two incidents), the dynamics of the system had changed quite a bit. In addition to parental authority figures, I had teachers and a principal to try to appease, and with that, a whole new source of temptation. 13 tempters in class with me. Day after day. At the end of each day, the “car-riders” would wait for our parents or other delegated chauffeurs on the back steps of the school. Rows and rows of steps created what could be likened to an amphitheater. We were instructed to remain on the steps until we saw our parents or were otherwise summoned by whichever teacher drew the short straw that day and had to wait with us. That day, my father (who stayed at home during the day and was a “class mom” that year) was running late, and with no structured activities to keep our six-year-old minds occupied, we naturally began a game of “truth and dare.” When my turn came, I asked for a dare. Ike Munn, the “bad boy” of the class, dared me to walk outside the school gate and to squat down and stick my rear end out into the road.
I had no problems whatsoever completing the dare. With all the chaos of after-school kids playing and teachers talking with parents, I easily slipped through the crowd to do what no one believed I could. It felt good to earn the respect of my fellow classmates, and I was glad that the school day had ended with such a high level of personal accomplishment. My short-lived high was squashed pretty shortly thereafter, when my dad pulled up to the school in our old Pontiac. An authority figure to me at the time (a girl from the fourth grade) walked up to my father and told him that she had witnessed my reckless behavior. By the time I made it down the steps to my father, he had that familiar look on his face. I walked three paces behind him to the car, staring at the ground the whole way. You see, my dad did not understand the gravity of a dare. The words “double dog” or even “triple dog” meant nothing as I fumbled for an explanation, any explanation of why I had sat in the road. Before we had even made it to the house, my dad reached into the back seat, and I learned a new lesson in proper behavior, with special regards to traffic safety and the adherence to of school protocol.
Up until this time, I understood the world, or my world, rather, in terms of cause and effect. Obedience merited rewards, even if the reward was just a lack of a punishment. But as I got older, I began to understand the sin problem less as a behavioral or social issue but as a fundamental, intrinsic, even ontological malfunction that existed within me. Sinning did not only involve the breaking of rules or the damaging of another human being. I could sin alone just as easily. And sometimes I felt bad when I did certain things that no one even said were wrong. It was like there were invisible and unspoken rules inside of me, and I could sense when they had been breached. Like Adam and Eve, I became aware of my own nakedness. Something was wrong with me.
When I was seven years old, I went to stay overnight with my grandparents who lived in coastal Mississippi. My granddad was a tall, loud-talking preacher, who had a heart for the poor and loved people with true compassion, but, I have to admit, his booming voice intimidated me as a child. My grandparents had always taken an active role in my upbringing, and my grandma tended to me like a mother, except with her, I had a little more say on what was for supper. Grandma always gave me a bath, got me ready for bedtime, made sure I took my Flintstone’s vitamin, etc. On this particular trip, Grandma did not make me take a bath that night, and it felt as though I had gotten away with something. I tried to play it cool, like it was commonplace for me not to bathe, not wanting her to change her mind about it. But I discovered when I woke up that although she had been tired the night before, she wanted to make sure I was “good and clean” before we went out shopping that day. She came into my room and told me to go ahead and get undressed, and she would start my bath.
Granddad was downstairs having his morning coffee and reading the newspaper when the telephone rang. “Betty, it’s for you!” his voice ascended up the stairs. When Grandma left to go answer her caller, I knew I had to think fast. I ran into my room, opened up my Mickey Mouse suitcase and put on my pink shirt and shorts that my mom had packed for me to wear that day. The logic behind this move was that Grandma would see that I was already dressed and would not want to go to all the trouble of undressing me, bathing me, and dressing me again. But somehow, as I heard her coming back upstairs to finish what she had begun before her interruption, I knew my plan was not going to fly. So, I hid…in the closet. “Mallory? Mallory, are you hiding from me?” I heard her walk away. A few minutes later, I heard a voice from downstairs bellow: “Mallory! You better let your grandma give you a bath! I’m getting a switch!”
Now, I had gained enough life experience in my seven years to know that receiving a spanking from my granddad would not eliminate the bath requirement. I slowly came out of the closet and began to take off my clothes, crossing my arms in front of my body, my shoulders raised and stiff. When Grandma came to put me in the now lukewarm water, I was unable to meet her eye. I will never forget the embarrassment. “What’s the matter? You didn’t want me to see you naked?” I shook my head, as I stepped into the tub and submitted to the bath. For the first time ever, I knew I was naked, and I didn’t like it.
One day, when I was around two or three years old, my mother was cooking in the kitchen at our home in rural Mississippi. Steam rose above a pot on the stove, as it shook and gurgled, occasionally sending a piping hot droplet of water onto the floor. When the macaroni noodles were done boiling, my mom removed the pot and walked over to the sink to drain the water. “Don’t touch the stove,” she warned me, as I looked up at her with the sort of desperate curiosity you come to when you “push through” to the other side of boredom. I hadn’t even thought of it until then, really, but now that she mentioned it, it would be interesting to know what the eye of a stove felt like when it was still glowing orange-red. I had to get over there before it faded back to its original dull and black state. I took one more look at my mom, who, by that time, had made her way to the kitchen sink and was standing there with her back to me, using a measuring cup to dole out the right amount of margarine into the mix. I knew I had little time before she would turn around again, so I quietly shuffled up to the stove, and not thinking about why I wanted to disobey (other than the fact that perhaps my mom was keeping me from something really grown-up and exciting), I grabbed the eye of the stove.
This lesson proved to be a meaningful one for a time, but after the pain wore away, I would find another way to “buck the system.” In first grade (not that I was the paragon of obedience between these two incidents), the dynamics of the system had changed quite a bit. In addition to parental authority figures, I had teachers and a principal to try to appease, and with that, a whole new source of temptation. 13 tempters in class with me. Day after day. At the end of each day, the “car-riders” would wait for our parents or other delegated chauffeurs on the back steps of the school. Rows and rows of steps created what could be likened to an amphitheater. We were instructed to remain on the steps until we saw our parents or were otherwise summoned by whichever teacher drew the short straw that day and had to wait with us. That day, my father (who stayed at home during the day and was a “class mom” that year) was running late, and with no structured activities to keep our six-year-old minds occupied, we naturally began a game of “truth and dare.” When my turn came, I asked for a dare. Ike Munn, the “bad boy” of the class, dared me to walk outside the school gate and to squat down and stick my rear end out into the road.
I had no problems whatsoever completing the dare. With all the chaos of after-school kids playing and teachers talking with parents, I easily slipped through the crowd to do what no one believed I could. It felt good to earn the respect of my fellow classmates, and I was glad that the school day had ended with such a high level of personal accomplishment. My short-lived high was squashed pretty shortly thereafter, when my dad pulled up to the school in our old Pontiac. An authority figure to me at the time (a girl from the fourth grade) walked up to my father and told him that she had witnessed my reckless behavior. By the time I made it down the steps to my father, he had that familiar look on his face. I walked three paces behind him to the car, staring at the ground the whole way. You see, my dad did not understand the gravity of a dare. The words “double dog” or even “triple dog” meant nothing as I fumbled for an explanation, any explanation of why I had sat in the road. Before we had even made it to the house, my dad reached into the back seat, and I learned a new lesson in proper behavior, with special regards to traffic safety and the adherence to of school protocol.
Up until this time, I understood the world, or my world, rather, in terms of cause and effect. Obedience merited rewards, even if the reward was just a lack of a punishment. But as I got older, I began to understand the sin problem less as a behavioral or social issue but as a fundamental, intrinsic, even ontological malfunction that existed within me. Sinning did not only involve the breaking of rules or the damaging of another human being. I could sin alone just as easily. And sometimes I felt bad when I did certain things that no one even said were wrong. It was like there were invisible and unspoken rules inside of me, and I could sense when they had been breached. Like Adam and Eve, I became aware of my own nakedness. Something was wrong with me.
When I was seven years old, I went to stay overnight with my grandparents who lived in coastal Mississippi. My granddad was a tall, loud-talking preacher, who had a heart for the poor and loved people with true compassion, but, I have to admit, his booming voice intimidated me as a child. My grandparents had always taken an active role in my upbringing, and my grandma tended to me like a mother, except with her, I had a little more say on what was for supper. Grandma always gave me a bath, got me ready for bedtime, made sure I took my Flintstone’s vitamin, etc. On this particular trip, Grandma did not make me take a bath that night, and it felt as though I had gotten away with something. I tried to play it cool, like it was commonplace for me not to bathe, not wanting her to change her mind about it. But I discovered when I woke up that although she had been tired the night before, she wanted to make sure I was “good and clean” before we went out shopping that day. She came into my room and told me to go ahead and get undressed, and she would start my bath.
Granddad was downstairs having his morning coffee and reading the newspaper when the telephone rang. “Betty, it’s for you!” his voice ascended up the stairs. When Grandma left to go answer her caller, I knew I had to think fast. I ran into my room, opened up my Mickey Mouse suitcase and put on my pink shirt and shorts that my mom had packed for me to wear that day. The logic behind this move was that Grandma would see that I was already dressed and would not want to go to all the trouble of undressing me, bathing me, and dressing me again. But somehow, as I heard her coming back upstairs to finish what she had begun before her interruption, I knew my plan was not going to fly. So, I hid…in the closet. “Mallory? Mallory, are you hiding from me?” I heard her walk away. A few minutes later, I heard a voice from downstairs bellow: “Mallory! You better let your grandma give you a bath! I’m getting a switch!”
Now, I had gained enough life experience in my seven years to know that receiving a spanking from my granddad would not eliminate the bath requirement. I slowly came out of the closet and began to take off my clothes, crossing my arms in front of my body, my shoulders raised and stiff. When Grandma came to put me in the now lukewarm water, I was unable to meet her eye. I will never forget the embarrassment. “What’s the matter? You didn’t want me to see you naked?” I shook my head, as I stepped into the tub and submitted to the bath. For the first time ever, I knew I was naked, and I didn’t like it.
announcing big savings during our grand opening extravaganza!
Welcome to my blog! Within its contents, it is my sincerest hope that you will find the wisdom you need in this era of confusion to be able to discern an appropriate stance in regards to the pressing issues of our time. e.g. rights of conjoined twins, tiger poaching, and "the Euro."
Seriously, though, I am not entirely sure what this page will amount to. For right now, I am going to post some of my writings, and maybe later, I can round up some people to come and philosophize with me.
To tell a little about myself...Just a small town girl living in a lonely world. Took the midnight train going anywhere. In addition, I have a sweet and compassionate fiance', Michael, a strangely affectionate cat, Captain Whiskers, and the funniest sister in the world, Olivia. I like walking around in my small town in the fall and winter, when it's cool outside and the leaves are turning colors. I don't like crowds, insects, or when people yell. I love Mississippi and all my friends and family. Old friends and long-held traditions are the best. If I could do any solitary activity all day, I would probably read or play the piano. Sleeping is also a favorite activity. I have dabbled in writing for a little while now and really have the desire to take it to "the next level," as they say. So, I hope this blog will help me to be more disciplined with writing so I can develop those skills. (or potential skills, rather)
Seriously, though, I am not entirely sure what this page will amount to. For right now, I am going to post some of my writings, and maybe later, I can round up some people to come and philosophize with me.
To tell a little about myself...Just a small town girl living in a lonely world. Took the midnight train going anywhere. In addition, I have a sweet and compassionate fiance', Michael, a strangely affectionate cat, Captain Whiskers, and the funniest sister in the world, Olivia. I like walking around in my small town in the fall and winter, when it's cool outside and the leaves are turning colors. I don't like crowds, insects, or when people yell. I love Mississippi and all my friends and family. Old friends and long-held traditions are the best. If I could do any solitary activity all day, I would probably read or play the piano. Sleeping is also a favorite activity. I have dabbled in writing for a little while now and really have the desire to take it to "the next level," as they say. So, I hope this blog will help me to be more disciplined with writing so I can develop those skills. (or potential skills, rather)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
