I Am a Rock

Once upon a time on a winter's day in a deep and dark December... Nah, I'm just joshing with you. What I really meant to say was… once upon a time in the fertile imagination of the inimitable Robyn Peterman, I was inspired to think about the philosophy of self-sufficiency. I'm reading the latest in the Hot Damned series, Fashionably Hotter Than Hell. I love Robyn Peterman's potty-mouthed, Prada-loving heroines, and her ‘redonkulous’ plot lines. They’re silly, fun and fabulous. I love a book that can make me laugh out loud and all of Ms. Peterman's novels always fit that bill. Today, I'm thinking about Heathcliff and Raquel (silly names, true, but hey, they beat some of the other stupendously stupid titles and names in this genre). In the beginning of the book, Heathcliff works to convince himself he doesn't need a mate. Then, later he works to convince his mate that she does need him. In this iteration of a common plot trope, Heathcliff is called upon to weigh the relative merits and disadvantages of being self-reliant. Shockingly—to no one—he comes to realize that we all need a little help from our friends, particularly if we want our HEA. I understand. For me, self-sufficiency is a source of pride and deep comfort. I subscribe to the philosophy that if I want something done, it's always best do it myself. Particularly if I want it done right—meaning to my standards and specifications.

In Fashionably Hotter than Hell, Heathcliff tries to convince himself that he doesn't need any help, and that he's content to be alone. This is, of course, rubbish, and it's easy to see the stupidity of that stance when someone else is assuming the position.  But when it's me telling myself I can and should go it alone, it seems perfectly reasonable, logical and even noble. The level of my own denial can be stunning.

What motivates us to make like Simon and Garfunkel and desire island status? Probably lots of factors that would give Freud a run for his money, but the major driver here is lack of trust. Lack of trust in our fellow humans, and lack of trust that something greater than ourselves will catch us if we stumble or fall.

Our mistrust in other people leads to an unfortunate tendency to identify out of the rest of humanity. We can't trust others to have our backs or to provide effective help and support because most people are not like us—not as smart, or capable or competent. This is a (highly unattractive and regrettable) flaw in my own personality: I believe, mostly, that my way is the right way and everyone else's way is inferior. I believe this bullshit despite the fact that my way got me into some very dark places in life.  And yet, I've remained convinced that in almost all circumstances, I know best and I can't trust anyone as much as I can trust myself.  

Here's a sneak peak at the last page of that particular book—things don't work out so well for our distrustful heroine. She gets smacked upside the head by life and finally, after years of believing her own publicity, realizes that self-sufficiency is not only lonely, but also…wait for it… ineffective. It doesn't get her what she wants, and it doesn't ensure everything stays under control. Self-sufficiency, like control, is a chimera. It doesn't exist and we're fools to pursue it. But that's me, a fool for pride. Kind of sucks, truth be told.

When we distrust others, we make them lesser. Others become those who we dominate, not those to whom we open ourselves. We do this because we believe we are unique and better. But it's not true. At our cores, all humans want the same thing: to be loved for who and what we are. My struggles are your struggles, and your struggles are mine. We are not so unalike. We are all in this together and when we recognize that truth we can have compassion for each other, and for ourselves. We can trust each other. We can identify in instead of identifying out.

Eventually, Heathcliff comes to this realization too and avails himself of the help that he's offered. I am also beginning to recognize this truth. Slowly. But there is another aspect to this awakening process that involves our concepts of dependence and personal freedom. But alas, dear reader, my time on this page is done, for now. So, I'm going to try something new and continue this train of thought in my next post on July 8, entitled "I Am an Island."  So, please tune in for part two.  Same Bat Time, same Bat Station.

Hope Is Not the Thing with Feathers

I've written about hope several times. It's a topic that fascinates me, and one I contemplate often. I've written about the relationship between hope and fear, where, according to Karen Marie Moning, hope strengthens and fear kills. I've also written about the two faces of hope—the uplifting one and the one that crushes us under the weight of disappointed expectations. But Gena Showalter gives us a whole new spin on an old topic. In her Lords of the Underworld series, as introduced in The Darkest Pleasure, she depicts Hope as one of the scourges of humanity, unleashed from Pandora's Box, and hosted by the most evil of the Lords of the Underworld.  Hope is a demon who, "purposely raises expectations, makes people believe there's a potential for a miracle, and then he crushes those expectations, leaving nothing but ash and despair."  Wow. Harsh. 

In case you don't remember your Greek mythology or your nineteenth century poetry, we'll have a brief refresher on both. In the myth, Zeus gave Pandora a beautiful box (jar, actually, but it was mistranslated in the 1600s), as a wedding gift, and told her not to open it. But, like Lot's wife, Pandora couldn't keep her curiosity in check, so she opened the box, and unleashed death, destruction, disease, misery and despair on an unsuspecting world. Pandora swiftly closed the box, keeping Hope inside, as an antidote to the demons she'd released.  Now, this whole story doesn't make a whole lot of sense, as releasing the demons loosed them in the world to plague humanity, but keeping Hope in the box preserved this slight amelioration for all. Confusing. But the gist is clear:  that in the face of terrible things, where there is life, there is hope, and where there is hope, not all is lost. Check.

With respect to the poetry lesson, Emily Dickinson taught us that "Hope is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul/And sings the tune without the words/And never stops at all."  There's more, and it's lovely, but you get the idea. Hope is a light and precious thing that elevates us all. Or so good old Emily wrote in the late 1800s. Check, check.

But what if they are all wrong, and Gena Showalter is right?  What if Hope is a demon from hell, discharged into the world to create the most evil of all? A particularly disturbing scene from the Game of Thrones series comes to mind. Theon, who has betrayed his foster family, the Starks, and committed atrocities beyond imagination, has himself bee captured and tortured. One night, a savior comes to rescue Theon, and lead him away from the house of horrors where he's been living. So Theon and his deliverer escape and ride for a couple of days. Theon is beyond relieved and grateful. He is full of hope that his escape will be successful and he will go home. But it turns out that his rescuer is none other than Theon's tormentor, who has posed as his rescuer to twist the knife more intensely. When Theon realizes that they've ridden back to the house of horrors and that his "rescuer" is his torturer, his spirit is irreparably broken. Which was the point of the exercise. It is so much more effective to crush someone's spirit after you've falsely raised their hopes. In this case, hope was an exceptionally effective weapon of total destruction.

Hope is a beautiful thing. Until it's dashed. Until we can no longer reasonably hope for anything good, when we cannot do anything but despair. Then Hope is the spawn of Satan, worse than cynicism, or being jaded or have low standards and lower prospects. Someone recently suggested to me that I'm afraid to become too attached to any desire, which is why I'm having trouble owning my shit and doing what needs to be done.  My friend said that I was taught at a young age that when I hoped for good things, those hopes were dashed so thoroughly that I lost my ability to hope. It's an interesting idea. And I hope it's not true.

My mother and I had a troubled relationship, as you know. To say the least, she did not encourage my hopes and dreams.  As a result, because I'm not an idiot, I learned quickly to keep my dreams to myself, and then to abandon them altogether. It was too painful to want things that were just for me, just for my joy and never get them.

But leaving aside my sad upbringing, it's also interesting to ponder the supposed sign on the gates of Hell, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."  What if that were wrong, and Satan uses the hope of salvation from the fires of Hades to torment sinners all the more. Then Gena Showalter would be right.

But I'm not ready to subscribe to Gena Showalter's view of the universe. I think we need hope, even if our hopes are thwarted. Hope gives us some time of happiness while we didn't think the worst. That might not, in the end, be worth the pain of disappointed dreams, but often it is. It's like Pascal's Wager:  God may or may not exist, but I can derive such comfort from believing while I'm on this mortal coil, that I might as well believe. If, when I die, it turns out I was wrong, well, then, that might suck, but I would have had the comfort while I lived. And if I were right, and this God cares about such things as belief, then I will have made points with the big guy—always a good thing. So, I'll continue to root for Karen Marie Moning and believe that hope strengthens and fear kills. I still like Gena Showalter's fantasy books, and her interesting premise. But I'm going to hope that in truth, she's wrong. 

The Blame Game

I'm still enjoying Gena Showalter's Lords of the Underworld series (and will be for quite a while, as there are at least 14 books, maybe more—this gal can write!). Today's contemplation comes from The Darkest Pleasure, although my thought experiment reflects the premise of the entire series, so it is not specific to any one story. In the Lords' world, Hunters seek to capture the Lords, enslave their demons back into Pandora's Box, and rid the world once and for all of Pain, Misery, Disease, Death, Violence, etc. The Hunters believe that once the demons are no longer able to influence the world, then all will be utopia. I first thought that this particular aspect of the backstory was a little weak, because, really, who would believe something so stupid and patently false?  But then I started thinking about the world today and even those in my own household, not to mention my family of origin. And while I cannot personally relate to playing the Blame Game, and making others responsible for my actions and my life, apparently, there are a lot of folks who can. Donald Trump supporters come to mind. Oops, did I say that out loud? In the book, Reyes and Danika have an exchange about the Hunters and the philosophy of those who seek to inter the Lords of the Underworld and incapacitate their demons. Reyes says, "As long as humans have free will, the world will never be perfect. We do not force them to do bad things, they do them of their own volition… Hunters are disinclined to consider that truth, however. It's far easier to simply blame all their problems on that which they do not understand." Amen, brother. You got that right.  

Before I continue, I need to disclose that I'm virulent on the subject of playing the blame game. There is no personality trait I despise more than not taking responsibility for our own shit. I hate excuses and I particularly loathe the idea that we are a victim of unlucky circumstance or other people's bad behavior. Makes me insane and reminds me of my mother, of whom I have few fond memories. So this is a topic near and dear to my heart and about which I have strong opinions (truth be told, I have strong opinions on lots of things).

So back to Reyes and his conviction that humans are disinclined to acknowledge their own agency in any bad behavior they exhibit and their tendency to point the finger at others as the source of any sort of unpleasantness. Kids excel at this game; in my house, it's never clear who's at fault for any given transgression. One twin will blame the other who will blame his brother in return. Reasonable doubt abounds and the little stinkers get away with murder as a result.

The most dangerous version of the blame game isn't the one we play with others, however.  It's the one we play with ourselves. And I'm not taking about onanism. I'm talking about the stories we tell ourselves about why we haven't succeeded or achieved or received. What we tell ourselves—and others—about how we got screwed out of the job, the promotion, the good grade, the championship, the girl, the guy, and the lottery ticket. Because it's always someone else's fault. It's someone else's stubbornness, or malfeasance or stupidity or whatever. There is no way that any of this was my fault or my doing. It happened to me, and isn't that grossly unfair?

And, as we know, the blame game leads quickly to a rousing round of the "If Only" game. If only that other schlub hadn't won the race, or dunked the ball or raised his hand first or arrived before me. Then, I would have won. I find this particular version of the blame game especially infuriating. As my mother used to say, "If only my grandmother had balls, she'd be my grandfather."  Quite. If "Just this once" are the three most dangerous words in the English language, then "If Only" are the two most dangerous ones. These two little works reflect one of the most tragic lines in cinematic history, when the late, great Marlon Brando said with such anguish, "I coulda been a contender."  Perhaps. If only. But it didn't, and you weren't. And blaming something or someone else not only means we're a failure, at whatever it was, but we're also a victim, which is the worst thing of all to be.

So, what's the solution here?  Easy peasy. Don't blame others. Grow a pair and own your own shit. We must admit our mistakes and learn from them. Nelson Mandela said, "Don't judge me by how many times I fell down. Judge me by how many times I got back up."  Ain't that the truth?  We all fail. And mostly, it's our own fault. And that is OK, because sometimes we need to fall down so that when we get back up, we can rise higher than before and we can become winners.  No one who plays the blame game ever wins. That's a game for losers. Reyes knows this, and his judgment of the Hunters is obvious. And I know it, and my judgment is the same. So, let's be winners. Let's abandon the blame game and leave it to the losers. They'll blame it all on us anyway.

Atlas Shrugged

I just finished Jessica Sims' novel, Between a Vamp and a Hard Place.  It's rare that I read a stand-alone novel and it was a lark. (I usually read series to know that there are other books out there for me and so I can hang out with beloved characters a bit longer, but I digress). This is an adorable book, and I spent several enjoyable hours with Lindsey, her best friend, Gemma, and their hibernating vampire, Rand. A good time was had by all. Lindsey and Gemma are antique dealers of the penny-ante variety, hoping to do great things with an old, antique-filled apartment in Venice. The apartment is their ship that has come in, although there are some tidal waves to navigate along the way, or we wouldn’t have a novel. Among the challenges faced by our plucky heroines is a secret room, an old coffin, and a vampire who's been asleep for 600 years…. Just the run-of-the-mill problems facing young entrepreneurs everywhere. Lindsey is the alpha, is a control freak; she’s the one who takes charge. She's always assumed this is what Gemma wanted – that it reflected the arrangement that best suited both friends. Imagine her surprise when Lindsey discovers that Gemma has a fierce side and some pretty strong opinions about various subjects. When Gemma reveals these previously hidden personality traits, Lindsey is unsure how to react at first. Soon, she decides that there are some unanticipated benefits to the shift within the friends’ power dynamic. Lindsey is able to relax more, knowing that Gemma is taking the lead. Lindsay notes to herself that, "Gemma's assertiveness was making my own fears melt away."

Back in the day, when I traveled with my mother, who was deathly afraid of flying, I could be serene (without medication) because I knew how scared she was. All of us know that planes stay aloft using some pretty strong intentional magic—and without the extreme concentration of those select few of us tasked with keeping the plane in the air, it would drop from the sky like stones in a river. My mother's fear was such a strong force, I knew my airplane was in good hands when she was on board, and I could relax my hyper-vigilance, confident we would reach our destination without plunging to the earth at terminal velocity. Can you tell how much I love flying? Actually, I do now, because I've discovered better living through chemistry, and my mother's little helper helps me not give a shit whether we fly or fall.

Then there was that time in Yoga Nidra class with one of my best friends. We were on time and getting into the zone when some obnoxious women walked in late, creating as much disruption as possible. Now, my friend is an extreme type A personality, just like yours truly. And normally she would have given those ladies the stink eye for harshing our mellow. But my friend was able to relax and rejuvenate, sure in the knowledge that I would unleash my inner New Yorker on these miscreants who disturbed our serenity.  Which I did, of course. So my friend didn't have to. She thanked me afterwards.

Why is it we can let go when someone else is feeling our feelings for us? Seems counter-intuitive that worry and fear among family and friends wouldn’t feed off each other and intensify instead of dissipating. Which begs the question: if we can let go of worry and fear when someone else is carrying the load, why can't we let go at other times? All of us know that worry is a misuse of the imagination, and fear makes us stupidly reactive. Why do we need to inflict these miseries on another before we can allow ourselves to shrug our shoulders?  I'm not sure I have an answer but I think it has to do with trust. In the book, it took Lindsey some thought and faith before she felt like she could trust Gemma enough to let go. And when the alpha friend understood that she'd made a mistake in not trusting Gemma, life got a whole lot better for both of them—Lindsey because she could take some of the load off, and Gemma because she felt trusted and valued enough to pull her own weight.  Win-win, my favorite outcome.

And the issue of trust leads me to the issue of faith. If we have faith in our family and friends to allow us to lay down the load, perhaps we can also have faith in something bigger than ourselves. If we can believe, first, that our fears and worries do no good whatsoever, and second that someone's already got our backs, then we can make like the French and lift that shoulder with a carefree, "C'est la vie."  

Or not. We can always choose to take up and keep our burdens all to ourselves. We can choose not to trust anyone else, and we can choose not to have any faith. Life will be nasty, brutish and lonely at that point, but we all make our choices. I choose to take a page out of A Vamp and a Hard Place and rely on my friends, my family and my faith to allow me to shrug. I don't have to shoulder all that weight alone.

Hurts So Good

I'm in the middle of book three of the Lords of the Underworld series by Gena Showalter, The Darkest Pleasure. This is Reyes' book, and he is host to the demon of Pain. This guy has a serious issue with cutting, a disorder I've never understood, although it seems to be the preferred method of self-destructive behavior for American Millennials. These poor souls, like Reyes, seem compelled to inflict pain on themselves. Without it, apparently, they don't feel alive. How terrible to be so desperate to feel—something, anything— that the sting of the knife in one's flesh is the only available relief. In the book, Reyes' demon exhorts him to administer pain, emotional and/or physical, either to himself or others. I've written several posts on the human tendency to avoid pain at all costs—even the cost of perpetual numbness. But what about the other side of that coin-—the pursuit of pain at any cost?  I don’t understand this affinity for affliction. But it is quite prevalent in many guises throughout society. We pursue pain in our athletic activities, our professional lives and in games of one-up-man-ship with friends, family and strangers on planes, trains and automobiles. We wear our pain as badges of honor, and some of us base our whole identities on our painful experiences both past and present. As I started to think about it, the pursuit of pain seemed almost as universal as its avoidance. Clearly, Gena Showalter has tapped into a universal truth in her depiction of Reyes and his demon. Who knew?

I think we've been told to "feel the burn" since the days of Jane Fonda and Richard Simmons (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, Google "sweating to the oldies" and make me feel old—just don’t tell me about it). In every exercise class I've ever taken, I've been told, "No pain, no gain."  So we look for pain, and we wish for pain, and we revel when we feel it. How twisted is that?  I'm pretty sure new research has come out that repudiates the “pain is good” theory of exercise, but many continue to seek discomfort in pursuit of bulging muscles. Which seems highly stupid to me; pain is our body's way of telling us that something is wrong and that we should stop what we're doing, not double down on the activity. But that's not how we roll, now, is it?  Burn, baby, burn.

And what about pain in our professional lives?  Here on the East Coast, in cities like New York and Washington, DC, the more pain we endure in our work, the better workers we are.  Here, only sissies work an eight-hour day. Twelve is the bare minimum to be considered a good employee.  And for those twelve hours of cubicle hell, we don't need no stinking overtime. Overtime is overrated.  We're nobody until somebody notices that we get in before anyone else and we leave after everyone goes. Then, and only then, are we considered big league material. And the pathetic part is that we mostly inflict this stupidity on ourselves. We admire the idiots who've never heard of work/life balance, and we're sure the world will end if we're not putting in more time than Charles Manson is serving. Crazy. In the real world, if you can't get your work done in an eight-hour day, you're not very good at your job. We should be judged on quality, not quantity.

And what about those of us who delight in cataloguing our aches and pains in loving detail?  We can go to websites for "my arthritis", "my migraines", "my cancer", and "my diabetes."  I don't want that shit. But so many of us are invested in our illnesses and injuries. We pay more attention to our pain than to our pleasure. To the point where our pain becomes our pleasure, and not in a cool BDSM kind of way like we're living in one of Cherise Sinclair's Masters of the Shadowlands books. Nope.  We've just learned to love pain, crave it, even, so that it becomes that measure by which we validate our lives, just like poor Reyes. And like Reyes, we've stopped resisting so that we embrace the pain and give it a loving home. And how twisted is that? As twisted das a severely arthritic hand, I guess.

I just don’t get it. If it hurts, stop doing it, fix it, or run the hell away from it. I saw a graphic on Facebook (talk about pain—but that is another topic entirely) that said that women should pursue men who make their lipstick run, not their mascara—love it!). We should not accept pain, even though, as the Buddha said, pain is inevitable. But it is not eternal, because nothing is. Further, while pain may be inevitable, suffering is not. We don’t need to build whole identities around pain. We could, and here’s a novel idea, build our identities around fighting our pain, and not making a home for it. The question for me is this: if we’re not housing the Pain demon, like Reyes, why are we so happy to accommodate all of the pain in our lives. So, let’s let learn from Reyes and let go of whatever pain we can and seek out the pleasures that this life offers us lest we end up hosting Pain for an eternity.

Endless Loop

I like to multitask. I'm totally ADHD and it takes a lot to hold my attention. Which is why I sometimes have several books going at once: a hard copy book (whatever non-fiction book is tickling my fancy); an audiobook (almost always a novel I've read before and want to revisit with someone reading it to me); and a new paranormal fantasy on my Kindle (unless I'm in a reading desert and have opted for an old friend to keep me company while I find a new author/series). So it's always kind of cool when I notice a theme or plot device in two books I'm reading at the same time. In the most recent occurrence, I was listening to Kresley Cole's Dark Needs at Night's Edge while reading Gena Showalter's The Darkest Night. And the common trope in both books was a curse that caused one of the protagonists to relive, in a very visceral way, the worst night of their lives. Over and over again, the nightmare reel is playing in a never-ending loop of pain and anguish. Sounds fun, huh?  Good thing this is fantasy and that could never happen in real life. But wait—that's not quite right, because, as we know, there is truth in fantasy and this is no exception. In Dark Needs at Night's Edge (Really?!  Again with the supremely stupid titles), Naomi was a celebrated dancer who is brutally murdered by a rejected lover. As a ghost, she is doomed to experience her death each night of the full moon, preceded by a compulsive dance that she can't control—it's as if she is a puppet with someone else pulling the strings. It's horrific. In The Darkest Night, Maddox, who houses the demon of Violence, is condemned by the gods to be killed each night in the same way he murdered another —stabbed to death and escorted to hell for the night, only to be reborn in the morning to do it all again the next night. More fun than the law should allow, is what I say. 

The common theme here is the idea that we are often stuck reliving the past—usually the most difficult or painful aspects of our history, and usually an event or moment that forever alters the course of our lives afterward. Anyone who's experienced a trauma knows all about this. But even those of us who have made a bad decision, like an extra drink before getting in the car, unprotected sex, just this once, marrying the wrong spouse or letting the right one get away—we have a tendency to put all of these actions or events on an endless loop in our brains and just hit "play."  It doesn't get any more depressing or limiting than this, at least for me. 

What do we hope to gain by pressing the "repeat" button over and over? We're not idiots, or at least most of us aren’t, so there must be some perceived conscious or unconscious benefit to all of this ceaseless self-flagellation. Perhaps we think we can gain insights from our repetitive analysis of the events in question. Maybe we believe we deserve perpetual punishment for whatever sins we've committed, even if the transgression involves being a victim of someone else's evil. Or maybe we believe that if we replay it again and again, we can change the outcome in the past and affect the trajectory of our future. It could happen, right?

For me, my endless loop involved my husband getting sick. I came home from walking the dog to find him unconscious next to our bed. Ambulance, hospital, tests, terrible prognosis (that was totally wrong, by the way, and who does that to a spouse?!). Worst night of my life. It was twenty years ago and I still replay it.  I'm still paranoid about coming home to see that terrible scene again.  I can't help myself, and I look for things he or I could have done differently, or what could have gone the other way for an even worse outcome so I won't do that in the future. It's all bad. But I watch that inner movie and I take it apart piece by piece, and then I put it back together and do it again. 

For some of us, our endless loop is more like Maddox's. We have one defining moment—the point before which our lives were one way and after which they were a different way, and we replay that over and over again so that we can punish ourselves and feel the burn. Or maybe we'd stop it if we could, but like Maddox, who is cursed by the gods, we can't hit the stop button, so we suffer continuous penalty. Whatever crimes we committed, real or imagined, I can't believe a benevolent Universe would want us to suffer for an eternity. If we're feeling guilty enough to relive our transgressions, we're probably sorry we did it and likely willing to make any amends we could and surely never do it again. At some point, haven't we paid our debt—to society, God, ourselves?  I can't imagine not. And yet we persist with the endless loop of misery.

And then some of us just want to change the past, which is, of course, a fool's task. The past doesn't change, no matter how many times we relive it. We can only change our present moment, and perhaps those of the future that haven't happened yet. But that other ship has sailed, and our attempts to alter what's done is pure insanity—doing the same thing over and over—in our minds no less—and expecting a different outcome. Just say no to that life-stealing, soul-sucking pastime.  Enough said. 

So how do we stop hitting "repeat" and play another song?  Therapy comes to mind, of any variety that works for us in our particular circumstances. I'm a big fan. Talking to friends, meditation, journaling, bodywork, self-hypnosis… there are many paths to healing. Love is also an effective answer.  For Naomi and Maddox, predictably, true love and a willingness of their loved ones to sacrifice for their benefit is the road to happily ever after.  And that can be true in our lives as well. Love heals. Always, if we let it. Time makes its contribution as well. But the secret ingredient of success for all of these scenarios is the willingness to let go of our pasts, and the conviction that we deserve a brighter future, one where we're not condemned to relive our misery endlessly. Turn off the endless loop and reclaim the rest of our lives.

The Changing of the Guard

I took a wee break from the Lords of the Underworld series to whip through Molly Harper's latest offering, Big Vamp on Campus. As you know, I love Half Moon Hollow, Kentucky, and all its wacky inhabitants. This installment of the series focused on Ophelia, the scary 400-year old teenaged vampire who used to run the Vampire Council. Ophelia was a bad vampire, and now she's being creatively punished. Ophelia has been sentenced to college to learn how to live among humans and her fellow vamps in something approximating harmony. Either she is brought down a notch and learns to co-exist or she will get a stake in her heart which provides sufficient motivation for her to at least try to go along to get along. Her defenses were higher than the ice wall in Game of Thrones, and breaching those walls is going to take considerable time and effort. I could relate. Most of us spend a goodly portion of our childhood and young adult years getting hurt and trying to figure out how to avoid getting dinged again. No one likes to get hurt, so we meticulously build our walls, brick by brick, channeling Pink Floyd until there isn't a big bad wolf out there who can blow our houses down. We're protected and we're safe…. But also we're separate and alone.

Interestingly, those fortresses are constructed without a lot of conscious effort. At heart, we are pleasure-seeking creatures who try to deflect pain. This is smart; pain hurts and pleasure feels good. And when something hurts, we want to protect ourselves from it. So we add another brick. We condition ourselves, like Ophelia, to assess what others want from us, what they can do to us and for us. We look for weaknesses to exploit, and strengths to fight against. We work to out-maneuver those who are trying to beguile us. We raise our hackles and don our armor. We go on the offensive, knowing that this is often the best defense.

And through all of these machinations, we insulate ourselves. I am a rock, I am an island, I touch no one and no one touches me. No wonder someone wrote these lyrics. These are very effective techniques. The problems come when we begin to realize that while we may not feel the pain of vulnerability, we're not feeling much of anything else, either. And not only that, we often discover that we are increasingly exhausted and our reserves of energy are being systematically depleted to the point where we don't want to go on. Alternatively, we may be forced into a confrontation with our defensive natures by virtue of the fact that others are tired of being skewered by our pointy parts.

I've written before about how there's no variable speed button on our feelings. They are either on or off. Most unfortunately, we can't choose to feel the love but not the pain, the joy and not the sorrow. Numb is numb at every level. And sometimes that numbness grows so gradually, that like that poor, overheated frog, we don't understand that we needed to jump out of the pot until it's too late—we're cooked.

Sometimes the wake-up call comes in the form of a major health crisis, brought on by our consistent but unconscious efforts to sublimate pain. All of that unconscious work to protect ourselves saps our energy and depletes us to the point of sickness. Auto-immune disorders, the bane of twenty-first century existence, comes immediately to mind.  What is an autoimmune disorder but our bodies' way of saying, "Hey, this way of 'living' isn't working! Wake up, dude, before it's too late." That happened to me; it took getting so sick that life was almost not worth living to reassess my priorities and get with a program that fed my soul and nurtured my body. The Universe definitely needed to knock me upside the head with the very bricks I'd used to build the defenses that were killing me. Poetic justice. Thankfully, I was finally able to listen and change, taking down my defenses, brick by brick, until I could feel again.

When I started making the changes necessary to live a healthy life, I noticed that others began to respond very differently to me. Ophelia learns this too. Turns out, when we're not constantly on the alert for danger, we give off a much nicer vibe and others react accordingly.  When I'm open, others can be too (well, at least those who are doing their own work to live awakened lives). When we drop the gauntlets and lay down the swords, we become more approachable. What a concept. For Ophelia, this means making friends among humans and vamps alike. For me it meant being able to accept the love and support my friends and family had been trying to provide over my objections. Turns out it's nice to let others help us. Who knew?

Not Ophelia. Not me. But, we both came to learn, life without the guards is actually lovely. And while taking the walls down necessitates letting in occasional pain, the joy and pleasure are worth it. So I say make like those immovable men at Buckingham Palace and allow a changing of the guard. It's fun, it really is. Just ask Ophelia.

Who's Your God?

I'm finishing up Gena Showalter's second book of the Lords of the Underworld series, The Darkest Kiss. And I'm excited because my friend who recommended the series assured me that the books get better as the series progresses, which is always a treat! Anyway, I've been intrigued by a sub-plot of the series wherein the pantheon of Greek gods, led by Zeus, has been overturned by the Titans, whom the Greeks had previously conquered to take over Olympus. Payback's a bitch, dontcha know? So, now we have a situation where a group of grouchy gods are newly returned to power, running the show and pulling the strings, taking an interest in people and circumstances that the Greek gods had been inclined to ignore for millennia. Note to self:  try to avoid becoming the object of attention of all-powerful gods intent on demonstrating their power and getting their revenge on. Not a good situation. But underlying that storyline is the extraordinary idea that our gods, or the idea of our God, can change over time and how that can truly rock our worlds. In The Darkest Kiss, the Titans, led by Cronus, are handing out assignments—which are not at all optional—to the Lords of the Underworld who have been mostly left alone by the Greek gods for millennia. This is not a welcome development for our favorite alpha hunks.  Our boys have learned to live with the demons they host and have even come to some accommodation of the death curse suffered by Violence, Pain and Death. Until true love frees them all from this vile curse in book one, The Darkest Night. I do love my HEAs. But now, Cronus has commanded Wrath to kill Pain's beloved, and Death to take the soul of the only woman he's loved in thousands of years. Talk about a buzzkill. Needless to say, the Lords of the Underworld are not big fans of these gods-in-charge and are hoping for another change in management, which does not appear to be forthcoming at this point.

Which got me thinking about the ways we each conceive of our own personal gods or God. I'm a big believer in the God of many faces—the Divine that exists and that isn't me. I'm happy and comforted to believe there is something bigger than me out there managing the chaos and creating purpose. But I haven't always believed as I do, and in fact, my concept of the Divine has evolved right along with the rest of me, allowing me to experience a change in Universal management whenever I feel the need. If only our friends, the Lords of the Underworld, could see things my way.

Now I understand that many people feel that God is a fixed entity or idea. Maybe He is that old man with a white beard who sits up on his clouds in heaven weighing our every move and judging the quality of our characters. Or perhaps your God is a more benevolent Jesus, trailing love and mercy in His wake for all who follow him and maybe even those who don't, depending on your particular understanding of Christianity. Or maybe your God is closer to the Jewish and Muslim construct, a non-personal energy that cannot and should not be depicted in any sort or concrete form, to avoid idolatry. I believe that the God of many faces is all of these embodiments and more.

I think God is so much bigger than our limited imaginations can conceive that it is the height of hubris to presume that any one of us, or any group of us can define the Divine in any sort of categorical way. And my apologies if I'm offending anyone, but that just seems silly to me. The Divine, by definition, is infinite. We, and our thinking, also by definition, are finite. Do the math.

If you buy into my logic, we can be like Cronus and his cronies and oust the current leadership in favor of a more proactive deity or deities. Or, we can discern that our needs are best served by a more distantly benevolent supreme being who is well disposed toward us, but perhaps a bit too busy to attend to our more mundane concerns. Which is OK, as long as the Big Guy shows up when we're in the foxhole, forgetting that we were functional atheists prior to our current consternation.

Or perhaps you prefer a more activist universal life force. No problem.  Being infinite, the God of many faces can help us with any problem under the sun, including what to wear and what to eat and who to date and which job to take. Infinity can accommodate anything we can throw at it. That's what it means to be infinite. Pretty cool. In fact, we can write the most perfect job description we can conceive, and the infinite will always have the exact quals we desire. Because that's also what it means to be infinite.

We can change our conception of the Divine and therefore our relationship to our God or gods as often as we feel the urge. If we're burdened by a concept of a frightening, judgmental God as a souvenir from our unhappy childhood, we can ditch that construct and build a more loving, compassionate, merciful God. If we're wracked with guilt and convinced we're going to Hell, we can work through these malevolent ideas and move toward integration and peace through confession, restitution and authentic remorse. All is possible with that which is infinite. Infinite possibilities is the name of the game. We are only limited by our finite thinking.

I love the world building in this series and I love the thought experiment inspired by the idea that gods can be conquered and ousted from power. I can't say I like either of these sets of thugs-in-gods'-clothing, but perhaps we'll see a third set of deities as the series progresses, or maybe the Greeks will be chastened by defeat and more benevolently disposed toward our heroes. In any case, it is all infinitely interesting and infinitely entertaining in my finite world.

Fighting My Demons

I've just finished the first book in Gena Showalter's Lords of the Underground series, The Darkest Night.  Good stuff. As with most firsts in a series, there was a lot of setting up to do to establish the rules of the particular literary road and the elements of the premise, which is pretty original. A group of immortal warriors who opened Pandora's Box and killed Pandora are cursed to house the demons they released with their fateful act. So, we have a pack of hunky Lords of the Underworld (and one woman) who embody Death, Violence, Pain, Wrath, Disease, Promiscuity, Disaster, Lies, Misery (she's the female, an interesting choice we’ll explore another time), Secrets, Doubt and Defeat (the final demon, Distrust, was unleashed on an unsuspecting world when his host was killed millennia ago).  Each of these Lords battles their demon, some with more enthusiasm than others, and attempts to prevent becoming pure evil. Easier said than done.  Which got me thinking, of course. What a delicious premise—the idea that we must struggle to overcome our baser natures and prevent our descent into depravity. I suspect that some of us embrace the depravity. I know I've been sorely tempted myself. Resistance is hard. Resistance takes energy. Giving in is so much easier; it's like sinking into a warm bed and getting wrapped up in cozy demonic blankets. For a little while at least. Also, as difficult as resistance is, it's also imperfect. We may choose to resist our demons, but we don't always succeed in keeping them at bay. And when we fail, instead of feeling good, we disappoint ourselves. And once we slip, we may fall victim to the "fuck it" syndrome. Happens to me all the time. 

I've given a lot of thought to the whole idea that we do what we don't want to do and we don't do what we want to do. It's the line from the New Testament in Romans, 7:15. How many times have I decided to eschew chocolate, or cookies, or something else that's going to attach itself to my ass in an undesirable manner, only to be overtaken by gluttony? I've written before about my struggles with pride and envy. But the question today is about whether we struggle against our internal demons or snuggle with them.  The truth, for me at least, is that there are a number of my demons that are just plain entertaining. For example, it's not nice to gossip. But, I’m ashamed to say, I'm not above sharing a slightly wicked bit of information. But not ashamed enough to shut down someone who dishes in my presence. Instead, I’ll offer them a drink and my full attention. I'm also not above embellishing a story to make it more engaging—I'm a storyteller, after all. Although I do draw the line at outright lies. And I enjoyed many extralegal activities in my misspent youth; activities I would happily repeat because they were freaking fun… or were when I was young and more invincible.

And how hard do I really try to resist that chocolate? Or that second glass of wine? Truth be told… my efforts are less than Herculean. How much do I tamp down on my temper when I know unleashing its wrath will get me what I want—even if others are upset in the process? Maybe not as hard as I could, truth be told. After all, it’s one thing to embellish to others, and quite another to lie to ourselves. Just say no to that stupidity.

I think we’re all ambivalent about whether to struggle or snuggle with our demons at times. “Sure,” we tell ourselves, ”I’m gonna fight the really bad ones. For sure if I housed Lies, or Misery or Defeat I would fight for all I was worth.” But is that true? Or is that one more way we snuggle with the demon of Denial—one of my personal favorites? Maybe I’m the only one, but sometimes Lies, Misery and Defeat are quite seductive, and my will to fight quite weak. Those are not good days.

But, as I read about these warriors who host real demons, I was impressed with their forbearance—and embarrassed at my own lack of fortitude. Perhaps I can learn a lesson from the Lords of the Underworld. In fact, I'm sure I can. Sometimes, I find so much truth in fantasy, I'm ready to eschew reality. I tell myself it's time to close my Kindle and get off the couch. And then I tell myself resistance is futile and dive right back in to read another few chapters. So maybe my struggles are more like snuggles after all.

Mighty Multicultural

I just finished the latest installment of Jessica Sims' Midnight Liaisons series, Alpha Ever After. Very enjoyable. The plot revolves around Savannah, a were-cougar, and Connor, a werewolf. She's pregnant with his twins (long story), but she is resistant to the idea of a marriage and happily-ever-after with him. Once he gets with the partnership over dictatorship program, however, the violins start to play for our cat and dog shifters. And therein lies the rub; maybe Ghostbusters got it right— dogs and cats living together may signal the apocalypse. Or, such cohabitation may provide a lesson in learning to adjust to individual and group differences so that all might benefit.  When I was growing up, my mother told me that marriage was hard and that differences in race, religion, culture, economic and intellectual status just make it harder. She told me I'd be well served to find someone whose roots and background were just like mine, so we could avoid questions about where and how and whether to worship, which foods to eat, which ways to pass the time, how to earn and spend money, etc., etc., etc. My mother wasn't wrong, exactly. It probably is easier to have all those questions answered right from the start of a marriage. But, wow, does that also sound supremely boring. Predictable, expected, lacking in any spontaneity or adventure – or the thrill of rebellion. No, thanks.

And while I didn't marry the truly exotic—my husband is a white American, after all—his roots are sufficiently different from mine that life has been anything but dull. Certainly, the differences in our religious upbringings, childhood environments and early life experiences have made for an interesting and sometimes difficult-to-navigate life partnership. I've introduced him to matzo balls and potato pancakes, and he's introduced me to smoked turkeys for Thanksgiving and scrapple. Hardly seems like a fair trade.  But beyond the culinary differences is our basic approach to child-rearing in some respects, our finances, how and where we vacation; he introduced me to camping for the first time when I was 28 years old, and to the view of a riverbank from the middle of the river, rather than from one side or the other. Revelatory. I introduced him to the rare species of animals that inhabit Park Avenue.

Our families, like those of Savannah and Connor, took a while to warm up to each other. That can happen. I will never forget my brother's wedding, which occurred 10 months before ours. My sister-in-law comes from a Mormon background.  At their reception, the two sets of families and friends had been placed at different tables on opposite sides of the room where the dinner was held. On my brother's side, we Jews were whooping it up, eating, drinking and making merry—loudly and with gusto. The Mormon side of the hall was dead silent, with very little movement and no exuberance at all. They looked at us like we were lab rats. But hey, we would’ve done the same, if we'd bothered to notice them at all once we decided they were kill-joy party poopers. We were all wrong to adopt such judgmental attitudes. Those two families never did warm up to each other, a sadly, predictable outcome of the wedding seating.

Seeking to avoid such an obvious dichotomy at our wedding, my husband and I mixed the tables up and spread them randomly around the room  so that it was hard to tell who was who and who was with whom. It worked, and the resulting party remains one of the best I've ever attended (not that I'm biased or anything). And, again predictably, our families have done very well together over the years, to the point that my brother invited my husband's sister and her family to his son's bar mitzvah several years ago. It was great.

When we talk about blended families we usually refer to spouses who’ve been previously married and bring children from other partners to the mix – aka (hopefully) Brady Bunch-style. But I'd like to suggest that all families are blended—simply by virtue of two individuals coming together who have different families of origin. Whether those disparate nuclear families represent differences in race, religion, culture, nationality, socio-economic status, or even if their backgrounds are similar – blending of some sort must occur.

When we marry, we blend. We add to the great melting pot that is America. Sometimes the mix is more successful than others. But nothing gets blended without effort—we've got to mix it up and hope the result doesn't splatter everywhere. Without effort, there can be no gelling. In those cases, like at my brother's wedding, the discrete ingredients exist side by side, like oil and vinegar – neither able to cross the divide to form a tasty vinaigrette. Don't do it. Make that effort to mix. Life is much sweeter if we blend. Besides, if cats and dogs can do it, so can we. And in the end, the result may be blended children who owe their heritage to all sides—just like Connor and Savannah’s little ones.

Born Again

I've been on a Gerry Bartlett kick, but the books are good and I'm almost finished so I’m going to keep going. The last book (so far) in the series is Real Vampires and the Viking. While the main protagonists, Glory and Jerry, are on their honeymoon in Sweden (those long, winter are great for vampires), they dig up Gunnar, a Viking vampire who's been asleep for the past 1200 years, buried in the ice.  Poor Gunnar was born once, born again as vampire, and then born a third time when he emerged from the ice to adjust to modern times (this is a popular trope in paranormal fiction—the "Sleeper" phenomenon; very similar to Owen in Kevin Hearne's Iron Druid series). All of this birthing and rebirthing got me thinking about what it means to be "born again."  I know that the phrase has specific connotations of the conservative religious variety, conjuring images of adults being dunked in rivers and subsequently proselytizing— loudly and often— to whomever will listen. I'm not one who does,listen, that is, as I'm not usually a fan of rabid fanaticism. But when I started thinking about it, I realized that my knee-jerk reaction to the term ‘born again’ was ignorant, biased—and wrong. As knee-jerk reactions often are, of course.  Looking back, I realize I've been born again many times, and have consequently spent considerable time and energy shouting it from the rooftops (aka proselytizing).  I will never forget the first time I read Ayn Rand as a sophomore in college. I was bitten, smitten and converted. I stormed into my political philosophy class to extol the virtues of Objectivism, which I thought was the cat's meow. My teacher calmly asked me to explain my favorable position. I tried, to which he replied, "Saying it louder doesn't make your arguments any more compelling."  Which shut me right up.

My next ‘born again’ experience came when I started a 12-step recovery program. I felt everyone needed the Steps and said so. Again, loudly. No one wanted to hear it, shockingly. I was equally vociferous when I became convinced that everyone should eat gluten and dairy-free—and give up all refined sugar, not to mention artificial sweeteners. One more time, I wasn't too successful garnering converts. I hadn't yet learned my lesson. 

Because the truth is, few people want to be screamed at from a soapbox (well, unless you are a Donald Trump supporter apparently). No one likes a fanatic, and no one wants to listen to someone foaming at the mouth. Which I understand.

But what about being born again in a less obstreperous manner?  What about the wonder and the joy of those beautiful “a-ha” moments when the scales fall from our eyes and we can see a truth, or many truths, clearly for the first time?  I will never forget when I fell I love with my husband, and finally understood what love without anxiety or doubt felt like. Or my first successful experience with meditation. I finally knew what all the fuss was about. Each of us is reborn a number of times in our lives if we're lucky and good. It's a consequence of immersing ourselves in new experiences, evolving into higher consciousness and embracing change in a healthy way that allows us to grow instead of stagnate. It happens every time we make a big leap forward, or when the scale tips with the weight of many lesser moments of renewal and transformation.

Being born again always requires adjustment and a period of acclimatization. And, of course, being born again also necessitates the pain of labor and the discomfort of the birth itself. As I written about time and again, change is hard. Growth is not for the fainthearted. We humans tend to resist it for all we're worth, clinging to the familiar and that which we perceive to be safe. It takes courage to let go of the past and move deliberately into an uncertain future. No one said labor and birth were easy. But at the end, if we're lucky and good, we get a new life, figuratively – and sometimes even literally.

We can embrace this new life with enthusiasm for new adventures and a desire to live authentically and with integrity. Or we can resist change and refuse to be born again. Gunnar chooses the first option. And so do I. And, if I may say so without proselytizing, so should you.

I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night

I'm finishing up the Real Vampires series by Gerry Bartlett and contemplating a common vampire trope:  the newly turned vampire raring to explore new powers and heightened senses. These newbies are usually a foil for older vampires to demonstrate their wisdom and their restraint or an opportunity for the protagonist to be a hero/heroine. These are always fun scenes. In the Real Vampire books, we have Israel Caine and Sienna Star, neither of whom were too happy to become vampires. In the Sookie Stackhouse novels, the lovely Jessica is turned and goes hog wild with her new abilities. There are others, but the plot points are similar. These new vampires (or werewolves or faeries or witches) are a group of young people (no matter their chronological age) who want to rock and roll all night, and party every day (well, except the vampires who are dead until dark, naturally) and a group of elders who want to curb their enthusiasm. The problem—for me, at this point in my reality—is that the elder statesmen rarely have much luck curtailing their "children."  Not what I wanted to hear right now.  I have one son working to embody Kiss’ classic song and one who is enjoying the role of elder statesman (despite being 90 seconds younger). I'm not at all sure what to do with my wayward son. I've explained that he's free to carry on (I'll try to stop now), but that there are consequences to all of our choices. Like Glory and Jerry in the Real Vampire series and Vampire Bill in the True Blood series, I'm walking a fine line (with his father, of course) between enabling our son and pushing him so far away he won't listen to a word we say. Not only is that line mighty thin, but my eyes are going anyway, and I can't really see it clearly or follow it accurately. Arrgh!

What to do, what to do?  Some would say, "Have faith and let it ride."  Others tell me to get all up in his business and take control of a kid who doesn't know how to control himself. A third party heard from might suggest bigger carrots with commensurate sticks. Military school has been mentioned. I've entertained thoughts of moving to Nepal until his adolescence is over. I'm not sure any one of these strategies is the right one. I'm not entirely sure there is a strategy that will work. I am sure that the situation is aging me in a way vampires never do.

I have friends who delight in reminding me of my own misspent youth.  They tell me to chill the hell out and that my boy is just doing what boys do (which, they say, is a lot better than what I did). I'm reminded that my son has a path that differs from mine, but that he will find his way. I'm not so sure. He seems so very, truly adrift. And his choices seem so meaningless and devoid of a moral center, or the recognition that to the victor go the spoils. It's not enough to want to be successful, one has to work to achieve anything. My wayward one seems to have missed these messages.

Others tell me that I'm making the problem worse by not coming down harder on him. They say I should take away his social life, electronic devices, and even his driver’s license when he earns it this summer, all in an effort to control his misbehavior. I know from my own experience, though, that such tactics just produce liars and children who take unnecessary risks. So I don't think I'm going to go in that direction either.

I've read oodles of parenting books. They talk about incentivizing kids, which, in my day, was called bribery. I'm actually all for that; I don't work for free and neither should kids. By the same token, they don't get money for nothing (see, I didn't extend that line, so I'm not in dire straights). My kids have to earn their allowances. The problem is that we've tried that. In spades. We've dangled huge carrots as well as Damocles' Sword. Nothing seems to motivate this kid. So scrap yet another strategy.

My husband and I are lost. We don't know where to go from here. In my beloved books, it's only the threat of final death or years of torture that seem to get the fledgling vampires under some semblance of control. I dread the thought that jail or bodily injury (or worse) could be the only road to redemption here. But the truth is I have no control at all. Over my son's behavior or anything else for that matter. It truly, deeply sucks – and not in a bloody, satisfying way. It sucks in that helpless, pouty, powerless way that all mortals and immortals despise.

So I will suck up that suckiness. Resistance is futile. We'll continue to navigate the turbulent waters of teenage angst and hope none of us drowns. Because we're not vampires and we need to breathe. Deeply.

To Have and to Hold

I've just finished another in the Real Vampires series by Gerry Bartlett, Real Vampires Say Read My Hips.  In this installment, our heroine, Glory, has decided to marry her vampire sire, Jerry, and live together as forever lovers. Yippee. About freaking time. However, there are those who don't want Glory and Jerry to get their HEA, foremost among them Glory's family. Woe is Glory – and Jerry. Thus, the couple must jump through some pretty major hoops to get to the altar. At several points along the way Glory is sure that Jerry will abandon ship and leave her to her solo fate, seeing her as more trouble than she’s worth. But, as our HEA demands, Jerry never wavers, forcing Glory to confront her fear and let it go once and for all. I can relate. I think many of us can. Who hasn't felt that we were unworthy of love and steadfast devotion?  Or maybe we wouldn’t be if we let our partners see all of us—so we hide and sublimate. But there are guys out there who mean it when they say, "To have and to hold for better or for worse."  It's easy to stick around for better, harder to hold on when it's worse. 

Two years ago a friend of mine was diagnosed with cancer after only six months of marriage. It was so unfair. She is still struggling with many of the after effects of her treatment and she remains quite sick and debilitated. Her husband has stuck with her, being supportive and steadfast. She feels bad for him, claiming, "This isn't what he signed up for." When I told my husband about this conversation, he corrected my friend (to me) and said that actually, this is exactly what my friend's husband had signed up for when he married her. Those marriage vows are pretty comprehensive and they are very explicit about the "in sickness and in health" thing. 

I have another friend whose husband lost his job resulting in a serious financial reversal. She stayed with him and is helping him rebuild.  She is proud that they kept their family together. Yet another friend has never considered leaving her husband, who suffers from a mental illness that manifested after the wedding. For all of these loyal spouses, it can certainly be said that this isn't what they signed up for. But it is, and it is the luck of the draw that they got fewer good years to offset the more predictably difficult "golden years" that come when we're older.

My own husband survived years of my ill health —years that were no fun for anyone.  At one point I begged him to leave me. He refused to even think about it.  He told me he'd meant his vows. On the other hand, we have the 48-hour rule for him: he gets to be sick for 48 hours, during which time I will play Florence Nightingale, and after which time, he needs to get the hell out of bed. Just kidding. Mostly. But I can only hope I would be as loving, patient and supportive of him as he was of me for such a long time.  I definitely felt that I was more trouble than I was worth.  Thank God he didn't agree.

I had no real idea when I married—late, too (I was 30)—what a lifetime commitment meant. I had no idea how important my choice would be to my happiness and general contentment with life. Probably a good thing. But 20 years into it, I have a better sense of what it means to have a forever lover, like Glory, and I can even sympathize with her that it took her 400 years to make a decision.  Not a choice to be made lightly. 

On the other hand, marriage and divorce is so ubiquitous now that it doesn't seem like such a big deal. There is always an easily accessible escape hatch and many avail themselves of it. Many don't want to do the work of marriage. It's easier to scrap the old model and start fresh with a newer version. Moreover, there are some who just keep rotating their stock on a regular basis—like Donald Trump. Yuck. So in theory, there shouldn't be such a thing as more trouble than he/she is worth. In practice that is a tough road to hoe and not everyone makes it. There is also something to be said for the idea that if we aren't happy in our union, life is short and death is long; why not embrace the chance for future happiness by letting go of that which no longer serves us?  Oh, boy, another of the "should I stay or should I go" dilemmas. I write about them a lot. Because discernment is so freaking hard. Marriage vows should mean something. But carpe diem means a lot too.

I have no answers.  Only questions.  I think Glory's reticence to marry may have been a tad excessive, but I get her perspective. I have one more book in the series to find out if she's developed buyers remorse.  I hope not. I'm so grateful I didn't and neither did my guy. We're having and holding, together against whatever comes for better or worse. 

Motivation and Ambition

I've been thinking about motivation and ambition lately. Mine, my kids', my husband's and some of my friends'.  The two concepts are close, but different. Ambition embodies our desires, while motivation gives us the fuel to put forth effort. Sometimes, ambition exists without motivation, and not much happens. Alternatively, motivation without ambition can see us mistaking activity for accomplishment.  We need both. I was reminded of this fact as I finished the latest installment of the Real Vampire series by Gerry Bartlett, Real Vampires Know Size Matters. Finally, after ten books or so, our full-figured heroine, Glory St. Clair, decides to marry her long-time love and find it in herself to want more out of life—generating ambition backed up by the motivation to make it happen. And not a moment too soon; I didn't think I could take another book where Glory remained ambivalent and victimized. It was time to take charge and live large.  Which of course got me to thinking about those who choose to live small. There are lots of options out there, in fact. Some of us are content to be big fish in small ponds. Others strive to live as small fish in big ponds. Then there are those with no ambition who seek to live as small fish in small ponds. Clearly, I have some judgments about those three little fishies. But maybe I'm the one in need of judgment. Is ambition all it's cracked up to be? I have one fish who is über ambitious. He works his ass off, both on the field and in the classroom. He has friends and a girlfriend, but his work and sports come first. His twin brother loves to play and is content to achieve less as the opportunity cost of having fun and maintaining his social status at the top of the high school heap. Both are ambitious, actually, but for different things. And their respective worlds are differently sized as well. One son's world is very focused—smaller, by definition, while the other son casts his net wider. Neither is better or worse, and both are happy with their choices. Which, of course, may change, as Glory's choices evolved over time. Evolution is a good thing.

In another example, I have a friend, who I've written about before, whose life I see as quite small. She doesn't do too much and often stays close to home. But her life is filled with such joy; she revels in the small moments of her small life in her small world. In countless ways, she's much more content than I who aspire to big, bigger, biggest. Who's to say who has the better approach?  Being a big fish in a big pond involves a tremendous amount of work and stress. All of which takes a toll—in my case, the cost was my health and most of my sanity. Was it worth it?  I'm not sure. But I know that I couldn't have been content with a smaller world if I hadn't experienced the bigger one first. We can only enjoy our choice of pond if, in fact, it’s an informed choice, not a default position where there is no plan B.

In this latest novel about Real Vampires, Glory finally wakes up to the fact that she's been in default mode for most of her 400-year existence, which is a major drag. She finally finds the fortitude to flip a switch and decide that less isn't really more – that more is more and she wants it. That is one way we can evolve—finding the desire to upgrade our pond and our position in it.

Or, we discover the opposite—that we've moved into a stage of life where less is more and we want to downsize. In either case, our inner navigation system shifts and our world changes dimensions and we need to reorient.  We may feel lost or overwhelmed when we move into larger digs. Or we may feel claustrophobic at first in more restrictive spaces. Regardless, there is an adjustment period that can be uncomfortable. After that, we may have a different perspective on our space— if we're moving from a small pond to a larger one, we may be a bit star struck. If we're moving in the opposite direction, we might feel more jaded.  And once we adjust to our new circumstances, we can look back and see whether the grass really was greener on the other side. Hard to tell when we're in the thick of it sometimes. You know the feeling when it's not until the headache goes away that we become aware that we were in pain? Like that.

In the end, it all comes down to what we want and what we're willing to work to achieve. These are not simple questions, at least for me. For my kids, either, and, I suspect, for many of us. I was listening to the radio the other day and I caught part of an interview where the guy was talking about the "I want" song at the beginning of most musicals, a song that sets up the central motivating factor for the lead character. It was an interesting concept I hadn't heard before. And it's true.  "I want"—and our ambition to get it— is what creates motivation. But a desire for, and contentment with a smaller life is not necessarily a lack of passion, motivation or ambition. Just like Marie was a little bit country and her brother a little bit rock and roll, there are different strokes for different folks. My judgment be damned.

So I'll get off Glory's case and perhaps have more respect for her previous decision to swim in shallow waters. And in the remainder of the series (I was several books behind, and I have at least two left), we'll see how she does as she dives deep, into a bigger pond.  And I'll try to stop judging others' choices too. What do I know? Only that a lack of desire is fatal—because desire, regardless of its object—creates ambition, motivation and evolution. Without it we’ve got nothing to live for.

Boon Companions

I've been contemplating a quote from Feverborn by Karen Marie Moning lately that states, "Want and responsibility are rarely boon companions." True statement. It is rare that what we need to do coincides with what we want to do. The whole cultural meme of "TGIF" and working for the weekend says it all. We fantasize about winning the lottery so we can kick our jobs to the curb and tell our bosses to stick it where the sun don't shine. And then there are domestic jobs—my personal seventh circle of hell—the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry and the never-ending scheduling and chauffeur duties (I loved that David Beckham, when asked what he'd been doing since retiring, admitted he'd become an Uber driver for his kids—I can relate). On top of all of that, we all tend to fill our lives with "have to's" instead of "want to's". And how sad is that? Plenty sad, I'll tell you. And why? Is MacKayla Lane right that want and responsibility are not often found in the same zip code? I think for most people, she is totally correct. We are all taught to do what we need to do before we do what we want to—obligation before desire.  And meeting our responsibilities often comes at the expense of our wants. Which sucks. Because, at least in our fantasy lives, we all want to relax and recreate, rather than work and be productive. We work and save (well some of us save) for retirement, that blessed state where we can do what we want, when we want and how we want it. Burger King has nothing on retirement. Or does it?

We complain about all of the "have to's" in our lives. One of my favorite movie lines is Steve Martin in Parenthood when his wife asks him if he really has to go to some meeting or other, and he looks at her and snarls, "My whole life is have to."  Powerful and depressing. And universal. My kids are already feeling the soul-sucking effects of “have to” and "not optional."  Homework?  Not optional. Summer job or volunteer position?  Not optional. Hanging out with friends, shooting hoops, taking a boat ride. Not an option. My sons are 16 and the party is definitely over.

The question is, though, is this as bad as we tell ourselves it is?  On the one hand, unlimited freedom sounds good in theory and also in practice at six o'clock on Monday mornings when we'd rather sleep. On the other hand, responsibilities are often clearly spelled out, making it easy to follow the path. Desires are much more difficult to pin down, making them more challenging to fulfill.  Meeting our obligations gives us a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction. Pursuing our dreams, assuming we know what they are, is a lot harder. And the success rate is much lower.

Of course, many of us believe that we would make excellent use of more time— time that is not promised to our day jobs, if only we had the paycheck without the daily grind. We know that our wants are often the opportunity costs of our responsibilities. And while we can contemplate blowing off our responsibilities in order to pursue our wants, how many of us actually do it?  Or would really want to? We fantasize about it, but as most women will readily admit, what we fantasize about and what we want to occur in real life are often two wildly different things. 

Responsibility involves a commitment to others, while pursuing our wants makes us true to ourselves. A truly tough choice. Do we want to be the person who abandons our families to hang out in greener pastures—or at least in grass that looks greener? In the end, it comes down to the kind of person we choose to be. The one who meets our commitments or the one who indulges our desires? We know who Jerricho Barrons is. Of more concern, and perhaps less clarity is who we are.

And while want and responsibility are rarely boon companions, that doesn't mean it never happens. That may be the definition of heaven on earth. Responsibilities tend to limit our choices, whereas wants tend to expand our horizons. When we can have the box in which we exist also be the limits of our horizons, life is wonderful. 

We all make choices. There is no such thing, in reality, as have to, except dying; we all have to do that. But even taxes, contrary to conventional wisdom, are optional, if we are willing to face the consequences of our actions. And that is true for every single "responsibility" versus "desire" out there. Much of our view of reality depends on our perceptions. If we perceive an unpleasant task as a "have to," as Mac does in Feverborn, then it is. But it's not, not really. She didn't "have to" go into that house where her sister's memory haunted the hallways. Mac could have turned right around. It was her choice to perceive her options as limited. Just like Steve Martin in Parenthood. Just like us.

Want and responsibility can be boon companions if we choose to open the aperture of our vision. I know it sounds cliché, but our reality is what we make it. Have to versus want to, it's all in our attitude. Just ask Mac. Or maybe we'd be better off asking Barrons. 

Compare and Despair

I've recently rediscovered a series by Gerry Bartlett that I started years ago. Her Glory St. Clair series about Real Vampires is clever and entertaining thanks in large part to a voluptuous vampire named Gloriana and her on-again, off again vampire lover, the Highland warrior, Jeremiah Campbell, aka Jeremy Blade (Glory calls him Jerry—a play on the author's name). I like the series, although Glory's obsession with not being a size four and her inability to commit to one lover over the course of ten books has grown tedious (although it makes for good sex scenes). But the biggest problem I have with Gloriana St. Clair is her propensity to compare herself to others and come up wanting. After 400 years, you'd think she would have figured out that to compare is to despair.  One of the banes of modernity is the over abundance of information that tells us we don't measure up. There is so much data available to show us that everyone is prettier, thinner, smarter, more successful and richer than we are. On the other hand, we have reality television to make us feel better about the lives we do lead. Everywhere we look, we compare and despair. Just like Glory, except we don't have the same number of years of experience to teach us not to be so stupid. Regardless, we should know better.  When we compare ourselves to others, only two outcomes are possible, both unpleasant: we’re either inferior or superior to ‘that’, ‘him’ or ‘her’. And, whether we feel one up or one down, what we don't feel is equal or connected. Instead, we exist on a continuum that encompasses both doormats and dictators, see-sawing between the nausea of two extremes. It’s a vile existence whether it’s for 40 or 400 years.

By definition, comparison is dissatisfying. When we compare, we can't be happy with the gifts we've been given—we want someone else's or a better version of the ones we have. When we compare, we feel we must keep up with the Joneses or the Kardashians or whomever pop culture declares our role models at the moment. If we happen to be the standard by which others are judged, we need to not only keep up, but exceed expectations. If last year's holiday party was a blow out, next year's must be even better, so that by comparison, it measures up. Once the beast is unleashed, it must be fed. Continuously. That genie is never, ever going back into the bottle. Sad.

So we chase a finish line that keeps moving farther away. We measure ourselves against metrics that are either grossly exaggerated (e.g. Photoshop) or flat out lies (e.g. the false perfection of so many celebrity marriages, right before they devolve into divorce). What we need to do instead is walk carefully away from the ends of the see-saw and hang out in the middle, where we're balanced, and where we can embrace our individuality and also enjoy everyone else's personality. We need to stop comparing ourselves to everyone else. Particularly as we tend to compare our insides to everyone else’s outsides. Apples and oranges, folks, apples and oranges. Because the unhappy fact is that we’re trying to measure something that cannot and should not be gauged. There is no absolute benchmark for true beauty, or intelligence or achievement. Sigh. I would think that a 400-year-old vampire would know this. In the seventeenth century, a zaftig woman, as my beloved father used to say, was considered beautiful and desirable. Similarly, I would think most 50 year-olds would know that comparisons are specious; as late as the the early 1960s, Marilyn Monroe's size 12 figure was the epitome of female beauty –today we’d put her on a diet before we gave her movie parts. So not only shouldn't we compare, we should remember that beauty, success, wealth and intelligence have been measured quite differently, depending on time and place. It’s silly to pin ourselves down as either an utter failure or complete success. Today's triumph could be tomorrow's defeat. And vice versa. In the end, we’re all just Bozos on the bus, doing our best with what we've got. If we waste our time comparing and despairing, it's just another way to squander the gifts we’ve been given. Which is depressing – especially as most of us don’t have 400 years to figure it out.

Mother May I?

Another Mother's Day and I can't resist writing about one of the highest callings out there. It's been said that motherhood is the hardest job you'll ever love. This is true. And while not every woman is a mother, and while motherhood is not for every woman for a wide variety of good and valid reasons, it is the path I chose that also chose me. Not all who yearn are gifted with the blessings of motherhood. And not all who are gifted were willing recipients. But regardless of whether we are mothers ourselves, we all have one, or did at some point. So motherhood is a universal construct that affects us all. As so often happens, my reading reflects the current themes on my mind. I always reflect on my mother and the mother that I am at this time of year, Hallmark Holiday or not. I'm not above using artificial constructs to spur my reflections and introspection— New Year's Day is no less artificial and we all celebrate that with gusto.  Milestones mark time, and all of us need to pause along the path and check our directions, look back on the road already traveled and make sure we like the route forward. 

So Mother's Day is about mothers. And so are my two latest paranormal fantasies, A Witch in Time, by Robyn Peterman (who must have a difficult mother, as this is a recurring theme in each of her series), and Real Vampires Know Hips Happen, by Gerry Bartlett. In both books, our protagonist suffers the neglect or destructive attentions of a less-than-stellar maternal unit. As you know, I can relate.

Zelda, the Witch in Time, about whom I wrote earlier this week, has a mother incapable of love. Glory, Gerry Barlett's hefty heroine, discovers her mother is an Olympian goddess in this installment of the series, who gives new meaning to the word "controlling."  But delinquent or authoritarian, difficult mothers make an impact. For Zelda, her mother's lack of love resulted in stunted emotional development and self-destructive behavior. Glory missed out on having a mother during her early years (which she didn't remember anyway), and the list of her issues is too long to enumerate in a post this length. Suffice to say, she would give Drs. Freud and Jung plenty of grist for their mills. 

Today I thought I'd let these shadow teachers point the way toward positive parenting tips and tricks. It's easy to point fingers, criticize, and play Monday morning quarterback on all that our own mothers should or could have done. Or all that we should or could have done better, would we have known. But what about parenting that inspires? What does a good mother look like?  Of course, it would be grand if I could peer into a mirror and know what good motherhood looks like. And on some days I can. Like when my sons write heartfelt cards about what my support and belief in them has meant over the past year. That feels awesome. A good mother is always there to pick up the pieces, wipe away tears (surreptitious ones, in the case of teenaged boys), assure our children that what they are going through is normal and that it will end.

But that's the catch, isn't it?  Kids don't have the perspective or experience to know that everything comes to pass and nothing, not even heartbreak of the overwrought, adolescent variety, lasts. But that is such an important message in this age of increasing teenage suicide. Good mothers keep track of what's going on with their kids. Even when those kids would prefer to fly under the radar we hunt for the signs of impending self implosion.

And what about that?  We have more and more tools to know what our kids are doing, who they're doing it with, and where they are doing it. But utilizing all of those tools makes us more Big Brother than good mother. Unless there is a compelling reason, such tactics don't appeal. There needs to be a certain amount of mutual trust, which is hard to achieve when today’s moms are making like Mata Hari on a mission. Spying is not cool. Being informed is. It's not OK to take "I don't know" for an answer. Neither are one-syllable responses to questions asked. I understand that boys and girls, once they reach a certain age, would rather grunt at us than talk to us. Tough shit. Real answers are de rigueur in my home.

For me, being a good mother means getting down and getting dirty. It means being rejected over and over again, and growing a thick skin, not to mention a big, brass pair to be able to take these teens head on and be firm in the conviction that "no" is a complete sentence. Good parenting also means sticking to my guns, something that can be hard for me. Saying "yes" can be so much easier in the short term than saying "no" and listening to all the bitching and moaning.  Consistency is good too. Hard to achieve, but good. 

Being a good mother means that in just a couple of short years, my chicks will fly from the nest, never to return in the way they belong at home now. All our hard work, if done well, means we will lose them to spouses, jobs, friends, lives that don't include us, except tangentially.  And that is the natural order, the way of the world. I know this, and I celebrate my sons' independence. But it's a hard pill to swallow, knowing that many of my actions are making me unpopular at exactly the same time I feel like I should be pandering to their every desire, lest they forget me and leave forever when they go off to college. But I resist those urges to bribe them for their love and approbation. I've always said that if the cost of raising them right is their good opinion of me, so be it. I fervently hope it won't be, but I owe my children the best parenting I can manage, which is often the path of most resistance. 

But all of this is hard, hard, hard. It's hard to walk the line between discipline and punishment. Not to mention treating each child as an individual, which, from their perspective, can look unfair or biased (I get that a lot in my household). It really is the hardest job I've ever loved.

All that limit-setting is as hard on us as it is frustrating to them. So, I hope that you were good to your moms this weekend. If you are one, you know that it's a tough road to hoe, and that our own mothers probably did the best they could. Although I doubt that my own mother rose to her best parenting self, a dubious distinction I share with both Zelda and Glory. Life imitates art. Or art imitates life. Or maybe both. 

Fix Me Quick

It's a bleak and rainy here in Annapolis, Maryland. The weather reflects my mood of late. Nothing is going very well. Yes, I'm aware that my first-world problems are embarrassingly frivolous, so I try not to complain. Much. But knowing my problems are paltry compared to the genuine suffering of so many others just makes me feel guilty on top of being depressed. Sad sack Sally, that's me. So imagine my delight, as I sat on my ever-expanding ass, eating chocolate and reading the latest Robyn Peterman book, A Witch in Time, when I laughed out loud at the silly, clever and hilarious hijinks of my favorite witch, Zelda. She is as shallow as the kiddie pool at the local community center, but she makes me guffaw, something I don't do often. I love her madly (her author is pretty clever too). Just what the doctor ordered—a light and entertaining read to brighten my dreary day. And then, as so often happens, I found the depth beneath the veneer and I began to appreciate the book, and Zelda, even more. Turns out, I see a lot of myself in Zelda (I see a lot of myself in so many characters in my beloved fantasy books; either these authors are writing about universal truths or I'm a flaming narcissist—your call). Zelda has more issues than National Geographic (an old joke, but it still makes me laugh). I can relate. And she's looking for the quick-fix cure—the magic wand she can wave to solve all her problems (she is a witch, after all).  I can relate, even though I'm just a bitch, not a witch.

Zelda has commitment issues, abandonment issues, self-esteem issues and a serious case of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Check, check and double check.  Could we be twins separated at birth? Zelda is uncomfortable with emotional intimacy, and she tends to run at the first sign that she might be developing feelings—Goddess forbid she should actually give a shit about anyone or anything because that leads to vulnerability and pain. ‘NFW’ is what Zelda has to say about that. Except somehow, she didn't run fast enough, and her heart seems to be forming attachments, much to her horror. But Zelda is not a quitter, so she does the only logical thing to be done—she decides to subject herself to a marathon therapy session so that she can be cured. She wants the quick fix for all that ails her.  I envy Zelda’s solution.  I'm all about short-term pain for long-term gain. I can take it— whatever it is - for a while. I'm willing to go to any length—as long as I can get there by next Thursday. In fact, I'm in the middle of a quick-fix strategy right now that's working as well as most of the other fix-me-quick schemes I've tried in the past.  This eight-week class is designed to help me wake the hell up—in fact, the class is called "Awakenings," and the idea is to energize each of the seven chakras, opening them up and allowing the energy of the subtle body to flow unimpeded. Great concept. And it only takes two months of once-a-week classes. Easy peasy. Except I'm not sure it's working. For me, anyway. There are others in the class who seem to be having truly transcendent experiences. Sadly, I'm not one of them.

And to be fair, the instructor warned us that unless we practice, practice, practice, we’d be in danger of going back to sleep. She told us we can have transformative experiences that integrate mind, body and spirit and help us heal the fragmentation of our beings, and that we could still go back to sleep. So, despite my best hope for the efficacy of magic wands, apparently magic is not strong enough to affect lasting change. Only persistent practice is. Bummer.  I was so hopeful that I could be fixed quickly.

But then I started to think more about the assumptions beneath both my and Zelda's thought processes. Thinking we need to be fixed presupposes that we each believe that we are somehow broken. One of the most authentic and poignant scenes in A Witch in Time involves Zelda delineating her many, many flaws to her hunky wolf shifter boyfriend, with the thought that she would drive him away with the truth of her underlying defects. He was having none of it, of course. But she was utterly convinced that if he truly knew her, he'd run screaming from the room and out of her life.

I did exactly the same thing to my sainted and beloved husband when we first started dating. I knew I loved him, and I knew he thought he had feelings for me. But I wasn't in the market for a serious boyfriend at the time, so I figured that I would hit him with both barrels of my eccentricities and character flaws. That way, he could come to his senses and leave sooner rather than later. And, my thinking at the time went, if he stayed, it wouldn't be because he had stars in his eyes. I wanted him to see me, warts and all. Well, want is a strong word, but, like Zelda, I wanted him to get out of the kitchen toute suite if he couldn't stand the heat.  He's still hanging out in that kitchen. And I adore him for it.

Wonder of wonders, my husband doesn't think I'm broken. He doesn't think I need to be fixed—quickly or otherwise. He's all for self-improvement and he supports my many efforts to leave my comfort zone, learn new things and evolve as a human. And I love him for that, too. But, if you ask him, there's nothing broken about me, and it's clear that Zelda's mate feels the same way about her. What's less clear is why she and I are so convinced we need fixing—enhancement, enrichment and evolution, sure, we all need that. But fundamental repair, not so much.

Maybe I can reframe my self-perceptions and see my work toward personal betterment as augmentation, not rehabilitation. That would be a wonderful thing. And on my good days, when life feels easy and I'm engaging more in accomplishment than activity, I can see through that particular lens. On other days, I'm with Zelda, and marathon therapy sessions start to sound like a great idea.