Enter the Dragon

I feel like I'm cheating. I'm completely taken with a man who is not my husband.  It's happened before, I'm embarrassed to say. First, it was Vampire Bill. Then it was Jean-Claude. And I might have dallied a bit with Jericho Barrons and Raphael. But this is different. This is lasting. This is obsession. The object of my obsession, you may wonder?  None other than Dragos Cuelebre, the Great Beast of Thea Harrison's Elder Races series. Why Dragos?  Why does he stand out in the pantheon of hot alpha males that populate my beloved fantasy novels? Why do I replay the scenes of the novels and stories in my mind long after I've put my Kindle away? Why do I analyze and dissect his thought processes and his evolution and search for clues about my own life and proclivities and potential growth through the prism of this particular character?  Why is this fictional fantasy so compelling that I'm genuinely sad that such a magnificent creature doesn't actually exist?

Well, we must give credit where credit is due, and celebrate the genius of Thea Harrison in creating such an amazing avatar.  Jay Gatsby has nothing on Dragos (yeah, you heard me, I'm comparing Thea Harrison to F. Scott Fitzgerald and I don't want to hear any lip about it!).  Dragos is incredibly complex but straightforward at the same time. As the author notes on several occasions, Dragos is Powerful as shit and older than dirt. He was born with the cosmos and his evolution is beyond the imagining of mere humans. He can shift forms from the ultimate alpha male--bigger, stronger and faster than even Steve Austin (and worth well over six million dollars to boot) to become the one and only dragon in the universe. He is singular and without peer. He has been considered a god. Perhaps he is a god. In other words, he is utterly one of a kind.

But here's the thing: given all that he has been and all that he is and all that he can become, he remains teachable, with some level of authentic humility underneath that seemingly impenetrable autocratic and invulnerable exterior. He can learn and grow and change. And he can feel with some level of emotional depth. He wants to evolve. He wants to grow and to become a better man for his mate. Is your heart palpitating yet?  Do you have the vapors?  Cause I sure do. Who wouldn't fall for that?  If you are immune, my hat is off to you. But then I've got to ask why?  Why would you even want to resist such magnificence?  Well, I can think of a couple of reasons, actually. First, it's hard to admit to wanting something you don't believe exists in reality. Second, even if you concede the possible existence of such a creature, few of us willingly bang our heads against a wall of certain deprivation. If we know for a fact we could never be with someone like that, either because we believe we could never attract him or because we believe we could never maintain a relationship with him, then there is little point in pining. Unrequited love is only noble and marginally interesting in fiction (and not even there, for me; Madame Bovary bored me to tears—get over him already!). Those kinds of issues are a different kettle of fish entirely, and the subject for another post.

But now I want to talk about looking underneath that amazing exterior--beyond the power and the wealth and the smoking hot looks. What is there that transcends the dragon shapeshifter aspect, or even the billionaire elite-athlete-cum-rocket scientist-supermodel aspect of Dragos?  What are some of the more authentic (not to mention realistic and obtainable) elements of who Dragos is that command our deep respect and draw us in like moths to smoking hot flames?  Qualities like strength of character, comfort in one's own skin, fundamental competence and confidence?  And then, like the cherry on the top of the sundae, is a burning ambition to continually strive to be a better man, to want to become more patient, and tolerant, giving and generous.  Not to mention so hot for his mate that spontaneous combustion occurs when they come together.

Could you get behind that action?  There was a time where I probably could not but those days are in the past, thankfully. Now I wake up to that every day. Which is awesome for me, definitely. But, in truth, it took me a very long time to be able to look beyond the superficial of good looks, good prospects, and the casual arrogance of a man who knows he's got it going on (as my husband does). Because that is definitely not enough, as Dragos so ably demonstrates.

The pull that Dragos exerts on my psyche is below the surface. He's more than the ultimate alpha male. Because in reality, alpha males come with some fairly insurmountable obstacles, at least to my way of thinking. Alpha males want control of everything. But Dragos is willing to consider that control precludes partnership and friendship. Control puts the controller in the one up position.  And for a guy used to being one up for eons, not just multiple millennia, Dragos is irresistibly willing to consider that being one up means your “partner” is one down. And the one down position makes partnership impossible. He is seductively prepared to ponder the proposition that he doesn't know it all or how to do it all. He's eager to pursue additional evolution to the next level of existence. For his woman. To be a better man for her. And that makes him just about perfect for me. 

The Yardstick

Lately I've been called to evaluate the metrics by which we measure success in our lives. What yardstick do we use? It seems that different people use different measures and that perhaps we're all in need of a big dose of standardization in the life-o-meter department. I attended the funeral for the mother of a childhood friend recently. She was also a second mother to me but even so, the death hit me harder than I had expected. Part of it, too, was because this death came almost one year to the day after the death of my own mother. And of course I wouldn't be human if I hadn't engaged in a bit of comparison shopping while going through the activities attendant to death--the funerals and the aftermath of two women who could not have been more different in life and who we celebrated in such divergent ways in death.

My friend's mother had significantly less to work with in many ways than did my own and yet by any measure my friend's mother crafted a much more successful life. The two women knew each other through their daughters but did not have any sort of real relationship. Too bad, too, as my mother could have benefited from the example. Assuming she was interested in improving her life, which she clearly was not.

As I am wont to do, I've been thinking about all of this through the prism of my beloved fantasy books. And as is likely to happen these days, what I'm reading just happens to be weirdly relevant to the events of my life. I've basically stopped questioning this phenomenon as it keeps occurring but I will note in passing that it is mighty strange. Unless you believe that there are no coincidences. But that is a subject for another post. Sometimes life is stranger than fiction.

So I've been revisiting Dragos and Pia and the rest of Thea Harrison's Elder Races world. As you have heard, I'm half in love with Dragos and I pretty much want to be Pia, so I'm enjoying myself immensely and feeling grateful that Ms. Harrison has gifted us with two novellas just one month apart. It's Christmas in July!

A recurring theme in these stories is Dragos' insistence that Pia is his best teacher. Which is ironic because he was born of the Big Bang and evolved through the eons adopting a human form and persona for only the last microsecond of his extremely long existence. In contrast, Pia is a twenty-something half human girl who tended bar before hooking up with the oldest and most Powerful being in the universe. So it seems unlikely that she would have a whole lot to teach him. But she does, in fact.

Because longevity is no guarantee of meaningful impact, as the tale of two mothers in my own life aptly demonstrates. What Pia is teaching Dragos is how to live a life of meaning and purpose. She is showing him how to leave the world a better place than he found it, and how to affect change through love and not might (to be fair, I'm painting a pretty black and white picture here and there is some amount of gray for both Dragos and my mother, but I'll keep to the deep contrasts to make my points).

From the beginning of their story when Pia tries to make reparations for the crime she commits that starts the initial ball rolling, to her use of Dragos' credit card to feed the hungry, to her insistence that Dragos offer assistance to his former enemies, Pia shows Dragos how to be more human and how to live more compassionately, which is the true measure of a successful life, at least in my book--the correct yardstick, if you will.

Based on all of this, I have to ask, what makes for a successful life?  I'm guessing that Dragos, if he contemplated such things, would have felt pretty successful with his vast hoard and large corporate holdings and his legacy of imposing the rule of law on his fellow shapeshifters. But I'm wondering if he would feel the same way after meeting Pia and learning about her definition of a successful life, which involves connection and service and selflessness and a commitment to being human in the very best sense of that word. I think not. I think that Dragos' definition of success has probably evolved in the blink of time since Pia came into his life. And their example is helping me to refine my own definition.

My mother had many years on this earth to make a difference but she became distracted by the false trappings of success, unfortunately. She thought, like Dragos before Pia, that whoever had the most toys at the end of the game wins. Not so. My friend's mother, who died before her time, sadly, understood that the amount of stuff we accrete over the course of our lives is meaningless at the end of the game.

In the end, Walt Whitman got it right in his definition of success; success involves leaving the world a better place than you found it. It involves touching other lives in a way that enhances our humanity. Success involves seeking to improve the lives of others thereby elevating our own existence. Seems like a lot of people never figure that out, my mom included. It makes me sad.

We need teachers to show us the way. And I love learning through the fun and pleasure I get while reading my beloved fantasy novels. There are many riches to be found as we mine these stories for their deeper truths. And we need teachers in reality as well, such as the mother of my friend. Because all yardsticks are not comprised of the same thirty-six inches and the accurate measure of a life requires using the right tools. 

Doing What Comes Unnaturally

I'm still totally enmeshed in Thea Harrison's Elder Races world these days. And the deep thoughts she inspires are coming fast and furious. Today, I'm reflecting on the fact that I have something in common with Dragos. No, I can't shapeshift into a dragon the size of a G5, nor have I suddenly become fabulously wealthy, more's the pity. But I do share with Dragos the fact that Pia is fast becoming one of my best teachers, particularly with respect to how to have a successful relationship. One of Pia's consistent tendencies throughout the evolution of her relationship with Dragos has been to fight her own instincts on how to behave for the benefit of their growing connection and so that she can share a life with him. That is extremely hard to do, and requires tremendous self-awareness as well as strength of will. Overcoming the impulses of our lizard brains toward self-protection and the avoidance of fear, pain and discomfort is a very tricky business and in my experience, few of us do it very well. 

But in Thea Harrison's world, Pia does it extremely well, and her actions have inspired me to think about my own. As I've talked about before, doing the hard thing is hard. That seems quite obvious, I know, but in truth I don't think it is. I think many or even most of us do things we think are hard in our relationships-- be they romantic, platonic or professional--such as taking on extra work, logistical, physical and emotional—so that we can then believe that we are paying our dues for being in relationship (this only applies to those of us who understand that all relationships are, or should be, reciprocal and balanced in some sort of equitable way, however that is specifically measured between two people, and the metrics can vary widely between and among different relationships, of course. And there are also those unfortunates who have no clue at all that relationships should be a two-way street and those folks fall into either the taker category or the giver category, and neither category, when someone hangs out exclusively in one or the other, is a good place to be. But that is an issue for another post).

And so, in pursuit of being good partners in our relationships, we who strive for balance and fairness, work to do the right thing and shoulder our share of the load. And for those of us who are at least fairly well adjusted, we are also (usually) willing to go with the flow associated with all long-term alliances that necessitates the assumption of more than our fair share of the burden at various times, with the expectation that the other will do the same for us as needed.

And all of that is well and good and probably contains enough material to explore in a number of future posts.  But what I really want to talk about is what Pia has pointed out to me. In order to make the relationship with Dragos viable, Pia must do things above and beyond what we think of as doing the work in relationships. This is not about negotiating who is going to cook versus who will clean up, or who will stay home with the kids and who will bring home the bacon. This is well past the conversation about whose turn it is to clean the toilets or take out the garbage. What Pia must do to become Dragos' mate is to overcome her natural instincts to run and hide and isolate. In her case, it is literally a life and death decision. For the rest of us, it just feels like that.

When we are called to overcome our most deep-seated fears in order to take an important relationship to the next level, it can be paralyzing. In fact, I believe our lizard brains work overtime to cloud our perception and judgment with denial so that we won't even recognize the need to move beyond our fears toward action that represents risk at the most primal level. Our lizard brains don't want us to take such risks. It is way too dangerous and is best avoided in pursuit of self-preservation. But our lizard brains are not considering all the factors. That's not its job, though, so that should be expected. It's the job of our frontal lobe to think through the implications of our actions and decisions and determine whether such risks are warranted in light of the reward that may be achieved (but also may not be--hence the risk factor involved in the choice).

When Pia decides to trust Dragos with her most intimate secret so that she can have the possibility of a life with him--but by no means a guarantee--she must go against the almost deafening clamor of every self-protective instinct she has, not to mention everything her beloved mother had ever taught her. Not easy, for sure, and Thea Harrison does an exceptional job in evoking the difficulty that Pia must face and over which she must triumph.

Pia's lessons are particularly relevant in my life right now, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to learn. Not because it's fun. It most certainly is not. But because it's necessary, and I'm not sure I would even be thinking about this stuff if I hadn't been reading these books. For me, I'm a fixer and a doer. I'm a woman of action and I am never more comfortable than in figuratively leaping on my war horse, drawing my sword and rushing headlong into the fray, confronting my opponents and resolving the issue one way or the other. I know lots of people, though, for whom this is not their way, and they are much more comfortable watching and waiting and seeing what develops, avoiding confrontation and any sort of frontal assault at all costs.

And neither of these ways of being is right or wrong. They just are, and it is all just fine. Except when it's not, and we are called to go against our instincts to save a relationship that means something to us. At those times, we are called to overcome our lizard brains and take scary risks for the possibility of getting something that we want very badly. Without any guarantee that we will be successful. This is the true work of relationships.

Yes, I feel like I'm working toward making my relationships work when I do things like make the coffee more than half the time for my husband, or travel more often than my friend does so that we can see each other. And I don't mean to invalidate or devalue such work, because it is important and necessary for the day-to-day continuation of any relationship. But there are times, and luckily they are few and far between, when we have to do something much, much harder to preserve a critical connection. 

In my case, I have to back off. I need to stop rushing in to fix or to instruct or to do for another what needs to be done, but not by me. The technical term, I think, is enabling, and I am coming to realize I do a lot more of it than I thought I did. I am a human doing rather than a human being. And I'm starting to wonder what would happen to some of my relationships if I did less so that the other can do more. And the thought scares the pants off of me, because what if I back off and things fall apart?  Can I live with that? But do I want to have relationships that are dependent on my holding them up, mostly by myself?  I'm not Atlas, and I'm getting awfully tired. This is not to say that effort in a relationship does not come in a variety of packages and apples need to be compared with their like and doing that often involves some convoluted translating. I get all of that. But sometimes, we all need to make like Pia and do the thing that is most uncomfortable in order to see where we stand in the aftermath of doing what does not come naturally. And for me, my lizard brain feels as big and overwhelming as the large lizard that is Dragos, so no pressure there!

And I can only hope it works out as well for me as it does for her and that in this case, when it really counts, there will, in reality, be truth in fantasy.

Me and Mick

Have you ever had the experience of grief over one specific person or event and it triggers a veritable parade of sad things to think about? You know what I mean--you can be upset about a recent death (or a break-up, even) and that leads to playing "Paint It Black" on endless repeat and then you start thinking about every single sad thing that's ever happened to you, including the ending of The Fault in Our Stars (or if you are older Brian's Song or Love Story). And you end up crying with your face all puffy and red (unless you are a pretty crier, in which case I don't like you). And if you are able to really work yourself into an epic cry, you can get to the “sobbing so hard it's difficult to catch your breath” phase, and then you have truly arrived at cathartic misery. Until the storm passes and the seas calm and you are left feeling empty and wrung out, but also fulfilled in some way that feels necessary and right. Or maybe I'm the only one who does this on occasion. Let me know before I start to feel like a freak.

And while I didn't quite reach the epic stage this weekend, I definitely hit a rough patch and had a hard time. Because I'm not as young as I used to be (who is, of course?), the sad parade is getting longer and longer. And because I'm hitting the time of life where parents start dropping like rain in the Amazon, it's been a tough year in terms of having abundant reminders of my mortality (in the form of four funerals and a wedding so far), continually ensuring that I remember to carpe diem. Time's a passing, and there's none to lose.

And these milestones make me think of those for whom mortality has no pull--especially vampires, the fae, and other supernatural beings who don't need to worry about death and dying unless their heads happen to become separated from their bodies. I think there are two sides to this particular thought process--the pain of an almost endless death watch as supes love and lose their human counterparts (can you imagine what their Paint It Black evenings look like?) and the flip side of that pillow where no one ever dies and what that does to the whole circle of life concept.

I'm reading the last (until August when the actual last book will be published) of Jessica Sims' Midnight Liaisons series right now. And I'm giving serious thought to adding the termination of this series to my death watch list, I'm so sad that it's ending. This one focuses on Marie, who has a terminal disease and is seeking a vampire to turn her and make her immortal.  But as she implements her plan for everlasting life, she becomes motivated to think about what endless nights look like without love and family, meaning or purpose. She's beginning to wonder if life is always the best choice. And it makes me wonder whether I would want to Paint It Black indefinitely and trade in my mortal coil for eternal existence.

I don't think so, in fact. Of course I reserve the right to continue with this train of thought and explore the implications much more fully down the line at some point. And to change my mind, of course, as is the prerogative of every woman. But at this juncture, I'm not at all certain I'd want to give up my sadness and the texture it adds to my life and my perspective. Nor do I want it to last forever, though, as immortality would require.

Death is a part of life, inevitably. It's frightening and often devastating for those left behind and those whose deaths come with a date certain stamped on the box, as when a cancer patient is given weeks or months to live. But it's something we all need to confront, both for ourselves and for those we love.

We can hope that the natural order of things is observed, as it is when our parents die before us, which has been my experience of the past year. But when the natural order becomes unbalanced, as when my teenaged children attended the funeral of a friend recently, it becomes much harder to accept and process.

But there is no way around the death watch except through it. We don't have Marie's option to seduce a vampire into making us one of its own, and there is no other supernatural get-out-of-jail-free card available to us. We all stop passing Go at some point, and none of us will collect our $200 when that time arrives.

So I'll crank up the Stones and I'll have a good cry, and I'll get on with my life.  I’ll play “She’s a Rainbow” instead of “Paint It Black.” And maybe I’ll throw in a little “Emotional Rescue,” just in case.

The Arithmetic of Love

As you may have guessed by now, I am a bulimic reader. I binge read individual authors and then I spew forth my thoughts about said writer onto the pages of these blogs. Probably a remnant of my disordered eating days, but a lot less messy, not to mention way healthier. But I digress before I've even gotten started. Oh, well. Back to the subject at hand, or rather to begin the subject at hand, I'm coming to the end of my Jessica Sims binge. And I'm lovin' it!  But that's not the subject, either. The subject, my friends, is the arithmetic of love. Does love expand as we add to it or is love a zero sum game?

This particular contemplation was inspired by Jessica Sims' novella, Vixen, about a were-fox whose animal nature inclines her toward polyamory. In other words (and, in fact, in another language all together) ménage a trois, oo la la! Now, I'm a huge fan of Laurell K. Hamilton, and, therefore, I know a thing or three about polyamory, the love of many, for those of you who enjoy Greek etymology.  I've been riveted to my Kindle reading sex scenes featuring more than four hands and feet and more than two mouths, etc.  I must say, however, that even in fantasy, that's not how I roll. Sounds fairly confusing and overwhelming to my limited imagination, I guess. Either that or I'm just not enough woman to handle more than one man.

Having said that, however, there are clearly many out there who enjoy this sort of thing and to them I say, more power to you--which you seem to have already, given that the power is being generated by multiple sources, if you get my meaning, so good on you--wait, you seem to have that covered as well. So, maybe, bon chance! Enjoy!

But what about the rest of us?  Does the arithmetic of love apply in any way to those of us who prefer to love in single file rather than using the buddy system?  I think it does, actually. Because the issue that polyamory brings up (albeit in a more broad-minded sort of way) is whether there is room for more than one in our hearts and our lives.

This is really more than a theoretical question. In my own life, for example, my mother was definitely a zero sum love kind of person. My brother and I used to joke (not that it was really funny) about who was the favored child at any given time, as my mother seemed incapable of loving both her children simultaneously. We took turns being the object of her love (a dubious distinction, at best), and suffered the consequences of a parent whose heart could not expand along with her family. Tragic, for sure.

But not uncommon. Don't we all know people whose marriages fall apart after the first baby arrives because the father grew to resent the necessary shift of attention of the mother to the child?  Or, less drastic but still hurtful, how many of us have experienced friendships that waste away, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly when a friend finds a new boyfriend/girlfriend and the non-prefixed friends fall by the wayside?  Or, more disturbing still, when we are replaced in the hearts of a loved one by a time consuming hobby (golf widow, anyone?) or a new, demanding job?

When one person's gain is another's loss, the arithmetic of love is seriously screwed up. Give that math test a big fat F, for fallacy. Love is never zero sum, except in the minds of the tragically misinformed. As the Grinch taught us (is anyone vaguely disturbed that I make frequent reference to Dr. Seuss in a blog about reading smut, by the way?  No?  Cool, me either), our hearts expand the more love we stuff inside.

Love is most assuredly not a zero sum game and I have a special place of sadness in my heart for those who feel otherwise. There is room for romantic love, love for our children (more than one at a time, even), our friends, our pets, our passions, and, underneath it all, love for ourselves and the infinite.

Love is generative, in reality, meaning it creates--in the most literal sense that making love creates life, but, also, more analogically, love creates space in our lives for joy and new experiences and new feelings and a fullness that never ends. Love is the magic Volkswagen that never runs out of clowns.

Sometimes it seems that love is about the finite nature of time, so that we incorrectly believe that we cannot love expansively because there are just not enough hours in the day. And while my time obeys the same laws of physics as everyone else's, love is not bound by time, in fact. We can love widely, but focus selectively over time. So, it is true that a new baby demands time that used to be available to a romantic partner. And a new lover usually does take time away from existing friendships. But what demands our time should not be confused with what commands our love. Love is infinite, while time is zero sum.

Does this mean that it isn't exceptionally difficult to juggle the multiple expressions of love in our lives? No, it does not. The cosmic balancing game we must all play is really, really hard, and the rules change all the time making it even harder to play effectively. But that is what we are called to do and that is the work of a lifetime to manage. Time ebbs and flows and how we spend it so that we can attend to the multiplicity of love is a dance. And sometimes, or even often, we have two left feet and our clumsiness may hurt those we care about. But it's not a lack of love that causes our missteps in this dance, at least in theory, and this is why it is important to continually evaluate whether we are spending our time in a manner consistent with our love. And the fallacy of love as a zero sum game is the result of confusing the finite with the infinite, something we humans do altogether too often, unfortunately.

But, in the end, let’s give Paul McCartney an A for accurate, and recognize that he was mostly right--the love we get is equal to the love we give. And then some.

The Giggles of Girlfriends

I'm reading my last Molly Harper book (at least until she writes another one, which will be soon, I hope). This one is called Better Homes and Hauntings and it focuses on ghosts rather than my beloved vampires, weres and fae. So while this one probably won't go down in the all time hall of fame, I'm particularly enjoying the author's portrayal of female friendships and the joys thereof.

For me, there is nothing quite like the happiness to be found in laughing hysterically with a close girlfriend and having that laughter feed off itself, becoming magnified by being passed back and forth till you've got tears running down your face and snot erupting out of your nose. Not pretty, I know, but that is the beauty of female friendships--it's OK to look hideous while crying with mirth. In fact, the mucous adds to the merriment. Disgusting but true.

I experienced this very phenomenon with a very close girlfriend just yesterday. I think we scared my son, in fact, who walked in on us howling, doubled over in laughter with the aforementioned facial moisture and who then ran panic-stricken from the room to tell his father that he thought we had lost our minds. Or possibly control of our bladders.

But my friend and I had lost nothing in fact (I'm not commenting on the bladder control issue!).  We had, instead, gained a priceless gift--the gift of giggles among girlfriends, or, in our case, serious guffaws. It was fun, and abandoned, cathartic and joyful. That is the best definition of a gift I've ever heard. And I was grateful in the moment and again now as I reflect on the blessings of friendship and the intimacy that allows for such uncensored glee.

In the book I'm reading, Molly Harper describes a scene among three women who are sharing a similar moment. The description of what sparked the giggling fit did not really evoke the same reaction in me, but I think that is a case of you really had to be there. But what did resonate was the portrayal of how this type of female bonding (no, not bondage, so get your mind out of the gutter here, people, not all smut is sexy - it also inspires, thus the point of this blog) can support and validate and enliven and even heal, as it does for the main female character, Nina.

Female friendships, when they work well, are the glue that can hold us together when then chips are down, and the mirror that can reflect our best selves back to us when our self perception is a little skewed, as it can sometimes get. Girlfriends can carry some of the water that is weighing us down and can share some of the burdens that might not be appropriate or desirable to share with a romantic partner.

It's important that we don't ask any one person to be both the alpha and omega for us  (unless that person is Patricia Briggs, in which case it might be acceptable).  When we rely just on our snuggle bunny to be all things, it puts what can become an unbearable strain on the relationship. This is where friends come in. Friends can share the wealth and the tears and ease the burden on our primary love relationships. This is why my wonderful husband is fully encouraging of my girls' nights out and the occasional weekend getaway with my buds. It preserves my sanity and takes him off the hook for having to listen (again) to my tales of woe or the latest gossip in which he has absolutely zero interest. It's a win-win all around.   And I usually come home feeling highly appreciative of my husband, which is an added bonus for him as I demonstrate said appreciation in a manner he enjoys  (okay people, you can send your minds back to the gutter here).

Girlfriends rock. And girlfriend giggles are in a class by themselves. Probably because they annoy the hell out of everyone else, so we girlfriends tend to be banished to the far-away classroom. And Molly Harper, who I really want to meet, clearly understands the joy of friendships and I, for one, am grateful for the opportunity to reflect on such an important aspect of my life. Thanks, Truth in Fantasy!

Why Me?

If I ever get a chance to talk to God, or Goddess, or whoever is in charge around here, I know what my first question will be:  why me?  Why you?  Why do individuals vary so much in the gifts and talents department?  Why were some of us apparently taking a bathroom break when they were passing out looks, or intelligence or common sense or athletic ability or stick-to-it-ness or curiosity or humor?

I think of this as the "play the hand you are dealt" issue-- everyone gets dealt a hand of cards, some good, some not-so-good. Some of us win the proverbial lottery in some areas, but perhaps not in others (think Tom Cruise, Hillary Clinton, Maria Shriver, to name just a few). Some of us don't seem to get any sort of decent hand, and these unfortunate souls seem to walk under a perpetual dark cloud doing an excellent imitation of Eeyore. And we think to ourselves (well, I do, in any case), “that poor, poor guy, so glad I’m not him.”

But therein lies the rub. Why did I warrant grace and not that ill-fated person over there?  And on the other side of this question, why didn't I get more of the beauty, genius and fabulous wealth cards while my hand was being dealt?  If you read my bio you'll know I spent a few years at a seminary (being their token non-Christian, mind you, which in the end did not work out so well for me, but that is a story for another time). In Christian theology, this question of why Jesus and not someone else is called the "scandal of particularity" and the answer can be grossly simplified as "why not?"  

Why not, indeed?  I have no blessed idea, in fact. And I have a lot of questions about this for God when I get to talk to her. And these questions, like so many others, are thrown into high relief when reading about supernatural beings, who got double helpings of beauty, brains, brawn, health, and competence when those were being handed out, it seems.

Reading about all of the extra attributes of vampires, weres, the fae, etc., makes me more acutely aware of all that I don't have and could certainly send me into a death spiral toward the ground from 50,000 feet if I spent too much time dwelling on it. 

But then I have to consider that my plummet to the earth at terminal velocity would be terminal in fact only because of the lofty position from which I started. If I weren't so high up to begin with--having gotten dealt some pretty good cards--then I wouldn't have so far to fall and splattering all over the pavement would not be as much of a potential problem.

When I bemoan the fact that I'm not a size four with an IQ of 160 and my own private jet, chef and personal shopper, I also need to remember that I also don't have cancer, special needs children, welfare checks or any other really horrible fates that cause me to think "there but for the grace of God go I". I need to remember to accept the less good with the good and internalize the classic Dr. Seuss book, Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?  That is a great book to remind me that it can always—always—be worse, and to provide me with some perspective. Just like my beloved fantasy novels, where I find so many of my truths. Not to mention so much of my perspective.

So, while I still have a lot of questions for the universal Dealer, for today I'll content myself with appreciating the hand I was dealt, and playing the very best game I can with what I've been given.

Just This Once

I would like to meet Molly Harper and perhaps pay a visit to Half Moon Hollow, KY. Molly (I think she'd be OK if I called her that) clearly understands human nature. Of the female variety specifically. Molly understands and writes about difficult mothers who undermine the self esteem of their daughters (definitely a subject for another post--or ten). And she clearly gets the struggle many of us have with acting on our better judgment and resisting the temptations of things we are well aware are no good for us.

Today I'm reading The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires. This book is as funny and accurately observed as all of Harper's other books, including the Jane Jameson series and the Naked Werewolf series. This novel focuses on Iris, daytime concierge to the vampire inhabitants of sleepy Half Moon Hollow. I'm enjoying it immensely. But, as is the case with so many of my "lighthearted" paranormal fantasy novels, there are a number of deeper truths that are reflected in the foam at the top of this particular cappuccino.

In one fun scene, there is reference to the "bad decision" dress. When one wears it, one cannot be held responsible for the bad decisions that result. In fantasy novels, that is not necessarily a bad thing, as the consequences of said bad decisions never seem to carry much heft. In real life, however, bad decisions can haunt us forever, or at least long enough for us to experience real remorse (or mortification, if you’ve had a misspent youth, but that’s a subject for another post!).

In Molly Harper's books, many of the bad decisions of her protagonists involve succumbing to the temptations of seductive vampires and werewolves. Truthfully, I can see where this could reside firmly in the “against my better judgment but my hormones clearly have the upper hand” folder of my mental file cabinet. And, somehow, these decisions that blithely ignore the little voice in the back of our heads always seems to turn out well for our main characters in these fantasy novels, and are usually part of the path that leads to the inevitable (and satisfying) HEA.

In practice, sadly, this has not proved to be my experience. My dating history reflects this unfortunate reality, until, of course, I met my beloved husband, who has no resemblance at all to the emotionally unavailable bad boys I used to date. But going against our better judgment doesn't usually work out in other areas, either. Such as when I tell my children that they can go to an unchaperoned party because "don't you trust us, Mom?" and nothing good comes to pass. Or when I made an impulse purchase because the sales lady assured me that I didn't look like an aging slut in that non-refundable dress and my husband assumes I've decided to slap a mattress on my back to try to make a few extra bucks.

There's a reason we have judgment, better and otherwise. Our judgment is a gift we nurture over time. If we're lucky--and good-- our judgment is enhanced with the wisdom of experience and becomes tempered with age and perspective. If we are neither lucky nor good, we just get older, but not smarter. I'm sure we all know lots of people like that.  I’m sure some of us are people like that.

So if our judgment is an attribute that gains value over time, why would we choose to ignore it?  Why would we indulge ourselves in the three most dangerous words of the English language and stifle our better judgment "just this once?"  Because, like so many aspects of life, it is easier to indulge our bad judgment in many cases than it is to stand our ground and go with our higher natures from whence our better judgment is born.

Which bring us back to doing the hard thing, which is what life requires of us if we want to live well. And making bad decisions, whether we're wearing a particular dress or not, does not get us where we want to be. So, when that little voice tells you, "he's no good" or "your ass looks like cottage cheese in those white pants," we should listen.  Or that little voice may stop talking to us, in which case the roar of temptation will surely blow out an eardrum and who knows what kind of trouble we’ll get into.  Just ask Molly, and she'll tell you all about it.

The Similarity of Second Chances

Have you ever noticed that the Universe always gives us a second chance?  It took me a long time to figure this out, actually, but even I can take a hint when hit upside the head with a brick. Repeatedly. This reality was highlighted for me as I read a story by Katie MacAlister in her Dark Ones series, Shades of Gray, which has nothing to do with the number 50, a good thing because I couldn't get through the first 20 pages of that book; terribly written, IMHO, and lots of better options out there if you want to read about "alternative lifestyles." This story is about Noelle, who gets a second chance to fulfill her destiny as a vampire's Beloved, if only she can convince him to have her.

Unfortunately, the kinds of second chances we get in real life do not often include a one-for-one Mulligan or the opportunity to have a second chance to make a first impression. The kinds of second chances we get in life are of the more karmic variety.

We might get a second chance to be a better partner with our next relationship; or a better parent with a younger child, or perhaps with grandchildren. We might be presented with an opportunity to be a better friend or employee or sibling or host or child in subsequent situations as we progress in life.

Sometimes, these second chances are fairly obvious and we are able to recognize them. In those situations we have two choices:  do things differently this time, and hope for a better outcome, or keep trying the same approach, perhaps with more passion or force of will, and think that this time, it will be different.

Tony Robbins, the motivational speaker, says if you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten. Wise counsel. I just don't always act on it. Because, as we all know, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. I do that all the time. It's called denial.

And then, there are those times when I can't even recognize that I'm being presented with an opportunity for a do-over. That is quite frustrating because it's one thing to lie to oneself about whether I’m doing a breaststroke in a river in Egypt. It's quite another only to recognize that the Cutco knife salesman in whose face you slammed the door was really opportunity knocking. I hate it when that happens.

But the Universe is generous with us and if we have made mistakes in the past or practiced habits that undermine our success, we are often given another chance to do it better. Sometimes, we can feel like we are living in our own personal Groundhog Day movie when we do the same thing over and over. Clearly, we can't help ourselves. My dating history before I met my beloved husband is proof enough of that.  As was the endless loop of fighting and bickering that characterized my entire relationship with my mother. Groundhog Day on steroids.

So, how can we break this vicious cycle of stupidity, misery and irritation, depending on the severity of any particular bad habit or endlessly repeating situation?  Interestingly enough, an answer to this burning question appeared in my inbox just this morning.  I read about a journalist named Charles Duhigg who wrote a book called The Power of Habit.

In the book, which I confess I haven't read but will nevertheless quote liberally at cocktail parties thereby displaying the breadth of my erudition, Duhigg explains the neuroscience behind the effective creation of a new habit. He tells us to look for a "cue," the event that will trigger us to rely on a new habit to replace one that no longer serves.

So, when you've had a bad day—the "cue" -- and you would normally reach for a glass of wine and a handful of cookies, it would signal your brain to implement plan B-- a green drink and a brisk walk outside to clear your head as a new means of transitioning away from your day.

Or, if you meet a compelling new bad boy (the cue), you execute the new habit-- i.e. run screaming from the room--instead of the old one, which involved immediately jumping into bed with him.

Or, if you are me, and the days of obsessing over bad boys are firmly in the rear view mirror, thankfully, then it's time to look for other areas that the Universe is offering opportunities to get it right this time. In my case, I would very much like to develop new habits when the "cue" is empty, unstructured time on my hands.

As I've probably told you before, I am often a human doing rather than a human being. I rush to fill the void of time with busy work or meaningless puttering around and before I know it, I'm either totally overwhelmed or wondering where the day went having accomplished nothing and feeling like crap about it. This is behavior that causes me much distress and I do it over and over again. To the point where I work way too hard to fill my time with quasi-meaningful activities so that I can avoid the self-hatred that comes with wasting time--the most egregious sin of all, in my book. But all of this activity masquerading as accomplishment is really just another aspect of denial.

If I can't leave some or even a lot of unstructured space in my life, how will there be room for anything new to come in?  There won't. So I need to learn to tolerate the discomfort of unstructured time (my "cue") and insert new, more constructive habits in place of my old, less-than-productive habits.

So, I'm grateful for the similarity of second chances (or in my case, fourth, fifth or fifteenth chances) to do something differently and get a different result. I'm taking my cues and implementing a new plan. I'm getting off the insanity treadmill and taking a walk on another street. And, hopefully, it will work out as well for me as it did for Noelle and her not-50-Shades-of- Gray.

On the Road Again

I'm reading the third book in Molly Harper's Naked Werewolf series. The theme of this one is a bit darker than the others, and involves a woman on the run from her abusive husband. The idea of constantly running, moving from one place to the next, never knowing what time zone you're in is one that speaks loudly to me right now. I've found that it's one thing to travel and enjoy it, but quite another to move from place to place feeling like something is chasing you. As I'm noticing a lot these days, once a theme asserts itself on my radar, I start to see it everywhere-- just like when you buy a new car you start to notice that kind of car on every road you drive. So as I've been contemplating the life of the itinerant traveler, I'm seeing others living that life as well and thinking about what it means to be constantly on the road again.

They say home is where the heart is. It's also where your clothes are, and your photos, and your keepsakes and all the familiar things that make us feel safe and secure and comfortable. Even when we bring our clothes and our favorite shampoo along, the clothes are in an unfamiliar drawer and the shampoo sits in a strange bathroom with Dixie cup water (as in the pressure is such that it feels like someone is standing above you pouring a Dixie cup out over your head).

When we travel around for business or pleasure or whatever, we need to get used to a new bed, and a new configuration of furniture that might catch our foot when we get up in the night to go to the bathroom because we're not used to that table being there. We have to make due with the coffee that’s available, instead of our organic blend.  This is why people love Starbucks and other chains--one can feel right at home anywhere in the country, or even the world, if you roll into a Micky D's or suck down a Pepsi, etc. These franchises thrive on our making like the accidental tourist.

When we go to new places, by definition we must do new things because we are doing them in unknown surroundings. I'm not quite sure what we did before GPS and Yelp on our phones as we try to navigate new streets and find decent places to eat. It's stressful to need to be somewhere at a certain time and not know where you are going or what you are doing. I know that people who do a lot of this sort of thing get used to it, but it's still a strain to try to get it all right.

And what about those like the protagonist in this Naked Werewolf book who won't let herself get attached to any place or group of neighbors or any one person because she knows she will have to run again soon?  Or the couple I met last week, who are itinerant teachers who travel from place to place to promote an oral tradition of learning. They haven't had a permanent home for twenty years. How do you do that?!

Home is such a complex subject.  When I was young, I couldn't get away from home fast or far enough. But these days, my home is a wonderful place filled with people I love, wonderful dogs, a magnificent view and the collection of a lifetime of items both meaningful and just fun and enjoyable.

But even when home is a positive place, it's good to leave occasionally to be able to come back and sigh into the welcoming arms of our own bed and make like Dorothy chanting, "there's no place like home."  It's like make-up sex, which almost makes the fight worthwhile.

So it's good to leave and it's good to come back and like so many other things, it's good to have a balance with all of that. I'd hate to be on the run all the time. And I've seriously disliked the recent need to travel hither and yon to get done what needs to get done. Which tells me I need to make some changes, unpleasant as that prospect is.  Because I’m feeling like I'm running from something rather than to something and that just won't do.

So, for today, I'll appreciate home and the deep peace that comes with stepping back into my routines among familiar places and familiar faces. And I'll hope (with some optimism) that our heroine finds a home with her naked werewolf, because apparently she's cool with back hair, which is so not my thing!  But I'm happy for her, really.

Life in the Fun House

I'm reading the Naked Werewolf series by Molly Harper. Fun stuff. The books are light and cheerful and funny and they are soothing the tight and unhappy places in my psyche. I've enjoyed reading about Mo and her quest to find and express herself and to do things that reflect what she's found and what she needs to do. That is a subject for another post, however. Today I want to talk about Mo's struggle to offer a soft landing to one of her more persistent suitors, a nice man who is offering a nice, safe life. And even though I've been happily married for almost 20 years, I can relate to Mo's dilemma. In her case, the particulars include whether to get involved with a surly, psychologically damaged werewolf or the nice guy next door, so to speak, but I think that's a metaphor for a lot of my life these days, even if the specifics look a bit different.

As you may have noted from my bio, I've had a lot of different jobs. And I enjoy variety in my life, right up until it jumps up bite me in the ass.  Have you ever just felt like someone should put a fork in you and declare that you are "done!"  That's me right now.

So, what do sane people do when the world is too much with us and they start making poetry allusions because they're getting slap-happy?  They offload some of the activity, that's what they do. They let something or even more than one something slide right off their plates and onto someone else's dishes or into the trash.

And that's what I need to do. Stat, as Randolph Mantooth would say. But what, that is the question. And if I could answer that question in a satisfactory way, the next question to trip off the tongue is, how?

Breaking up is hard to do, and not just in saccharine Neil Sedaka songs. In order to execute the plate-sliding plan, I have to tell someone that I cannot meet their expectations. I will have to let someone down. And on top of that unhappy activity, I will need to close the door on one or more of my options (as in the opposite of keeping my options open, as I am wont to do and advise). That is scary as shit. We'll get back to the unpleasant task of having the actual break up conversation itself, which is enough to churn the coffee in my stomach, and contemplate instead the gut wrenching reality of ceasing to hedge one's bets and planting both feet on a path to the unknown. Oh, my, I'm having palpitations just thinking about it.

It's that whole commitment thing. We often think of commitment as tying ourselves to one person or one job or one place to live, or even a specific color for our dishes. The other part of that equation is that when we choose to commit ourselves to one thing, we are, by definition, deciding not to do something else.

So, for example, if I want to have more time to write and promote my blog, then something else has to give. The choices are: my family time, and that's a no; my sleep; again, negatory; my friends and social time, not so much, as there's precious little enough of that as it is; then there is the time I devote to volunteer work, exercise and healthy eating; nothing good will come of my forgoing those efforts. So, what's left?  Oh, yeah. Work. Of the money-making variety. That is definitely taking up a large proportion of my perpetually-overflowing plate these days.

I'm a consultant. Which is a fancy way of saying I do a variety of work for a variety of clients who pay me. When I work less, I get paid less. When I work more, I get paid more. Simple stuff. And I could work less. My income (together with my husband's) more than covers basic needs and an abundance of wants. We save. We have money to spend on travel and hobbies and funding our children's 529 plans. And then some. So we are among the lucky few who are doing well by doing good.

So why do I feel like I can't back off? Why do I continue to run on the hamster wheel of ever-more income and subsequent consumption?  Why does the thought of having less money so I can follow my passion scare the pants off me?

Oh dear, the billeted list of answers to those questions is way too long to cover here, but I will say this:  each bullet point begins with the words, "what if...?"  Followed by predictions of doom and gloom.

What if we commit to one person and a better one comes along?  What if we take one job and the next day find out we got the job of our dreams?  What if, as happened to my mother, you say yes to the nice but totally uncool guy who asked you to the prom and the next day the captain of the football team invited you to be his date (her mother made her go with the guy who asked first, by the way, which was the correct, but heartbreaking thing to do).

What if I get hit by a bus today?  The answer is, then it is what it is and we figure out what to do in that moment, and avoid clogging our brains with obsessive contingency planning. In the end, it all works out. If it isn't working out, it's not the end, as one of my favorite greeting cards says.

So, the plan is to give up some work. Check--I've written the emails explaining that I need to back off from taking on new projects. I haven't hit send yet, though.  I'm experiencing paroxysms of doubt and guilt. The old double whammy of distress. But I can do this.  Probably better even than Mo, in fact, whose idea of letting her suitor down easy wasn't so fabulous in my book.  But she meant well, so that counts.

Because, at the end of the day, a door, window or another exit needs to close before something else can open. Or you'll find yourself in a house of mirrors leading nowhere at all.

Back to the Future

In one of the early Sookie Stackhouse novels by Charlaine Harris, Sookie talks about storing up memories to go over in her mind later. Before she starts hooking up with vampires, who have recently revealed their existence to an unsuspecting world, she lived a pretty uninteresting life as a bar maid in Northern Louisiana. Mind you, she’s a telepathic bar maid, but that’s why they call this genre “paranormal.”

So, Sookie hoards her little treats, the anomalies in her life to ponder and pick apart and re-live. And I have to say, I really couldn’t relate at all. I’m a future projector, not a past re-hasher. This is analogous to the vanilla dogs concept—the idea that some people (like me) prefer vanilla to chocolate and dogs to cats. In the same way, I think people break down into two groups—those who enjoy reliving the past, and those who prefer to fantasize about the future.

Personally, I’ve never really understood people who repeatedly go over the past in their heads again and again. It’s done. There’s no going back. Even if you think of the perfect come back to that idiot who put you down with impunity, the moment is gone and you are just wasting your time (like generals whose war plans reflect the last war and the TSA who consistently put ridiculous rules in place to thwart the last bomber). I don’t know about you, but it feels nasty to be disrobing next to a total stranger with a massive beer gut standing next to you in line for the full body scan (as if that weren’t creepy enough) and you have to worry about the horrors of catching a glimpse of butt crack when he takes off his belt.  Gah!

Is there a point to this exercise?  Does anyone really believe they are going to have an opportunity exactly like the last one where instead of saying “your mama” to the bozo who insulted you, you come back with the perfect bon mot and make him feel three inches tall with a tiny little pee pee?  Speaking of, have I ever told you about my foolproof technique for putting lecherous men in their place?  If a man can’t keep his eyes above neck level, I retaliate by glancing sideways at his crotch and making a very subtle “meh” expression with my face—as in, that don’t impress me much.  Works every time. But I digress—again.  Getting to be a problem for me.  Should probably have that looked at.  Nah.

The point is you can’t go back. The moment has passed.  The train has left the station.  That ship has sailed.  Pick your metaphor--the fat lady has done sung, my friend, and that’s all she wrote. 

So why the hell would we spend time looking back, re-living memories, oftentimes with modified narratives and definitely different endings?  Sure, I understand that many of us fantasize that way, but again, I have to ask, why? Why go backwards to a past that’s dead and gone (guess that reference!) when we can play it forward to a future that hasn’t yet occurred?  The truly glorious thing about the future is that we can play that reel in our minds and paint the canvas any way we choose (which reminds me of the awesome new book I just read, Jade, by Rose Montague—run, don’t walk to read it—very original premise and a heroine who understands completely about playing it forward!). Dream wedding in a month? Done.  Best job interview ever tomorrow?  Nailed it!  Catching that fly ball in the next game?  You got it.

And the beauty of future projection versus living in the past is that our future fantasies could actually come true! Unless they involve Vampire Bill, as they have for me, in which case I am SOL.  But I guess you never know.  Or maybe you do.

But, back to the future. The future is where we can be rich and famous and well preserved, if it takes a little longer than we’d hoped. In fact, both the scientific and non-scientific worlds have embraced the idea of future projections as a tool to build a desired reality. Athletes are well known for visualizing the move they want to master prior to execution. They see—in their mind’s eye—the club hitting the golf ball or the bat hitting the baseball or the perfect layup—and then their muscles follow the path their brains have already traveled. It works to enhance athletic performance and almost all elite athletes do it. It works in other areas as well, and most new-age types also follow this practice (and I mean absolutely no offense by that terminology—I proudly count myself among you—but I don’t know a better term—any suggestions?). Visualization is an important technique for those, like me, who want to co-create our destinies.  We visualize happiness, success, and, love, and then we execute.  It works. I know. It’s how I started writing this blog—my passion personified.

So, I have a pet peeve with those who talk about making memories.  Making memories presupposes a future where I’m sitting around thinking about my past. No, thanks. I’d rather make my destiny than make memories. But hey, live and let live, to each her own, different strokes for different folks. Vanilla dogs and all that. 

Excruciating Vulnerability

I’ve been previewing some of my blog posts with a few of my friends. It’s been an interesting experience in vulnerability, intimacy and pain.  When we put ourselves out there, we’re going to get hurt.  There’s no way around it.  The question is what are we going to do about it?  Retreat and lick our wounds and never try again, or tolerate the pain because it brings true rewards? My experience has reflected one of the themes in the Guild Hunter series by the inimitable Nalini Singh, Archangel’s Consort.  This book focuses on the Archangel Raphael and his now-consort, Elena, who was human (with a bit of a supernatural edge) but was made immortal through Raphael’s love. Great stuff. 

Because Elena is, for all intents and purposes, a baby immortal, she is still extremely vulnerable physically.  She needs time to grow in strength, and she needs to be kept safe while she does this. In her case, it’s not clear that she will be able to overcome her physical vulnerabilities and grow into her immortality in a safe environment.  That doesn’t means she won’t grow and progress.  Just that it will be a lot harder and hurt a lot more.

I can seriously relate to Elena’s situation (this has been true before—see my blog click here . Whenever we try something new, especially when we do it in front of a lot of people, the vulnerability is excruciating.  It can be almost too much to bear. I think that for many of us, it’s so uncomfortable, we rarely try.

Exposing ourselves is hard. When we are young, we are born open and trusting that the world will reciprocate our innocence.  I think we are born believing that everyone will be as guileless and delighted as we are.  Unfortunately, most of us quickly learn that the world is not as safe as we wish it to be, so we start to hide more and more of ourselves to avoid the pain of careless or deliberate assaults to the exposed parts.

If we are lucky enough to have loving and competent parents (the two don’t always go together and well-intentioned, but clueless parents can wreak havoc on a child’s developing psyche—just because we are doing our best does not mean we are doing it well), then our introduction to the casual cruelty of the world might be delayed.

But if our parents are malignant or inept, we might learn very early to build up our defenses against the pain that comes when we joyfully present ourselves to others, only to have said others respond badly. It hurts. It truly does.

So we become very adept at hiding the real parts of ourselves that we cannot risk exposing, because we believe we cannot survive the pain of being wounded there. But we’re not children anymore—small creatures with little ability to process that kind of pain. As adults, we are much more adept at using logic and reason to understand that feelings aren’t facts, and they won’t kill us.

Growth and evolution always involve pain.  Just ask Elena, who must spend months strengthening her new wings so that she will be able to fly.  Her work is physically painful and emotionally frightening because she knows her weakness means she is vulnerable to injury or death.  She is afraid for herself and for her consort, too, because his love for her represents a gaping hole in his defenses, the Achilles heel that could bring him down. Seems like a perfect metaphor for the rest of us.

When we grow and do new things, or take the first steps toward an intimacy that will create a gaping hole in our own defenses, it’s gonna hurt. And we’re going to be afraid. We will probably end up with bruises and maybe scars. But that’s not a reason not to do it.

Which leads me back to my blog, which feels like one great, big exposed nerve ending that I’ve presented to the world to nurture, ignore, or abuse as it sees fit. It’s especially painful when it comes from people I know and who I love and trust. I know they’re not trying to hurt me on purpose (it’s important to make that assumption—otherwise, it’s well past time to examine the viability of the relationship).

So, what to do? One option, of course, is to quit. Option two would be to ignore the pain and deny that it exists—until it comes out sideways, as it always will, and you end up having a fight about which movie to see and it ends up being the battle of the century and you have no idea why. Option three is the most difficult, and involves communicating the hurt to the other person—without making them wrong or defensive—and giving them an opportunity to apologize and make amends, and then moving on, even if we didn’t get exactly what we wanted from them.

This is all so difficult because we can’t get blood from a stone, and sometimes, we really, really need that blood.  But those we love can only give us what they have to give.  And because they are no more perfect than we are, sometimes it won’t be enough, or it won’t be the right thing.  And so we’ll hurt. But we will have grown, and so will the intimacy between us. Because we were willing to expose ourselves and tolerate the pain of the process.

Vulnerability is the potential for pain. But it is also the price of connection.  And connection is what feeds our souls.  So, I’m going to work to stay exposed.  No matter how much it hurts.  How about you?  Care to join me?

And It's No Sacrifice

Just a simple word, as Sir Elton so eloquently tells us. I've been inspired to think about the nature of sacrifice and what it means for us in modern society as I am reading Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunter series. I've only just finished the first book in the series. There are a number of very interesting themes in the book that I anticipate Ms. Kenyon will continue to explore in later works (as an aside, I'm LOVING the new edition that has all the books in order all in one place-- what a fabulous idea--I'm hoping others will do the same!). Among these ideas is the concept of being loved for who we are, rather than what we represent or what we are (beautiful, famous, accomplished, rich, powerful, etc.). But that is a thought for another post. Stay tuned.

Back to sacrifice. And no, we're not talking about virgins to assuage an angry god. We're talking about the idea of being willing to give something up for a greater good. This can involve delayed gratification or complete denial of gratification to achieve a larger purpose.

I think a lot of us don’t want to confront the concept of sacrifice. We seem to be all about having our cake and eating it too. Which is an idea that is really more fantasy than reality.  In my beloved fantasy novels, however, the make-believe characters seem to grasp the reality of sacrifice a whole lot better than many of us here in the real world.

The concept of sacrifice entails forgoing something that we really want or love. Sacrifice connotes pain and loss. If you can take it or leave it and you give it up, that isn't a real sacrifice. In the dictionary, one definition of sacrifice means to give up something precious. I think that nails it. Another aspect of the definition involves a sacrifice that is offered to demonstrate loyalty and devotion to God. I'll just say this about that: the God I believe in does not require that kind of sacrifice. But let's not go too far down that rabbit hole.

Back to the idea of giving up something precious for a larger purpose. This is what both Julian and Grace are prepared to do for each other in the first Dark Hunter book, Fantasy Lover (we are going to need to have a serious discussion very soon about these ridiculous titles, by the way!). It's all very Gift of the Magi and quite romantic, of course. And because these are paranormal fantasy books not written by George R. R. Martin, everyone (except the bad guys) gets an HEA, so in the end, the sacrifice is not required.

But in reality, how often are we called to make a genuine sacrifice and if we are truly honest with ourselves, how willing would we be? I know this question smacks of "I'll cross that particular bridge when I get to it and because I most likely won't get to it, I won't worry about it," but I think it's actually an important question to ponder. What would we be willing to give up for love? Would we be willing to forgo a dream job because our love can't make the move? Would we be willing to give up a life of ease by marrying someone we know will never make a lot of money instead of waiting for a high earner? Would we be willing to forgo children that we thought we’d have/wanted because our love was either infertile or unwilling to be a parent? Would we be willing to live in a place we didn't like, or move around a lot if our love were in the military? Or live apart because of logistical reasons associated with professional realities? What are we willing to sacrifice for our children? These are situations that arise with some frequency.

And what happens after the sacrifice? Unfortunately, there are many instances of buyers' remorse when we decide in the moment to make a sacrifice and then come to regret it later. This is analogous to when kidnapping negotiators try to ensure that the ransom to return a kidnap victim doesn't bankrupt the family who wants to get its loved one back. If the ransom is too much, there are innumerable problems later when resentment sets in that the whole family had to sacrifice their lifestyle or retirement or schooling, etc., to save the life of one member, no matter how beloved.

When the consequences of a single sacrifice must be lived with day in and day out year after year--as they do when we decide to forgo children that we wanted to appease a partner who didn't, or retirement to support a struggling child, things can get tricky.  A sacrifice made in the name of love can morph into something quite the opposite of that. Resentment is a corrosively destructive emotion that can be the result of sacrifice.

Unfortunately, it is possible that a decision made for noble reasons that seem overwhelmingly positive in the moment may evolve into a very negative force in our lives. I've seen this a lot and it never fails to make me sad. I'm just not sure that most of us are built for sacrifice over the long term, but perhaps I am wrong.

In fantasy novels, it usually works out in the end. In life, that is not always the case. It is difficult to project into an indefinite future how we will feel about actions we take in the present moment. Sacrifices need to be thought through very carefully. Because the truth in this particular fantasy is that while characters in a book are often called on to demonstrate their willingness to make a sacrifice, they are not often called to actually go through with it. Something to think about as we decide whether to cross that particular bridge when we come to it.

On Being Human

In all of the paranormal fantasy I read, the existence of the supernatural serves as a foil to highlight what it means to be human. Currently, I’m reading Angel’s Blood in the Guild Hunter series by Nalini Singh. This is a particularly clever series with a very interesting world inhabited by angels, archangels, and vampires. Definitely different from many of the other series I’ve read. One of the best parts of this book is the description of the archangel Raphael, one of the major players in the series. To begin with, he’s inhumanly beautiful, of course. He’s also powerful and has a number of supernatural abilities, not the least of which is the gift of flight. He can also throw fireballs out of his hands. Not too shabby.   Oh, and he can shed angel dust that acts as an aphrodisiac. Orgasm on stick.

So, of course, he is wildly attractive to our heroine, Elena, who is a Vampire Hunter (in many of my favorite books, the female lead is a warrior, a strong and successful hunter, which is something I love and about which I will have a lot more to say in the future). But, Elena is quite hesitant to get involved with Rafael precisely because of his extraordinary attributes.   He is so clearly superhuman that it gives Elena pause.

The inter-species nature of this pairing certainly isn’t anything new in paranormal fiction. Often, when a supernatural being chooses to mate with a human, the human has a little something extra, like Sookie’s telepathy or Michaela’s fae- seeing ability in the Fever series by Karen Marie Moning. In the book I’m now reading, Elena is ”Hunter-born,” with the ability to scent vampires, which comes in handy when hunting them. The message here is that it requires a little something-something to run with the big dogs, which is probably true in real life as well. 

Today, however, I’m interested in exploring the inhumanity of the archangels in the Guild Hunter series to see what it has to say about our own human condition. One of the effects of immortality, or near immortality (archangels can only be killed by other archangels), is that the older they get the less they can relate to what it’s like to be human or mortal. Apparently, being human is synonymous with caring, compassion, and empathy (I’m not sure about this, given the nightly news these days, but we’ll go with that premise, for now). Without exception, and in all of these fantasy books, inhumanity is equated with apathy, and it is almost always the price of immortality. Unless the supernatural beings can be saved by love– often the love of a human who shows them the path back from the brink—they are lost—monstrosities without conscience or sympathy.

In Angel’s Blood, Raphael asks himself, whether the humanity that Elena glimpses in him will be enough to save him. It’s an interesting concept isn’t it? It’s also a good question to ask ourselves: are we human enough to save ourselves? Have we nurtured that heart of connection and compassion that is the gift of our humanity? Or have we covered it up with anger and bitterness and a burning sense of the unfairness of the world? Humanity in this definition is the ability to think past ourselves. To put the needs of others ahead of our own.  To sacrifice our wants, desires, pleasure, and ease for a greater purpose. Because that is what immortals seem to lose over the course of their long lives: the ability to be unselfish, the concept that in selflessness we actually get more of what we really want and need in life.

Many of us forget this, myself included. For those of us who are partnered, we often begin the relationship with lots willingness to put our partner’s needs ahead of our own. We wake up first to bring our beloved coffee in bed; we remember to say thank you for the daily courtesies (which we actually practice); we are willing to engage in activities we otherwise wouldn’t, because our love enjoys them.

But then that changes over time, as if the passage of days dilutes our humanity, just like in my beloved books. The longer the relationship, the less inclined we are to be selfless and the more self-centered we become. We stop doing all of the little niceties in which we delighted during the courtship and honeymoon phases. We decide not to bother to make an extra stop after work to pick up our partner’s dry cleaning, reasoning that we’re tired and that they can do it themselves. We stop going to hockey games or romcom movies because, hey, we never liked them anyway. And in doing all this, we chip away at our humanity and give way to that which is less human, but nevertheless resides in all of us– our low selves, our animal natures, whatever we want to call it.

So, we must ask our own reflections, are we human enough to save ourselves from the fate of the immortals? Can we nurture our humanity and fan the flames of our passions? I don’t know, to be honest. It is so hard to keep humanity alive amidst the daily demands of the march of days. But we need to try. We need not to go gentle into that good night. We need to hold onto the parts that make us human. Which includes an inexorable drive towards death, reminding us that time is fleeting, and we may not have tomorrow. Now is the time to embrace our humanity and save ourselves.  Because none of us is going to live forever.  And who would want to act like we were, anyway?

See and Be Seen

One of the things I loved about Costa Rica was that it was definitely not the place to see and be seen. Women weren’t dressed to the nines and dripping with diamonds. The men didn’t feel compelled to hide their protruding bellies under bespoke suits. It was extremely refreshing to be in a luxury environment where everyone wasn’t trying to one up everyone else in terms of perfect highlights and the most noticeable designer labels—not that this is the only way to see and be seen, of course, but it’s certainly prominent almost everywhere you go.

My husband, Michael, gets mad at me for staring at high-end cars as they drive down the road—invariably by a middle-aged or older man who is usually bald. Michael tells me that I’m giving them exactly what they want with my attention, and that I shouldn’t reward such blatant efforts to be seen by looking. It’s an interesting idea. I have a very close friend who dated a guy with a Porsche 911 that had a license plate that said, “Not True.” Apparently he wasn’t lying, but you have to ask yourself why he felt compelled to tell everyone. But I digress. Again.

There are lots of ways we fulfill what appears to be a basic human desire to be seen, and to be recognized. I was talking to my boss, the high-level Defense Department guy, about some women we saw walking down the street in Las Vegas wearing not very much. He wondered why they dressed that way (apparently, he really didn’t understand—sigh).  I explained that I used to dress that way when I was younger because I wanted men to look at me (women too, but for different reasons). He seemed perplexed by that, probably because he’s never really seen that side of me. Many of us dress to impress—it’s the only reason for short skirts and sky-high pumps. Not to mention wife beaters.  On the other hand, as the great costume designer, Edith Head noted, if it’s not pretty, cover it up. Unfortunately, there are way too may folks out there who really don’t understand this concept. As Karen Marie Moning would say, muffin top and camel toe—Gah!! In addition to all the posturing we undertake to be noticed, there’s a whole range of sexually stimulating practices that progress from voyeurism to exhibitionism. These tendencies are explored by Gwenvael and Dagmar from G.A. Aiken’s Dragon Kin series. They both like to watch. And, it turns out, they both like the potential danger of discovery to add a dash of spice to already white-hot sex. The multimillion dollar porn industry is a testament to how deeply the voyeuristic current runs beneath our culture. Hey, our fascination Miley’s twerking ass is a monument to our willingness to watch, and enjoy—although sometimes we put a fig leaf of self-righteous anger over our enjoyment, lest anyone suspect the naked hunger with which we participate in these voyeuristic daydreams. And I’ll definitely cop to the other side of that coin and admit to engaging in a few public displays of affection, if you know what I mean. I’ll skip the specific longitude and latitude, in case anyone was inclined to show up and actually watch, but my husband and I have been known to frolic occasionally in some very public places. Except for the need for some uncomfortable contortions, it can be quite fun.

And all of this looking and being looked at (like switching the view on my iPhone camera) is all around us now. Instagram and Snapchat allow us to document our lives and watch the progression of those of our friends in living color. I’m not sure what it means that we have become both the subjects and the objects of our own voyeuristic exhibitionist fantasies--but I’m sure I’ll explore that in another post (kind of brings to mind the man from Nantucket—who needs anyone else?)

We cry out for attention—look at me, look at me--and then we act like the dog that caught the car and go into full on-retreat, because we don’t actually want anyone to see us. No way. Not if we’re going to bare ourselves completely. So, we want to see and be seen, but only the parts we’ve deemed acceptable for public viewing, as a friend of mine once described her new, surgically improved mid-section. So we go back to hiding our true selves and projecting only what we want people to see.

And that’s assuming anyone is even looking. Because what these new opportunities for exhibitionism are doing is significantly diluting the view. There’s so much to see these days that we are forced to go to extremes to get anyone’s attention. And I don’t care if no one ever pays attention to me again; I’m not wearing a dress made out of bacon.

All of this voyeurism and exhibitionism leads to thinking about the kinds of looks and lookers we’re attracting. When we resort to hyperbole to catch the light, it’s only the sparkle of a cubic zirconia. Not real.  Inauthentic. Not for me, thanks. I’m interested in the light that reflects off real diamonds—brilliant, white-hot, and mesmerizing. That’s how I want to see and be seen. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

The real me

I’m back from my vacation and attempting to “re-enter” my life.  Not an easy task, I’ll tell you that.  A lot of the usual work and chores seem harder because I only want to write my blog and read my books, dontcha know? But I did sneak in a few minutes of reading this morning- I’m back to (re)reading the Dragon Kin series and today I was struck by what happens when the persona we project isn’t actually the one we wanted out there representing us to the world.  Sometimes, as they say, no one can hear us over the noise of our actions. 

Have you ever had the experience where someone calls you on your stuff, and it doesn’t make you angry, but genuinely hurt?  What do you mean, I’m no fun? What do you mean I have no idea how to play? Are you saying I’m a stuffed shirt?! I’ve had this said to me on more than one occasion, and it stings.  Inside, I think of myself as a fun- loving, tripping-the-light-fantastic kind of girl.  I danced on the speakers of Studio 54, for the love of Pete (granted I was a mere babe at the time- literally and figuratively, so don’t spend too much time doing the math)!  I’m fun! I am.

But, it’s possible that not too many people these days (or even for more than the past few days, truth be told) really see that side of me anymore.  And, to answer the question definitively, if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, it doesn’t make any noise.

If all of my crazy fun-filled antics are taking place in the privacy of my mind or when I’m alone in my kitchen rocking out to loud eighties music, it doesn’t count.

Turns out, while I’m busy thinking of myself from the perspective of my rich inner life, everyone else is basing their perceptions of me from the view they get outside of my head.  Put another way, while I am busy defining myself by my thoughts, others are defining me by my deeds— and only the ones they know about.  As Joan Cusack says in the classic movie Working Girl, just because I like to sing in my underwear doesn’t make me Madonna.

In The Dragon Who Loved Me, Gwenvael the Handsome is so sad that no one can see the real him—the serious, dedicated soul who gets the job done.  Others only see his drinking and womanizing and therefore don’t take him seriously.  This wounds him.  But poor Gwenvael’s experience makes me think about my own.  Maybe I should pay attention to how others see me and ask myself if the view from outside of me might not be more accurate than the one from inside my head.

Maybe I could stand to rouse my inner disco queen again and spend some time dancing somewhere other than alone in my kitchen.  Maybe a little less work and a little more play will make Anne a less of a dull girl.  Maybe I need to lighten the hell up already. Intensity is highly overrated. 

Maybe “the real me” needs to be excavated a little and let out a bit.  Maybe I’m making a mess inside and nobody even bothered to put down pee-pee pads.

Maybe I need to think more about what I do and less about what I think.

I’ll let you know when I get home from the disco.

Warts and all

I’ve been reading the Dragon Kin series by G.A. Aiken. This is one of my favorites (there are quite a few—maybe 15 or so series make my top ten list—I never was much good at numbers). This is my second time through this series, and I’m only on Book 2 right now.  One of the fun things about reading these books for the second, third or even fourth times is that once I know how everything works out in terms of the plot, I can pay more attention to the deeper elements of the story: the characters, the themes of each book/series/author, etc. (and yes, I get that most of the time, the girl gets the boy or vice versa, the bad guy gets what’s coming to him and all the secondary characters fade cheerfully into the sunset or get set up as the protagonist of the next installment—unless you are George R.R. Martin, in which case all bets are off).

One recurring theme in these books of shape-shifting dragons (one of my absolute favorite kind of shapeshifters—but more about dragons in another post) is the idea that there is someone out there for everyone—no matter how seemingly unlovable, irritating or nasty they seem.

Have you ever known a couple who appear (at least to others), to work extremely well—meaning they seem content with each other and well-suited, but you think to yourself, I can’t believe he/she can stand him/her?  I’ve known couples like that where the guy is rude, crude and socially unacceptable, but the woman seems totally devoted, or vice versa. When that happens, I create all sorts of scenarios in my head where she had an abusive upbringing and is wildly insecure and was willing to settle for whomever she could get so that she wouldn’t have to be alone.  And yes, I have an overactive imagination, I know.  But back to Felix and Oscar (you remember The Odd Couple, or am I dating myself?  Look it up—hilarious stuff). In reading about Annwyl and Fearghus or Talaith and Briec (as an aside, do you ever wonder where these authors come up with the names they use?  I mean, how perfect is Voldemort or Khaleesi, which I now understand is a popular baby girl’s name in the US!  But I digress--again).

Anyway, these dragons-who-can-assume-human form and the women who love them turn out to be made for each other.  I mean, come on, Fearghus the Destroyer and Annwyl the Bloody?  You’ve got to love that.  And Talaith is a “harpy” according to the author, and Briec’s ego is so large his head barely fits through the door.  And they delight in calling each other “rude bitch” and “arrogant bastard” as terms of endearment.  I’m thinking that might not fly in my house.  How about yours?  But they adored each other in the book, and there are other couples like them in real life, so it must work for at least some folks.

Another of my favorite series, Thea Harrison’s Elder Races, has a later entry called Kinked, in which the two lovers’ romantic and sexual proclivities match extremely well (I’ll give you a minute to let your imaginations roam on the way in which a book called Kinked explicates complementary practices).  And then there is another, stand-alone book by one of my very favorite authors, Kresley Cole, called The Professional.  This book was published in three parts, which was a bit frustrating at the time, but ultimately satisfying, as it made the good parts easier to find on my Kindle (and, no, I’m not above re-reading certain scenes again and again like they’re Penthouse Forum stories—just sayin’).  In The Professional, the two main characters are literally made for each other (and we know this early on because they have the same kinds of “toys”)—and one of the reasons I love these kinds of books is the endlessly imaginative ways that the authors find to engineer the plot developments so that the story not only holds together, but the specific character traits of the protagonists actually contribute to the advancement of the plot.  Very clever stuff, that.

But back to the idea that there is someone for everyone. Not despite their personality peccadilloes, but because of them.  I have a strong personality, for example, and I need someone who not only appreciates that, but loves me because of it, all the while not letting me steamroll over their personality. I can be a bossy bitch, a demanding princess, and a very particular perfectionist, and my husband (usually) sees me as being a decisive woman who knows what I want and need (so that he doesn’t have to guess), who is also ambitious, and competent to do what needs to be done.  Someone else, not so much.  Which is why I’m married to my husband and not someone else. How about you?

I love the idea personified in so many of these books that we don’t have to be someone we’re not just to attract a mate.  And in fact, in being who we are, instead of who we think we should be, to ensure that we don’t die alone and childless (as one of my friends used to express her greatest fear) is a wonderful idea that too many of us don't actually believe.  We can attract the right mate—the one who sees the and all aspects of our characters and not just the warts, when we are our authentic selves, and not the person we think someone else might want.

Because in the right circumstances, stubbornness becomes perseverance and recklessness becomes courage—right?  But sometimes we all need help reframing our perceptions, even about ourselves—or especially about ourselves.  So, it’s OK to be who we are.  In fact, it’s better than OK.  Because no matter who we are, there will be those out there—be they friends or lovers—who love and appreciate all of us. Warts and all.