Miraculous Thinking

i quote her to herself as 'quote of the day'. this is her response:


Thank you for making the reservation, Honey...how about coming here 6:30?   Very looking forward to going there...I think you'll really like the food.  And I like that we are celebrating our celebrating!

About the drink classes...you know me, always happy to offer "input, " but here, I kinda draw a blank, not sure what to tell you (maybe why you are also ambivalent, not sure...)

I guess you have to feel in as to whether the experience would be: enlivening enough...lucrative enough...or in some way expansive of a vibe that mattered (an not necessarily alcohol...simply an opportunity to teach something new....)  Curious to hear about your process,  though....

Yeah, I know who said, "Love is all its cracked up to be..."  I've said it somewhat mindlessly for so many years, I'm actually dazzled to find out it is true."

Thank you for pointing out the significance of the Melanie-Walter episode.   I actually got to understand more of what I actually do.

I'm the one who is so into "real."  And I've needed you to show up to make Love real to me.

So looking forward to having my arms around you.    N.

-----

The woman i'm in love with is completely in love with me. she tells me this two, three, seven, twelve times, each time in a different, enchanting way. we are going to cape cod together. we are planning things. let's attend a workshop, let's. she tells me how much i mean to her and my heart, which is not used to this at all is full to bursting. this is not the miracle.
 my feelings are so intense that i long for little bouts of boredom to make it real. i want to read the times with her, i want to run errands, go for a walk, cook a quick dinner and see a movie. i want to tell her about that time in college, i want her to tell me about when her daughter was born. i am fond enough of the mundane that this is not the miracle either
--
there are agenda items of course. i am still an undergraduate in the department of 'other people's feelings are only their feelings'. the ground on which my self stands is a bit crumbly, but she seems to like the location. she has chosen to make this work. that's the miracle and i have no choice but to become a miracle myself.


if you read this blog from the beginning, would you have believed this ending? i can barely go back to read it myself, i fear i'll recreate it as true. however, it's time to be fearless again.

WGLB radio-the glibster

The woman i'm in love with hits me over the head. "what i want is a man who's not like my father. my father was an infant. i have almost no memory of him ever acting competently."
then she shows me a list she wrote 30 years ago: all the qualities she was looking for in a man. it's three pages long, handwritten. as soon as she shows it to me, she decides not to share it.  i urge her on.
"something from the middle of page two!" i suggest. she looks at page two and says nothing. " read that one!" i say, pointing to a line in the middle. something about the line jolts her. she reads "He will like food and cooking". and then she reads me the rest.
the rest sounds-if i do say so myself-a bit like a description of me and us. and this is when i realize that my neediness in this relationship has been undermining the strength of this relationship. i don't blame myself much, the potential for growth in contact with this woman is tremendous. i could see the me that i want to be growing out of it. that i became less of me in order to reach for more of me is just one of those little 'fuck you's from the irony angel.

---
something else happens this weekend. we are getting closer, no, really closer. she tells me sweet things and i respond in my father's voice ratcheting down the emotions with a joke. between saturday night and sunday, i do this three times. the third time, she cries.
of course, i'm flabbergasted. i think i'm acknowledging the feeling while lightening the tone. giving the message wings and taking away some weight. she doesn't see it that way, it makes her feel less willing to share the really important stuff that's coming up for her.
since her intimacy is my new oxygen, i take this very seriously. i'm also disarmed: it's like finding out that your daily vitamin pill is giving you cancer.

to complicate things, she does this too! she writes me a sweet email on sunday afternoon saying that 'there will be no more of this reading  the sunday times alone, not-negotiable'. the tone is light and sweet (reminds me of her coffee) and it makes me smile and it makes me feel wanted and it sends a message of more closeness. i reply

well, if you insist...feet up, coffee smells, smoked salmon and cream cheese roll-ups. i guess i could handle it. . . .

it feels to me that i've matched tone for tone, that i heard her voice and my heart called back in the same language. she calls me to make sure that i got the message that she really sent. poor lynn is misunderstood again.
---
so let's put that one aside for the moment. the real question is 'what am i doing when i dilute the seriousness of what she's saying with a turn to glibness'? i need an answer because it's such an easy response for me and it hurts her feelings. i also need an answer that respects my needs as reflected in the glib gambit. i know i'm not being a jerk, there's something kind and good in that light response (i can feel it). but i have to undo it because it's not working.

i have two clues: one is that the voice is entirely my father's. the second is that it's a reflexive-no thought-response to some kind of discomfort. 'things are getting very serious here, better lighten them up'.  i guess that's an adaptive response from some other time. when? what?
now i'm out of clues.
---
at the gym, sometime around the 20th pull-up, it comes to me. i say that silly shit because there's nothing else in my experience. that would be a serious problem if i were looking for a recipe for trout. but i'm not. i'm looking to respond to the woman i'm in love with in a way that answers her genuine love with mine.
i could just wait for next time and go to the genuine love locker and pick out whatever comes up. but i think i'll be more chefly and get my mise-en-place together. i have a half hour before dog walk and i think i'll go to the cushion and see what arises. if it turns out that it's really blank in there, i will confess my blankness in the face of her love. i'll offer it up like a lamb.

and then we'll  see what happens next, for in the end i always fill in the blanks.

Taking it out in Public

The woman i'm in love with asked me to come to a party with her today. the host is a former client and he and his family credit twilw with saving his life. it was our first public appearance as a couple. i was thinking about judith taking me to main line parties and her being a bit ill at ease,  like she was worried i'd burst into song or goose the hostess. so i'd been here before and i was alert and relaxed.
what happened was the opposite of what judith did.  twilw bragged on me. when we were standing together, she moved her body closer to me. she held my hand as we left.

back at her house, a ten-minute scheduled queest turned into two hours of passionate closeness. terms got coined, plans got made, dreams got shared. all of a sudden, her frame of reference for us started becoming long term. she talked about me as a culmination of something, not a digression.\

can you imagine how i feel? can anyone see the tendrils growing, connecting, rooting?
----

we talked about sex although she said that 'sex' doesn't seem quite adequate a term. what is this thing we're doing, bodies wrapped together, eyes open, mile-wide grins? she doesn't recognize it. me neither. it seems like 'making love' is the best we got but that seems to cover everything and so says nothing.

was it just a week ago that i was pretty sure it was over? amazing and still somehow totally believable. i wonder if she'll comment on this post. . . .

The Tea Cup Problem

You have this cup, see. it's on the table in front of you and you are eager to take tea. i brew it just the way you like it, perfect time and temperature. You're excited, i'm beaming. i pour and you smile. maybe you even wiggle a bit in anticipation.
the cup fills and when it gets to the brim, i keep pouring. the hot tea spreads out over the tablecloth. it stains the rug, scalds your lap. the cleanup takes days.
---
We try again. this time you have a larger cup. this time i notice where the brim is and i stop pouring way before i reach it. you ask me for a bit more. i pour and i pay attention to how much space there is left. the tea is delicious and you smack your lips. i smile. and when you're done and we put your cup away for the day, neither of us really notices but: the cup-all by itself-grows just a tiny bit bigger.

---

the woman i'm in love with replies :

There is no way I am going to spend next Sunday reading The New York Times alone. This is non-negotiable

Pour away....I just love you.

i respond:

well, if you insist...feet up, coffee smells, smoked salmon and cream cheese roll-ups. i guess i could handle it. . . .

and then, an explosion

The essence of Nancy's message (One Lynn seemingly has wanted to hear):  I am letting the tea cup expand...I want more of Lynn in my life..."Pour away.." suggesting, Don't stop being with me...I want more and more of you in my world."

Lynn (in Nancy's experience) doesn't join Nancy in the Essence of it...the space he is in when he blogs.  He chooses to join with her in Glib-land.

The problem isn't this isolated incident--although given the movement on nancy's part, it's not a little thing.  It's how characteristic it is, and how it invites me not to be naked with you.

And this morning was so reparative.  The shortest distance between two points is a straight line...but you need to know what that second point feels like.  This morning? 

"Personality" would have gummed up the works.

love! N.

The Best Date Ever

---

-----------------

we have tickets to a concert in camden. i barely know the band, but it's an outing and we haven't
done much out in the world except for eating in restaurants. we park at penn's landing, we take a 
ferry, she's nervous about the water, i'm elevated by it.
we make our way to some very good seats and three songs in to the performance, we both nod
that it's time to leave.too loud, not musical. we have a head gesture that we use to signal let's get outta here. 
we go.
the ferry won't be back until the show is over so we find a bench by the river and as the sun sets over
philadelphia,
the woman i'm in love with tells me a story. it's a story about how she learned so much and a story
about the price she paid to learn it. there's a guru, an estranged sister, a kid at risk and a husband 
who worried about makeup on his shirt after they embraced. there's room in the story for lots of 
emotions and she's worried about the shame. she tells me anyway. later, she admits that this was
hard for her-she'd been avoiding this particular disclosure, afraid she thinks. it turns out that it 
was easier for her than she imagined: 
something about park benches and rivers and loud music coming from far away.

when the story's over, we make out like kids on the bench. the woman i'm in love with kisses me in 
that way that she invented, in that destined, tried out on somebody else, but really designed for me
way that she has.
-------------------------

we come home exhausted. we're naked. we kiss standing up, we take to the bed and we lock our bodies
in a way that's becoming (for me at least) a signature 

of our intimacy and we go to sleep with the street-light shadows of the blinds drawing lines across her shoulder 

and breast. as we drift down, the woman i'm in love with says "are you disappointed that we didn't

 make love". i tell her that i'm not disappointed and what i'm really thinking is "silly woman, 
i can't remember 

ever making love like we did tonight 
on that park bench by the river."

we sleep late. there are hugs and a hard on that's pressed against her belly. it's a banner ad for wanting, but

it's not to be: no time, no space right now. she asks me if i want to masturbate. i say 'no, i think i'll keep this one

for later.' and so i pack up my erection and take it home with me where it keeps me company all day long.

thinking about it (if you had a day-long hard-on, you'd think about it too.) i realized i had more to say. so 

i wrote:

watching a man masturbate may be fun (i wouldn't know) but it probably isn't very instructive about a man's 

sensuiality/sexuality. we mostly jerk off to get off and be done with it. i guess it has something to do with 

childhood fears of getting caught and something to do with 'sex-is-an-itch-so-scratch-it' that pertains when 

one is partnerless.

what i have right now is the warm, crotchy sense of being naked with you this morning. i think if i had 
masturbated, i wouldn't have that right now and you know how us romantics are about stoking the 
fires of the feelings.  but next time, if you insist. . . . 

----------------

the woman i'm in love with writes back;

  1:45 client just arrived

So to be brief: re graf 1: you have no idea how much I love it when you teach me stuff, Lynn...

graf 2....  Not unrelated to savoring...and simmering...another thing related to you that I love...

and i wonder if i was being stingy. maybe next time she asks i'll just assume that she wants to watch. maybe
i'll do it more self-lovingly for knowing that she's there. maybe we'll both like it.

---------------

so i guess what i'll do now is walk the dog and then head to the gym. when i'm done working out, i'll take a shower,
a cold shower. and then i'll go to her and we'll have the long night all to ourselves.

This Stuff is Hard

The woman i'm in love with is very generous in reminding me that i sometimes (often) respond to her statement of feelings by justifying, explaining or contradicting. what i fail to do is simply acknowledge her.
this hurts her. she wants to be heard and values being heard above most things.
i get it and i'm working on it. it's hard for me-the little man inside hates to be misperceived and he hates to let a problem/pain go unaddressed. and i'm working on it.

this is hard stuff to work on, the impulse to set things right is almost automatic. for instance, this morning i was telling the woman i'm in love with how powerful the writing is in her book. and i admitted that sometimes the book is hard for me to read because it's so full of her old boyfriend.
immediately she responded "well, you know, he was there when i was writing it."

so if this advanced soul can miss her own mark so dramatically, what hope is there for me? i guess i'll just have to keep paying attention and remind myself that the beauty lies on the path to perfection.

it shouldn't be hard at all

----

i have a new word: pivot. to pivot is to notice that you're heading down a deadening alley and to spin immediately and head back in an enlivening direction. when i tell the woman i'm in love with that i caught her in mid-air over her own petard, she says:

good point ... I would have been fine if you pointed out that I wasn't walking my talk when it happened.

she pivots and the fact of her matter is that she would have been fine. for the moment, until the right muscles develop, i'm borrowing the yoga of the word itself-"wait! i'm pivoting"
----
we are testing upper limits a bit tonight and tomorrow. we're going to a concert then spending saturday night together and attending an open house on sunday. four days in a row, hmm.

Lower Tolerance for Upper Limits

The woman i'm in love with decides, after some intimate time together, that sharing a shower just isn't the right thing to do. "It's an Upper Limits Problem" she says: too much of a good thing can turn into a bad thing just because we unprocessed creatures have a low tolerance for good things.

fair enough. i don't want the new car smell of our time together to disappear so i back off and leave with a gentle, below-the-limit kiss. however, being a curious soul, i ask for a commentary, and she sends me a chapter. the title is something like "the only relationship problem you have to solve" which immediately got my attention. the only problem? let me at it.

the writers (and i assume by proxy the woman i'm in love with) maintain that the cycle of excess good feeling leading to bad feeling can be moderated. we are capable of growth, not prisoners of a binge and purge prison.

 one way to keep good feelings from mutating into bad is to give and take space: take a breather, make a break. go for a walk, retreat to your pad. i need less of a break, the woman needs more.

another way is to move: run, dance, breathe, stretch, dance. the authors call it hauling the ash, as if the uncombusted products of passion gum up the works of love.

non-sexual touch increases the space for good. so does talking about what's going on.
---

i find this all good.
i think i will indulge my propensity for giving by giving space.
i think i will punctuate that (and honor myself) with tiny bursts of intimacy-a ten minute dance, a twenty minute queest, a half-hour making out on the office sofa.
i like that she can claim her space easily. i like that it reminds me of dancing not contesting.
i like that this reminds me of cooking: a question of applying the senses to make a beautiful outcome.

i have spent a lifetime discarding preferences and now i see that was really so that when the time came, i could focus on what counts.

On Her Beauty

I was awoken this morning with and by an image of her. She's standing naked in her kitchen, dizzy grin, glasses down on her nose, arms half-extended to me. in my hynopompic fantasy, i wait to take her in my arms so that i can admire her. the feeling is a bit aesthetic, a lot lusty and a bit of raw gratitude, but it's much more than that. i'm wrestling with understanding it.
-
when i first met her, i responded warmly to her looks. i am not driven by looks at all and at the same time, i'm a sucker for beauty-any beauty. i remember being transfixed (pierced through, impaled) by a landscape in the veneto and losing an afternoon gaping while my wine evaporated. there was the brewhouse at budvar and the lectern at st. stephen's. and so on and on.
so i found her, sitting across a table, to be fascinating, challenging, prickly and smooth all at once. i came home from meeting her carrying a swarm of impressions and her appearance was a pleasant, if minor buzz in the cloud.

last weekend, i was swamped with her beauty. yesterday, i got a shiver. a week ago, when i was sick with loss and anger and self-contempt, i barely noticed how she looked. i may have screwed in the diffusion filter to gauze her out of my vision.

so what's up? the easy answer is that i and we admire what admires us back. our appreciation increases with our affections or our security.
but wait, butt weight, there's more: beauty itself moves background-to-foreground. last week's world was uglier. no pictures made, no quick trots into the museum. this week's world has Nymphalis aliopa
practically landing on my shoe.

let''s get all solipsistic on this. let's say that beauty is entirely an internal creation: i made my morning erotic image, i made the butterfly land and i made the ice cream taste so good. if that's true then either of two things might follow. one is that i create how i perceive the world: matisse didn't do anything, georges perrier is just another cook, and the beauty in the world is all me. 

another is that beauty-hers and the world's-exists as a co-creation of the beholder and the world and that i push it further away or closer in with my croupier's rake. maybe it's a system with each end of the rake calling the other. so, the whole and happy me moves the beauty closer and the beauty calls out and slithers the world to my attention. 

this morning, awake and tumescent, i don't really understand what's going on. her beauty persists, it follows me home and spends the night even when she doesn't.  i have a motto instead of a thought and the motto is something like:

me happy, me see pretty

i think i'll just sit with that awhile.

I Want My Life to be My Art

I Want My Life to be My Art

that's it. those are the words for the thing i've been fumbling to since i was clear of cancer. that's what the poems and pictures have all been pointing to. look at the pictures!

 

the whole thing has been so fucking 'message-y', how could i have missed it? 

it took a catalyst, an enzyme. we'll call it nancyase. stay tuned. what's the art in question? dunno. going to find out. stay tuned.



















_____________________________________________________________________

David Deida, The Way of the Superior Man



gifts from the woman i'm in love with:

this book, queesting, a new understanding of holding hands, , this book, consultation abt spencer, reflection on my marriage, making me talk about childhood wounds, dancing in my kitchen, tasting-even when she really didn't want to, the warrior training, coffee for the ride home, the constant challenge, forgiving me for tango, offering to learn to tango, this book, trader joe's key lime pie, her bean salad, engulfing my hardness in the sweet slippery softness of her, kissing me the way i like to be kissed, setting the alarm for very early, walking out of bad movies, teaching me how to listen in spite of my handicap,
oh. and this book too.


----15, 31 and 33

the end of the whole thing is my being. the beginning too. if i cultivate the garden, there will be fruit. and so on, rumi-like.
what's happened is that i've lost my balance. easy to see how it happened, she gave me a hard shove. but why the shove? maybe because i was losing my balance.
the secret (i think) doesn't lie in caring less. it's in caring about what's in me and caring about that first. the garden i need to tend is me, in spite of all those other childhood messages. in spite of all those other childhood messages. and in spite of all those other, contrary childhood messages.
to be a man now, to have a life now, to have anything in so far as any thing can be had, i have to start centered, low to the ground, laughing and entirely myself.
the intuition about tai chi may have been right on the mark. in spite of all those other childhood messages. in spite.
----------------
this is a different way of being with a woman. it's about a difference, not about the similarity.
it's different from our friend terry real, it's scarier because you always have to be in translation and it's more exciting because you have to adjust your brain to think a foreign thought. this is man the hunter.
i'm out of practice, but the ground of it feels good.

                                                             

-------------------

--5,7 and 8

this is scary stuff. what's my purpose anyway? my mission? it's to make the world a kinder, more beautiful and more delicious place. is that the end of it? probably not-there's probably something after that and maybe even after that. scary? yes.
fear needs to become your friend? we got pretty well acquainted this week. had some good moments because of it, and i think i'll give fear some (limited) playing time.
also, if there ever was a call to go back to the mat, this is it.

--9 do it for love?
yeah, i think i'm signed up for this one. no, i haven't given my fullest gift yet and i'm scared that i'll never get to. and i want to give it to someone who can see beyond the wrapping and into the heart of the thing. i want to be heard, even if i have to be quiet.


---12
be willing to change everything in your life? how oddly appropriate, how write (written) out of the ol' jungian synchronicity engine. yup. i just saw an old subscription expire. i'm giving myself a three-month sabbatical with tuition benefits to figure out what's next.
in the meantime, i have some rules for living in the sabbatical. some different grounds on which i'll stand.

--11

if you don't know your purpose, discover it? easy for him to say.

--16

women are not liars? you bet your life they're not.
he says to believe women only when their love is flowing. i add: believe all the warnings when it's not.
in the end it seems to be about standing inside your own space and not being drawn out to protect your ego. this is a discipline for me to learn. it's a kind of confidence that i'm worth it whether you think so or not. it's what the sabbatical is about.

29
choose a woman who chooses you?

i can always tell when somebody is inviting me in, but sometimes i have trouble telling when they're

inviting me to leave.  i want to be wanted.
have i been leaning in while you've been leaning out? have you read essay 29?
do you already know how this ends?
i don't have friends to ask (as he suggests). i 'd have to ask your friends. what would they say?
-----

the woman i'm in love with has become a lot more sexual in the time i've known her. it's not just that we're having more sex, it's that sex has changed for her. she says it and i feel it. i could make some
cause and effect suggestions here, but i won't.
what i will suggest is that there's maybe more where that came from.
the woman i'm in love with has been through some changes in the time i've known her. maybe she's grown a bit too.

here's the last thing for today. my love for her won't stand for some second-class, one of the boys treatments. we have to give this a true test to see if we can grow spectacularly together. i propose a moratorium on other dating: temporary monogamy. let's go for spectacular or not go at all.

Erev Fathers' Day

In this morning's Times there's a reminiscence of a guy whose father never gave him a compliment. i was almost that guy. My father gave me two compliments. one was when i gave a remembrance of my sweet uncle bill at his funeral. i don't remember the other one, but it was some piece of public speaking.
in the last year of his life, i asked my dad about that strange lack of praise for one's own kid. he said that in his generation, they were taught that praise wasn't appropriate between parents and kids. it did something deleterious although he couldn't remember what it was.
on fathers' day, i'll be in new york visiting my daughter. my smart, funny, happy daughter and her husband. but i'll also be visiting my father who is in my every memory of the city.
--

once upon a time, i was a husband and apparently once upon a time, i was a wife.

judith would have these bursts in public. sometimes she was just loud and inappropriate, other times she was cruel. it took a while, but i gradually formed a way of telling her-first by talking about the incident afterwards, later by giving her what she came to call the 'quelling glance'. she blamed me for the glance, i blamed her that we couldn't talk about it.
(btw, that object at the bottom is an ice cream pop from a company called Good Humor)

the woman i'm in love with gave me a transcript of a long, crazy inappropriate letter that her mother had written. reading it, i feel connected to the woman i'm in love with right now.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

here's  a picture i called 'the happiest man in the world'

---

here's one from when i was the happiest man in the world
-------------------------------------
my favorite relationship book has a magnificent essay on p 331. i think you should read it. yes, you.
--

some of the feedback i've been getting about listening quietly has been very challenging. i have a visceral urge to make sure i'm heard correctly. it rests just below my sternum and jumps up and out in a flash.
in the course of restructuring that, i think i would do well to em-body some solidity in my center.  i learn better with physical cues anyway. experiment #1 will be with tai chi. so i made a call to john chen. stay tuned.
----

A day in waiting

The woman i'm in love with is off visiting another man. she's interested in this man because he offers her something abundantly that i have been offering skimpily. he is at ease with self-disclosure-probably the result of some personal growth on his part. i am still constrained by the thought that it's bad manners to talk excessively of oneself. (i may have other issues with that too, dunno but i figure i'll find out. )

his proclivity and my constraint have added up to an intimacy deficiency for the woman i'm in love with. so today-right now i guess-she's taking a 3 hour train ride to go meet him. they haven't met in person.

i'm resisting the impulse to send her flowers, or cheery updates or write her a poem (she finds poems to be depersonalizing so that wouldn't be good). and i'm anxious, fragile, feeling like i could crack apart and spill out like an egg white. you could make a lot of chocolate mousse with the self i'm leaking right now.

so this is a record of thoughts and feelings on a day when i'm waiting for a verdict. the question is:
will she commit some time to me for us to see if we can be happy together? or is this new fellow going to be the object of her energy in relationship?

------------

i've made up that there are only two answers, two verdicts. she may come home feeling something less conclusive.

i've made up that this alternative guy is the only thing that's keeping her from giving us a chance.
and so,

i've made up that i only have this one day of sick anxiety to live with.

i've made up that writing this blog will keep me grounded and sane.
----

i sent her a poem. it's not a love poem, it's a political, outward-facing poem that i was submitting to an anthology. i guess i wanted her to see my passion even though she tells me that my poems turn her off, they seem impersonal as if someone's hiding behind them. i send it anyway and question my motive and then i don't.
i've been up since five which was about the time she had to get up to catch her train. my dog is looking at me with his nose on my typing hand. he's saying something about going out and he's also saying something about what's wrong. he's been clingy, more adhesive than usual. he dances from side to side when i cry so for both our sakes, i keep breathing slow. time to go.
---

the woman i'm in love with is fond of prologue. she likes to get things exactly, emotionally right, so she stops herself in her saying to re-set the stage, adjust the drapes, turn on another light.  so i think the verdict will be delivered slowly. interruptus.
i notice the word 'verdict'. it sounds like a trial is in progress, even suggests that there could be guilt or innocence. 'verdict' seems harsh and inhumane and i like it anyway. its real meaning is 'to say the truth' veritas plus dictum. the woman is a truth-teller. she chases it down the path, she climbs trees for it. she won't 'deliver a verdict' like a judge or jury, but she will offer one up, with kind words i'm sure and with few words i hope.

in fact she's finding me stingy with my own truth.(god, i hate to be thought stingy).

---

the woman likes romantic comedy. she sometimes asks the title of the one we're in.
i like that because

in a real romantic comedy,

nobody good gets hurt

-------------------------------------------------
back from the woods where i avoided company and walked to silence.


the question is: how will i spend this day waiting for the verdict?

•i'll medicate by writing this

•i'll take care of my body with some yoga-the gym


•i'll do some karma yoga-tend the house

•i'll do some truth yoga-see joan tonight, go to cabaret at arden and talk to her in the car about our truths, maybe say some gentle things that need to be said. gratitudes.

•i won't do any forced 'why-i's'   i won't do any driven looking for answers. i won't wonder why i over react to being mistaken (e meglio d'essere cornuto che malintesa). i won't wonder about what keeps me from responding to her sharing with sharing of my own. if a why-i comes up by itself, i'll make it a cup of coffee and invite it to sit down and talk.

•i'll honor her pain. i have one of the core documents of her torment and i'll torment myself with it in solidarity

•i'll write to spencer. yikes.

----
i wonder if the woman i'm in love with will reach out to me today. maybe that's too much. maybe it's better if she stays within herself to meet the other man. maybe i'm a jerk. no, that was shame. i'll just stick with the pain.

---dear spencer,

dear spencer,

i'm looking forward to our visit on sunday and i have to tell you that i'm a little nervous.  a lot has happend to me in the last few years and even more in the last few months. i'm taking a serious (though not solemn) look at my life, what i've done and where it got me. needless to say, i've had some help with this.

one of the things that makes me sad is that you and i don't feel close. i'd like to repair our connection and i'd like to talk to you about it on sunday. would that be okay?

love, dad
-----

and this from last night:

I think the oracles suggest that you should continue writing poetry...as I should continue doing therapy. And that both of us get clearer where our avocations/vocations/gifts become a substitute for inspired and enlivened relating.

---nancy dreyfus

and that's what happened at my tasting tonight. i heard myself doing this enlightened gourmet thing and all of a sudden (or maybe not) i saw it as a substitute for inspired living. i don't know how much the poetry is a mask-i suspect it is partially. but i'm pretty sure about the beer tastings.

so you want to know what alcohol has meant for me? i guess there's more than one way to use it to avoid being alive. what a waste.

---

returned from the gym. it's still lunchtime in new haven, i guess. i had an hour of calm and focus, but when i got to my car, i sobbed. then home, fantasizing actions and outcomes all out of my control. it gets maudlin: are they going for a walk? does she hold his hand? has he charmed her with personal anecdotes?

---

i'm thinking that the longer it takes the woman i'm in love with to get in touch, the worse the outcome for me. then maybe not. i think i'll clean house and check my phone every eight minutes.

---

here's how crazy it is: it's 2:00, well, 1:58 and i figure that if she were not impressed, i'd have heard by now. current fantasy is that she comes back wanting to keep both relationships. can i do that? can i not?

----

nancy, i was impressed by your friend's idea of simply listing things he liked. it seems like a quick, if admittedly shallow start to getting to really know someone. i wish i'd thought of it and i'm thinking of it now. so here's mine.

(this should have been my profile on the dating site)

home-baked bread

tart desserts

slow dancing

short sleeves

the ocean

small boats

wise women

lakes

scallops

a glass of milk

gratitude

salmon

women in men's shirts

conversations that go up to abstract

people that get down and dance

quiet

sundays at home

spooning

trader joe's key lime pie

cheese

butterflies

collage
walking meditation

auguste rodin

the kinks

fresh herbs

matisse cutouts

sandals

lakes and bays

kayaks

japanese anything

great ice cream

walking in the city

art deco furniture

oriental rugs

sushi

radical truth telling

kindness
sitting meditation

big bath tubs

funny women 

billy collins poems

rittenhouse square

mark twain

the italian market

river walks

thin crust pizza

iced coffee

low-carb dining

body work

city views

the schuykill

mellow dogs

friendly cats

carrot juice

smart women

post-macho men

quirky kids

the new york times

speaking italian

the new yorker

learning how to connect

roast vegetables

cold soup

terry real

saunas

---

---

4:40 pm

fatigue is setting in along with nausea. i see that the woman i love has opened my email to her. i want to call her, hear her voice. and i think i'll let her have the quiet to process the day. i have to review a show tonight and i plan to have a talk with joan about what's going on in my life. i hope i'm not too agitated for the review or too despondent for the talk with joan.

---texts 

Headline to dear You-- iam sorry you have had a miserable day, but you should be the first to know that no one has

supplanted you in my heart. 

there was a bandwidth of spiritual familiarity with him, and it just felt good being totally my lself in a non pressured situation w a guy...but there were many areas of non resonance and there was no romantic vibe on my part

i want to read your ewails and blogs and hopefully sleep, so you may not get to read responses to you writing until later tonight.

You and me feels in process and i would welcom an evening tomorrow of intimate truth-sharing and Argo with you... and food secondary. i am feeling loving and open and shitty i put through the last few days... and i feel a little clearer about me and men. 

a

And i really love you@

----

so what do we have here? perhaps a new beginning? i'm certainly ready.

i don't mean just a new start for lynn and nancy, although that's really nice to think about, i mean a new life for me with a new sense of myself.

what i learned is that i am willing to put up with a great deal of pain for the sake of a better, purer emotional space. i don't want to spend the rest of my life on the surface of my self and the world. i want to dig.
so what does this mean? 
how do i know?

my guess is that it starts with confronting some truths. the woman i'm in love with is good with childhood wounds, so i'll take advantage of her knowledge. another guess is that writing about it is at the heart of things for me. the writing i did here ain't bad. it really hurt to do it, but it's not bad stuff  and it may even be of value.

so. here's my short-term plan: from now 'til the end of summer, i'm going to maximize self-knowledge. i guess that means something like a
•radical honesty coupled with an 
•unaccustomed humility.

first task: sit down
second: shut up and listen
third; breathe
fourth: pay attention
fifth: tell my story

i need to do something with my body too. my way has been good so far, and now it's time (see above) to go deeper. i guess i'll start by asking questions.

the woman i love wants to talk. i suspect that it won't be the boys-and-girls together chat i'm hoping for, but it could be a great opportunity for me to just listen to her and keep my self in its place. so tomorrow, it starts. every day with her is a dive down if i have the courage and after today, what could scare me?
---- ps. i get a note from her with this line;

    The decision to keep my relationship w Chris at a platonic minimum doesn't (alas!) totally inform the rest of my relationship life

scare me? there's a fair warning. 

The lady's leaving

okay, you get the basic irony, right? a woman comes into a man's life, causes him to question everything (she's a question-generating lady) and then she leaves him because he's not like the questions she conjured.
---

so the guy's a bit bitter. (not bitter 'at', just bitter) but he's also a reality buddhist. 'what shall we do now?' he says, although who the 'we' is is not clear. he starts by putting away bitter and thinking about a perverse universe. okay, then: 'what shall we do now'? remains.

all of a sudden, there is no gravity. if relationship to someone is really his everything then he now has nothing. which means he has nothing to lose. it seems like the big choices are:

• social

•solipsistic

as i look at my own character, i think that i've got one foot in each. lacking organizational skills, if i go social, i am a follower. if i go solipsistic i still have the whole problem with meaning thing.
i suspect that my truth is that i can only find my self in an intimate relationship. and the irony is that my self has set it up so that i can't have one.

Summer Travels

I ask Lance what course of action he would suggest to a man who wanted to wake up at last. His list was surprisingly short on workshops and retreats.

1. Exercise your body

2. Eat sanely

3. Create!

4. Contribute

5. Socialize

6. Read

7. Learn

8. Tend the nest
---

i'm in love with this woman nancy. she says she loves me but she's not in love. so this guy shows up online and they chat and he's more revealing of himself. so she's taking the train to new haven to meet him.

wednesday, june 15th

i wake up fragile and i cry a lot before noon. mostly short bursts, wails and sobs.  i want to tell nancy because i want her to know me. and. i have a problem with the ethics of it. i don't want her feeling pain for my pain. i especially don't want any trace of 'poor lynn' in her thinking-i want her to come from her truth-whether she chooses me or not.
so the paradox is that i don't feel like i can be completely honest without being a bit false.

she's known me intimately for almost ten intense weeks. i feel like i've opened my heart and she says that i haven't. there's this fellow who lets himself be known in his emails to her in a way that i don't.
i wonder if this is real or if it's a trick of language: is there some way i say my heart that makes it sound like my head? maybe i should ask this man for writing lessons.

--
she tells me that the man from maine makes himself known. i want to know how he does that so i ask her 'could you give me an example of someone writing in a way that you like?' and she says 'i printed out some of his letters...do you want to see them?'
now it wasn't as direct as all that, there was some taking it back and saying she didn't know why she did it-a display of modesty, an attempt to tune her ear i guess. but still. i'll get to see what touches her.

i suspect that seeing it will feel shitty and i want to see it.
---

i decide against going on a dating site right after i open one. it's the eleventeenth time i've thought about it and said 'no'. i know i should protect myself, my heart. but i could hurt someone by starting things that i'm unable to finish.

so in the words of my gmail utility:

Your Social tab is empty.
------

grief. that's the word. it's not related to 'grave' but it should be. grief is what i'm feeling and it's about loss and heaviness (gravity). so i'm wondering: are there doctors of grief? if not doctors, nurses or emt's. maybe there's first aid-not to make it go away but to keep grief from getting grave.

it's possible that grief work isn't for specialists. maybe you have to have a deep and wide knowledge to do any good, but i have a hunch that there may be some wisdom out there about grief itself. i guess the sanest thing to do would be to ask nancy. 'who should i see?'

thinking about it, working with grief would be a really blessed thing to do. i wonder if a lay person can assist the grieving. grief first aid. what a great way to pay back all the healing kindnesses i've received. more research is called for.
-----------


thursday june 16th

i send this to nancy:

it's raining and i have my fancy shirt on and my almost new book (To Be A Man) that i got from my sweetheart. and i'm scared for my book. i want to protect it so i wrap it in the shirt and run.

 and i remembered hebrew school where they taught us that the books (especially those with the Word in them) were so special that if you dropped one, you kissed it when you picked it up. and then new york public schools-which were partial synagogues then-where you turned your books in at the end of the year and the teacher would inspect them to see if you had violated their sanctity. there was no kissing required however.

it was years later in college that i saw someone taking marginal notes in a bible (!) in western civ class. i became reluctantly liberated. first underlining  (with a ruler of course) then highlighting and finally wild marks and comments.

my copy of TBAM was undampened. the book is fine, thank you.

i told you once that my favorite toy when i was little was a book? still in my top three.

so this rainy morning i'm walking through the woods. they are at their best, shiny, cool, shadowless light, birdful, smelly. and what i'm thinking about is how i want to tell nancy the little riff that the rain brought back to me this morning. i'm imagining the email and i'm ignoring the woods. i stopped and brought my attention back for a bit to the present landscape but then returned almost immediately to my heart.
neurotic? a coin-toss, i say. in order to be here now, you have to be really clear where 'here' is. sometimes 'here' is there.

oh. and there's this. the man she's involved with is a very good writer. she showed me some stuff he sent her. if i were writing to seduce, i'd take lessons from him. so i'm judging myself a little as one-down and trying not to let that get in the way of actually telling her what i felt. 
too many mirrors in this barbershop.
---

the morning queests: we replayed our night at tango. i did better this time. i'm still not big enough to let go of nancy's tin ear for expressing concern. i still want to snap 'no, you didn't say that' as if that would heal the problem. but i did better.

and then i fucked it up again. i asked her a question about the rôle pleasure (wine, beer, food) played in my life. did she think it was a decoy for something else? was my amiable detente with life a way to sidestep some bigger question.
we never really got to the answer because i interrupted her in the first sentence.

i felt misrepresented. actually all she said was 'i never considered pleasure to be the meaning of life' and i took it that she was saying that i did put pleasure at the center. 'no, no i didn't mean that'
 and with that she went off to
first-the destructiveness of not listening as shown by interrupting her
then-my inability to simply stand where i am and wait

and yes, i've been struggling  all my life just to be heard.
and the compromise i've arrived at is eternal vigilance which, it turns out, is the price of the sad liberty of being alone.

---

she's going to see him tomorrow. actually she's making a pilgrimage. all the signs are there, she won't see me today-ritual cleansing. there's a journey involved. she warns me that i won't hear from her for a while.
i am filled with catastrophe and anastrophe.
•this is the end. she'll come back and say that this is the man she wants to get real with
or
•this in a new beginning. she'll say that she saw that the goodness in me had more promise of the real than the reality in him had promise of the good.

the only evidence for the latter comes from my own intuition. frankly, not much to go on.
there's no meditation on friday. i desperately want a place to be that will extend my calm and my sense of keeping my self. i'm tempted by action: get a date, drink, smoke. no, i'm not. nancy has ruined that for me. i guess that i will just have to sit with this sick feeling. maybe i can find a mitzvah
and maybe i'll be able to avoid using that as a drug.
--

i saw my friend stuart shills-the painter- in the woods today. he asked the usual and i replied by telling him about how the love of my life was going off to have a date with another man and that she was thereby seeking some openness that i wasn't giving her and that this was nauseatingly painful and so far the growth was worth the hurt.
i could see him processing this and i knew that i should be ashamed. i was ashamed but just a little. and i think my voice, my calm in presenting such an unmanned reality took him back a bit. certainly was different for me.
...nancy said something about the ego. . . . . ..  .

---

and then i went and did a beer tasting. small crowd, paul rollers' place. belgians, lots to talk about and i didn't care. my not caring isn't just the dulled-out hum of the heartsick, something's happened to me.
my gourmandism doesn't seem so attractive anymore.
i was still able to taste and pick out the roasted malts from the caramel sugars and spin connections between the hanseatic league and coriander in the beer, but it didn't mean anything because, well, it's so fucking trivial. and that's the alarming truth. i've spent my life being glib about the trivial.
okay, a couple of halfway decent novels and a few poems, but still.

i didn't drink more than what i needed to taste. somehow, although i wouldn't mind being in a coma right now, i don't want to be even slightly buzzed. i don't know why. i think i'll let the little bit of beer i did have wear off and then sit on the mat.
there's a great irony afoot here. the woman has swept over my life, restored an old old compass and now she's leaving me. hah hah. and the truth is that my aloneness is my own creation. laziness and fear and now i'm here.

and there's this email from nancy:

I think the oracles suggest that you should continue writing poetry...as I should continue doing therapy. And that both of us get clearer where our avocations/vocations/gifts become a substitute for inspired and enlivened relating.

and that's what happened at my tasting tonight. i heard myself doing this enlightened gourmet thing and all of a sudden (or maybe not) i saw it as a substitute for inspired living. i don't know how much the poetry is a mask-i suspect it is partially. but i'm pretty sure about the beer tastings.

so you want to know what alcohol has meant for me? i guess there's more than one way to use it to avoid being alive. what a waste.

---------------------------
and this is my good-bye email to her

on the night before your trip in a whirl of phone calls and emails and maybe texts. lynnandchrisandlynnandchris and so on. 

i imagine you feeling agitated, frayed and torn (and maybe some other textile metaphors too)

and based on absolutely no chops in the personal growth world, i want to say this to you;

stay with nancy. she will know. breathe.

the instructions are the same as for meditation or wine tasting.

! shut up

2 sit down

3 take a long breath

4 pay attention

and be good to my nancy

i'm off to rollers in an hour.

l love you, lynn

------------------------