Rebel, Rebel

The wait is over. Drum roll, please… I’ve picked Thea Harrison's novella, Pia Does Hollywood as the first foray into my new pile of soon-to-be favorite books. I'm reading it slowly, excruciatingly slowly, savoring each sentence and scene so I can prolong the pleasure.  Maybe I'll speed up later, but for now, I'm pacing myself. And that’s okay, because even though I’m only a few pages in, I’ve found something that made me stop, think and write. I am indebted to Ms. Harrison for providing access to my Muse. Thank you. Today, I'm thinking about rebellion—of the adolescent variety. In the opening pages of the novella, Pia wonders what will happen when her dragon son, Liam, grows up and decides to challenge his dragon father's authority; what will happen when he inevitably rebels? What would a dragon teenager's insurrection look like?  If it's anything like my teenaged son's defiance, hang on to your hat, Pia, it's gonna be a rough ride. 

I am the proud mother of fraternal twin boys who will turn 16 later this month. They are both awesome individuals, and they couldn't be more different from each other, which was evident the moment that they entered the world. Our "older" son has been the more cerebral, while his "younger" brother has been historically more athletic, although those roles are now shifting. I've been blessed to be very close to both of them, together and individually, since the day they exited the womb. We’ve shared a relationship based on honesty, trust and a willingness to be imperfect and vulnerable with each other. Their father and I provide guidance and boundaries and serve as role models—hopefully good ones—but we strive to let them make their own choices and then live with the consequences.

And all of this has worked well … for the most part… until recently. Our older son has decided that his personal process of individuation must involve the adoption of views and opinions highly antithetical to those with which he was raised, and, as if this wasn’t enough, there’s a bonus: a heartbreaking rejection of the intimacy we once shared. He has nothing but snark and sullen commentary to offer me, and his tone of voice often earns him punishments for disrespect. Testing limits is part of the individuation process – doing so rudely is unacceptable. I'm sure this all sounds familiar to anyone with a teenager, but it feels so different when it's happening to me in real time.

I believed I was exempt. I believed that because I've always respected my boys as people and not extensions of me and treated them as humans and not babies that our relationship would remain on an even keel throughout the oft-reported rocky road of transitioning to adulthood. I've always been able to talk to my boys about anything and they've always been open—completely—with me. I've never tried to be their friend, as they have plenty of those, but to be the adult they can come to with questions, issues, triumphs and challenges. I've worked to be a safe harbor and safety net, so that they can spread their wings and fly, knowing they have a nest to come home to when they need to rest, recalibrate or crow with pleasure.

I've always shared my values and opinions with my kids, as well as the reasoning behind my views. I've invited them to form their own opinions, and assured them that differences would be celebrated and not discounted. We are different people and we need not agree on anything to remain in a loving, familial relationship. We can fight and disagree and it doesn't impact our underlying bond.

I thought that by giving my children the freedom to be themselves, they would have less need to reject everything I care about. I was wrong. So what does my kid's rebellion look like?  Well, he's not a dragon child, so I'm not worried about his losing control and incinerating those who piss him off – that’s a relief. Nor do I fear that he’ll fly away from home to places I can't follow (Pia isn't a dragon and she can't fly). But I do need to worry about a child who espouses interest in nothing but hanging out with his friends and his girlfriend. My son's rebellion is through apathy, sloth and playing the blame game. He's trying on the persona of a man/boy who has more in common with Pierre, who always would say, "I don't care," than with the earnest, hardworking, persistent and focused young man he could be. This drives me insane. His intention, I guess.

With so many problems facing our world, created by my generation for my children's generation to address, there are myriad places to get involved. And yet my son isn't interested in any of them. I guess he figures that others will carry that water for him. And maybe they will.  This drives me insane. Our current environmental issues and the vast discrepancies in the distribution of wealth around the world are problems of the collective good; all will benefit from the ameliorating actions of the few. By the same token, all will suffer if no one picks up this particular ball. I had hoped to be raising children who play ball, because their parents do.

And now I'm hoist on my own petard. We've told our kids they can create their own lives, and we need to stick to that. If our son is content to wallow in mediocrity, we've got to stand back and let him.  This is hard to do and also drives me insane. And thus, frankly, I'm failing pretty miserably at my stated objective of leaving him to his choices. But every day I get back on that horse, praying that today will be the day I get my beautiful boy back. Because I miss him so very much. 

And I find myself wishing that my son was more like Liam, whose childhood has been greatly accelerated by his magical proclivities. I wouldn't have wanted to rush my kids' earlier years, but I'm thinking a smidge of the fast forward button through the teenaged years might be okay – especially about now. I'm told they do leave this phase behind. I'm looking forward to that. In the meantime, my son came over and cuddled a little while I was sitting on the couch, watching his father put lights on the Christmas tree. It was a moment reminiscent of our "old" relationship, made more precious by its rarity at this stage of his development. I'm holding onto it for all I'm worth.  

Reality and Romance

As part of my research for the book I'm writing based on this blog, I'm reading Everything I Know About Love I Learned From Romance Novels by Sarah Wendell. It's an interesting book whose thesis, that the romance genre has much to teach us about life, love and relationships, mirrors my own (well, she was first, so I guess mine mirrors hers). I was particularly struck by a passage from romance writer Loretta Chase that listed the differences between reality and romance: "In real life, men compartmentalize; in a romance, most of the compartments are filled with Her. In real life, men are easily distracted by, say, golf or a football game, when their women are trying to tell them something; in a romance, the hero is totally distracted by Her." Interesting perspective, and probably true, but I would like to pull this string a bit and see where it takes us.

Reading about this dichotomy between reality and romance in Wendell's book (by the way, Wendell is the cofounder of a wonderful website, Smart Bitches, Trashy Books), made me think of a related scene in Dragos Goes to Washington (I love Thea Harrison's stories--so much grist for the mill!).  In this scene, a sleepy Pia wakes to find that Dragos has packed her things for an upcoming trip.  She is amazed and impressed that he got all of it right, and he responds by telling her he watches her get ready every day and knows what she uses and what she wears. Later, when she is sick in bed, he buys her books and magazines that she actually likes and a new iPad, because he noticed the screen on hers was cracked. Ah, romance.

I've been married for more than twenty years. My husband and I share a bathroom and a closet and he does 100% of the laundry in our household. My husband and I both mostly work from home, so we see quite a bit of each other. And yet… there is no freaking way he could pack for me--casual, formal, toiletries, makeup and jewelry. No. Way. In. Hell. But I pack for him all the time. Ah, reality.

This must be a measure of the reality versus romance novels to which Chase referred (I don't put my paranormal and urban fantasies in the same category as general romance, although I know some do--I used to read a ton of romance, and my preferred genre these days has significant departures from its more traditional cousin--but I digress—which I haven’t done for a while.) It could be that whole compartmentalization thing, perhaps, but I prefer to deny that reality and believe that men have not been sufficiently educated.

For example, I think it would come as a shock to my husband that I would consider it a mark of his love that he paid enough attention to be able to pack for me. I believe this is true despite the fact that he clearly sees it as a mark of my love that I know him, his tastes and his belongings well enough to pack for him. Is this a double standard?  Maybe. But in his mind, I think, he sees it as a division of labor thing, not a love thing. In our romance, love is expressed by an equitable distribution of responsibilities in which he willingly and graciously assumes his share of the burden for our shared existence. I think this is a fundamentally fair approach, and so I don't complain.

What does upset me, however, is that he doesn't seem able, as Dragos is, to observe me, my habits and my preferences closely enough to demonstrate an intimate knowledge of who I am, at least in those ways. I sometimes think he wouldn't do very well if we participated in that 1970s TV show, “The Newlywed Game.”  Sure, he’d likely nail the questions about what is the most exotic place we've ever made "whoopee." But I doubt he could answer questions about my preferred yoga style (Yin), whether I believe it's okay to mix black and brown (I do), and where I keep my extra TBR book pile (in a corner of my office).

I'm not even sure he could answer all of the questions in an immigration interview if one of us were trying to get a Green Card. It's not clear he knows the brand of shampoo I use (Color Proof) or my shoe size (eight). On the other hand, I'm also not sure that any of this is important, except that there is no doubt I would be flattered by the attention. I am a creature of definitive and repetitive tastes: I like diamonds over colored gems; I prefer an ear wire to a post; I love to knit with brightly colored yarn, and to wear beautifully patterned yoga tops, but only with black yoga leggings. I love word art (and he's given me a number of pieces I adore, in fact – so at least he notices what’s on our walls), and I collect Tarot decks and chakra-related candles. 

Like romance readers everywhere, I absolutely understand the difference between fantasy and reality. Despite my occasional wistful references to my beloved not being more like Jean Claude or Jerricho Barrons, I don't really mean it. I want my husband to be himself. But I would love it if, at least occasionally, he would prove Loretta Chase and Sarah Wendell wrong and fill more of his compartments with Moi!

With respect to distractions, I don't think paranormal and urban fantasy authors got the memo about romance. In most of my beloved books, the uber alpha males are high-powered leaders of their communities, species and worlds, and thus have a to-do list a mile long. Neither Dragos, nor Jean Claude nor Jerricho Barrons is ignoring his responsibilities and obligations to hunker down and make whoopie with our heroines (not that they don’t do plenty of that, thankfully). And that's okay, because, often (but not always, more's the pity), our heroines are busy being leaders and bad assess in their own right. Which is awesome. So I get that all of us are distracted, whether by ruling and protecting our worlds, or by golf and football.

What might be a smidge different in fantasy over reality is that when the alpha males of my books are with their females, they are with them, body, mind and soul. Sometimes, I get the feeling when I’m talking to my husband that he hears the auditory equivalent of the parental voices in the Peanuts programs. This is not always or even mostly true, of course, as I would never tolerate that (nor should anyone, for that matter), but I will say that having my husband's undivided attention whenever I speak would be nice. And knowing he was listening deeply when I opined, rather than just hearing me would be lovely as well.

Is that too much to ask?  Have I crossed the line from reality to fantasy and everyone was too embarrassed to tell me?  Maybe, maybe not.  This wife will continue to hope that I’m on the right side of the romance line.

Because I do believe that everything I know I learned from reading smut--and that there is more truth in fantasy than not. And I've got almost 100,000 words in this blog to prove it. Hear that, honey?

It Was Just My Imagination

Albert Einstein, who knew a thing or two, said imagination is more important than knowledge. "Logic," Einstein opined, "Will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere."  I've been thinking a lot about imagination, courtesy of one of my favorite characters, Thea Harrison’s Pia Cuelebre. I've just finished reading Dragos Goes to Washington for the fourth or fifth time, and damn if I don't glean something new from every reading. This time, I noticed how often Pia called attention to her failure of imagination. At the beginning of the novella, her focus is on how she could never have imagined her life turning out as it did. Later, she notes that she cannot imagine having to move the entirety of her people to another dimension. And finally, a lack of imagination results in her inability to see the truth that is right in front of her. The limits of our imaginations and the consequences of those limits interest me at the moment, so here we go.

Imagination is the capacity to see that which is not there; it’s concerned with the pictures in our heads comprised of memories- both real and embellished – and projections of what we hope – or fear -- will occur. We can imagine things we hear about from others, or bring to life in our mind's eye words from the pages of books. It is sometimes said that if we can imagine it, we can make it--and this includes creative expressions, athletic endeavors, work-related projects etc., etc. Imagination is as powerful as Einstein suggested. Smart guy.

So what happens when, like Pia, we have a paucity of pictures in our head?  It might not be such a terrible thing -- it wasn't for Pia in this most recent story. But sometimes, a lack of imagination can be a real problem. In my case, I vacillate between feeling wildly imaginative and being sure I'm the imaginative equivalent of a Muggle.

When I was young, I lacked any vision for my future. I could not see beyond escape from New York, which for me meant one thing: getting away from my mother. In my limited vision, freedom from Rhoda (yep, that was Mommie Dearest's name, 'cause God has a sense of humor) was the end all and be all. I was never able to see beyond the escape itself. I couldn’t imagine life after Mother. So I didn't. I had zero expectations for my life and almost the same number of hopes. When I finally hit middle age, I think it was easier for me than for others because there was no sense of, "Wow, I always imagined I would be farther down the path by this time in my life," because I never even imagined a path in the first place.

A failure of imagination led me to accept poor treatment from employers, lovers, and friends. I never fancied that I deserved better, so I didn't ask for it. A failure of imagination meant that I was very late to the party of self-actualization, fulfilling my highest potential, because I had so many primary needs that hadn't been met, including safety, security, love and a sense of belonging to something bigger than myself. For a long time, I couldn't understand the concept of self-actualization because I couldn't fathom I had a self to actualize. 

Because I didn’t spend much time as a child nurturing my imagination, I feel somewhat cut off from that aspect of myself, which makes me sad because I believe that imagination is the engine of desire, and desire is the ultimate catalyst to achieve all of one’s dreams. Sometimes I feel empty in the part of my soul where I understand my desirous fire should burn brightest. I yearn for those flames to inspire me to new heights.

I feel like my imagination is a phantom limb that I am unable to scratch when it begins to itch. Nothing is more frustrating and nothing fills me with the same kind of despair. I know--I think--I hope it's there, and I just need to figure out how to find it. Perhaps I never lost it, or maybe it's just hidden underneath too much reality – and too many safe dreams.

Unlike Pia, my inability to imagine is a big deal. I wish I were more like Pia who can brush off this failure without too much thought. But I'm not. So I will continue to look for and cultivate my imagination and hope it's less elusive than a certain mysterious unicorn.

Timing Is Everything

I’m in between books right now and it’s agonizing. I finished the new Thea Harrison novella, Dragos Goes to Washington (sublime), and the next installment of Rose Montague’s Norma Jean's School of Witchery (fun). And then …  the purgatory of no books to read.  I've written about this malady before once or twice, and it just doesn't get any easier. If fact, if anything, the whole experience gets more frightening and depressing each time. Frightening because I've read that many more books and I’m afraid I'm about to run out, and depressing because if I ever do exhaust the universe of good, fun, compelling paranormal fantasy, what will become of me? I'll be forced to fall back on my previously preferred genres:  mysteries; police procedurals; and international intrigue. But because I spent so many years ploughing through those categories, I feel like those wells are dry too. I've got to stop going down this rabbit hole before I become utterly despondent. If you have any suggestions, for God's sake, please pass them along. 

There is a faint light at the end of the tunnel, however. In desperation, I revisited a book I'd read, or started to read, in the past. I remember buying and beginning it. I also remember that it just couldn't hold my attention at the time. But I visited the usual suspects in my reliable book-finder sites like Maryse’s Book Blog and I Love Vampire Novels, and didn't come up with much I hadn't read and re-read. But then an author and her series I had explored and rejected before floated to the top of my consciousness. I did my due diligence, reading reviews and summaries. And I decided to give the series a second shot. I'm glad I did. Because what I "discovered" was something I already knew:  timing is everything.  

The Argeneau Vampire series by Lynsay Sands is on almost all the top ten best vampire series lists. It's always mentioned as being fun and funny, lighthearted and exceptionally entertaining. So I bought the first book in the series, A Quick Bite, and dug in expectantly. Except that at that time, I was disappointed. I remember that I read the same early pages over and over and just couldn't get into it. I tried, I really did. But then I gave up and went on to greener pastures. And now I'm back, getting on the horse that threw me. And, what do you know, there's a reason that's a cliché. It's important to get back in the saddle—lest we miss out on a great experience because of negative, past associations.

Timing is everything. Have you ever had the experience of reading a book that changed your life because you read it at a critical juncture, only to revisit it later and say, "WTF? Was I on something at the time?" (Always a possibility for me during my misspent youth). I felt that way about Atlas Shrugged. I remember going into my Literature Humanities class in college waxing poetic about the brilliance of Ayn Rand and how I had totally drunk the Kool Aid about her philosophy and economic theories. And my professor let me rant a while and then calmly asked, "But why do you think she’s so brilliant?"  So I upped the decibel level of my voice and again engaged in rant mode. To which he replied, "Yes, Anne, I understand what you are saying. Saying it louder doesn't make it persuasive." I felt about as high as an ant with dwarfism.  But I'll never forget the lesson—and now when I make an argument or posit a theory, I back it up till it won't back up any more. I also learned that 19-year-olds can be very passionate and dramatic for no good reason. When I reread the book many years later, I couldn't understand why it affected me so. Yes, it was good and interesting and raised thought-provoking ideas. But it wasn't nearly as profound as I recalled. Timing.

I read Bright Lights, Big City when it came out in 1984, and wondered how Jay McInerney had crawled into my life and into my head and extracted my thoughts and experiences and put it in a book. "All messed up and no place to go."  That was me, all right. I loved it. I read it three times successively. I recommended it to my friends. But when I went back to re-read it many years later, it left me cold. I wasn't in that place any more and I wasn't that person anymore. So the book didn't speak to me in the same way, thankfully.

When my twin boys were born almost 16 years ago, I read to them compulsively. I was determined that they would love books and learning as much as I did. I read to those children every single day for almost 11 years. And now they don't like to read. Almost killed me. But they are amazing kids and I love them within an inch of their lives. Even though we don't share my obsession with books. But I digress.  My point (I swear there is one) is that having children means we get to rediscover delightful children’s books and enjoy them from an adult perspective.  My burning passion for Dr. Seuss was born from reading him as an adult—to my kids.  I’ve pretty much memorized Oh, the Places You’ll Go, and Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? is an all-time favorite (and don’t get me started on If I Ran the Circus!). Appreciating these books as a grown-up has opened a new world of thoughts and ideas and a beautiful philosophy of life that I wish to live up to—and that I hope my children will absorb through the osmosis of my reading to them— and which may become manifest when the angst of the teenage years are behind them. I’m still hopeful despite my boys current non-reading ways – maybe their ‘book-loving’ time hasn’t arrived yet?

Timing is everything. With books and with life.  As the Tarot teaches us, "As above, so below", I think is also true for the truth and fantasy found in reality and in my beloved fiction: as in books, so in life. I knew this.  But I had forgotten.  Many thanks, Ms. Sands for the reminder – and the series. So happy to remember that timing is everything.

I'm All In

I just finished my fist reading of Dragos Goes to Washington, the next (short) installment in the Elder Races series by Thea Harrison. At the risk of sounding like a total loser fan girl in serious need of a life, I adored this novella and I'm sure I'll read it several more times over the next couple of months. I could not, and did not put it down from page one till the bittersweet end (bitter because I have to wait another month for the next novella, sweet because, hey, it's PNR and everybody gets an HEA--except the bad guys, of course--they just get dead). With respect to Pia and Dragos and all the rest of the Elder Races, I'm all in.  Just like Thea Harrison describes Pia and her dragon mate, "When they were together, they were all in..." Being all in is the best place to be. And one of the hardest places to get to, at least for me. Which of course deserves an exploratory romp through the convoluted recesses of my grey matter. But hey, you're reading this, so hang on for the ride. 

I am fascinated by the concept of being all in. I've thought about it, I've read about it, and I've experienced this elusive state for brief, shining moments--that sometimes last days, weeks, or maybe even years, but which always seem to pass sooner or later. Which leaves me searching for the next peak experience where I can feel all in.

Like for Pia and Dragos, love, especially new love, can make us feel all in. There is absolutely nothing like the feeling that your new love is the key to the universe, the golden ticket to eternal happiness, the missing piece of the soul.  Tomes have been written about the sensation of merging our hearts, minds and spirits with someone we believe understands us and accepts us in ways that no one ever has or ever will, so I'll assume you know what I'm talking about. It's a blissful feeling, no doubt about it. No matter how it turns out in the end (or at least after the beginning) the all in aspects of new love are life altering. 

But romantic love is not the only thing that produces that all in feeling. Parents can feel that way for their newborns, getting lost in the wonder of new life and the power of creation. Heady stuff. We can be all in with respect to new friends, and even new geographic locations. The all in feeling is easier to access, certainly, during the honeymoon phase of any relationship, but that phase can last a very long time, if we're lucky.

And then there are those who are very fortunate, indeed. I'm taking about the lucky dogs who fall in love with their work or avocations to the point that they are all in for the better part of their lives. It is one area where I've yet to conquer my envy of those immensely blessed individuals who find their passion early and remain faithful to the end of their days. I have a favorite cousin like that; he was discovered by an engaged high school teacher and mentored toward a lasting love of inorganic chemistry. His face absolutely glows from within when he discusses crystal formation and why I should care (I'm sure I should, but I just don't. Sorry, Josh). Then there are those who find their sweet spots later in life, like my ex-fiancé who discovered horseback riding in his mid-thirties and has pursued his passion with a passion ever since.

Quite some time ago, I remember reading a book by the hopelessly unpronounceable  Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi called Flow. The book is about the psychology of optimal experience and I remember thinking very clearly, I gotta get me some of that. According to Mr. Alphabet Soup, we experience flow when we are so completely absorbed in an activity that time seems either to stand still or increase to light speed, we cease paying attention to bodily needs and functions, and we become one with all things as we lose the sense of our own boundaries in the cosmos. Who wouldn't be happy under such circumstances?  Flow is the state of being all in. 

But there's a catch--and isn't there always, dammit? In my world, optimal experiences, those where we are all in, or in the zone or the groove or the flow, are as rare as a tuxedo at a Grateful Dead concert. So what do we pitiful humans do? Well, we make like William Hurt and try to achieve altered states. We pursue better living through chemistry. We seek out extreme adventures to feel the rush that reminds us that we are alive. We take stupid risks to try to experience a poor man's version of flow, because those optimal experiences are flowing past us without stopping to let us feel the burn.

I have a friend I meet for dinner about once a month. After we catch up on the quotidian occurrences at work and at home, we always end up talking about ways to be all in. We both crave it, and because our temperaments are similar, we both feel flow from the same kinds of things. And it is equally inaccessible to both of us, so I know it's not just me.

I yearn to be all in. I desperately want to feel like Pia and Dragos. For a lot of reasons. It would be way cool to breathe fire. Or fly, or heal with my blood.  But what I can more or less reasonably aspire to is to be all in. Of course, when I’m reading my beloved books, I’m pretty much there, so maybe I’m the lucky one after all. 

Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself

I've just finished the latest installment in Thea Harrison's Elder Races series, Midnight's Kiss. The publication of the book gave me an excuse--not that I really needed one--to re-read the entire series back to back, and it is stellar -  almost unbearably so. I love these characters and their world so much!  Midnight's Kiss is about Julian, the King of the Vampyres, and Melisande, a Faerie Princess. This pairing leads me to fantasize about what would happen if Laurell Hamilton's worlds were to collide, and Jean-Claude were to get together with Merry Gentry? Wouldn't that be something?!  But I digress, predictably.

 Anyway, Julian and Melisande's story is one of perceived betrayal, enduring love and the ability to forgive – otherwise known as personal growth, which, Julian comes to realize, takes time. But, as a Vampyre who was turned– reborn as a vampire – over two thousand years ago, Julian has had quite a bit of time to evolve. So his failure to thrive, emotionally, that is, wasn't a dearth of hours in the day. The missing, magical ingredient in our ability to grow and change--hopefully in a positive direction--is willingness.

Julian has had centuries to grow, but before he fell in love with Melisande, he lacked the motivation to do the hard work to get there.  There is a reason bookstore shelves, both real and virtual, are chock full of self help books. Many of us want to help ourselves, but have no idea how to go about doing it. The first clue we need to heed is that it takes more than reading a book. As an avid reader, I wish it were that easy. It takes a willingness to go against our basic natures, which seek pleasure and avoid pain at almost any cost. That’s why we eat the ice cream out of the container—oh, did I say that out loud?  It’s also why personal growth is so hard. If it were that easy, everyone would do it.  

The inclination and eventual ability to buck our predispositions is a topic I've explored before. It's something I think about all the time as I strive to improve myself, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I've asked why some of us achieve the drive toward evolution and some of us are never able to rise above our circumstances. I've wondered why our efforts are sometimes successful, and at other times not, without any discernible explanation. I believe that the key components are willingness plus time, but, as Julian demonstrates, the determination must come first, and we must be willing over and over again, day after day. Only then can we achieve personal growth of any sort.

Change is hard. We humans resist change. Apparently, so do Vampyres. I think there are two schools of thought about our ability to change; the creationist view that says a leopard doesn't change its spots, and the Darwinian school, which believes that with persistent effort, change is possible. I'm with Charles on this one. I have a friend who told me about a fight with her husband where they agreed that things between them needed to change. He didn't believe change was possible and told her so. She responded that if people didn't change, she would have died long before, a victim of extreme self-destruction. Needless to say, that marriage didn't last--how could it when only one partner was willing to evolve?  But happily, my friend, whose whole life is a testament to the human ability to grow and evolve, given willingness, work and time, is enjoying a wonderful relationship with a man who appreciates her and is growing along with her.

Humans resist change because they believe the aphorism "better the devil you know," even when the satanic bastard is you. I say, better to exorcise those demons and become the angel you've always wanted to be. When the Dark Lord asks to introduce himself, I tend to run screaming from the room.

Change will not kill us. Discomfort will not kill us. The pain of vulnerability, even when it results in betrayal, will not kill us. What does kill us is a refusal to be open,  and to accept that love inevitably comes with pain, and that stretching beyond our comfort zone results in the deep sensation that lets us know we are alive,  which is way my yoga instructor describes the soreness that follows a good practice.

Making the decision to tolerate such "deep sensations" is what allows us to become our highest self. We must tolerate discomfort to grow.  And such tolerance is a learned behavior. I have only to look toward my 15-year-old twin boys to see how "natural" it is to choose the proximate good over the more temporally distant better. Without help, support and encouragement -- with metaphorical carrots and sticks -- it's all but impossible for them to choose to delay gratification, even if they understand, intellectually, that it is the right decision.

But that is true for me as well. Without assistance, it's just as hard for me to make good decisions that help me evolve, even though I'm an adult. Just ask Julian, the two-thousand-year-old Vampyre, about it. He'll tell you that time alone can’t get the job done. He needed Melisande to help him learn to grow. He needed her to show him that it was something he wanted to do. Desire was the first step toward growth.

So, to recap today's truth in fantasy, change is hard and we need help to find the desire to be willing, and then to make the effort over time to affect positive change and personal growth. Thanks, Thea, for these insights. It's always a pleasure to learn from my favorite authors--much more entertaining, and effective, than a whole shelf of self-help books.
 

Look at Me!

In book four of Thea Harrison's Elder Races series, Oracle's Moon, the power of the Oracle of Delphi has passed to a human witch who lives in Kentucky. Well, why the hell not?  It's paranormal fantasy, after all, and Thea Harrison has an exceptionally rich imagination. Anyway, the way the Oracle works is very interesting and instructive. Those seeking to consult with the Oracle come as supplicants, accepting what is offered. There is no immediate quid pro quo at the time of the consultation, but the supplicant is expected to make a donation to the upkeep and maintenance of the witch to whom the Oracle’s power has passed. The elements of this exchange that I found fascinating were the concepts of attraction rather than promotion, the imperative of the supplicant to seek an audience and the requirement to make a pilgrimage of sorts to do so, that the value of the exchange is left to the supplicant to determine, and that it is up to the seeker to do something good with what the Oracle offers. Or not.

In our world today, where we are constantly bombarded with advertising, living in a culture that encourages us to scream, "Look at me, look at me!" it's hard to get noticed or to notice anything else in return. One does not have to be diagnosed with ADHD, as I am (for which I am quite grateful, thank you very much, but more about that another time, perhaps) to get serious whiplash trying to keep up with all that is out there vying for our attention. We live in a material world that is heavily promoted--by mad men selling big food and big pharma, by multinational corporations wanting us to buy their products and services, by the need to keep up with the Kardashians, or at least with the neighbors. Everything is promoted, nothing is off limits, including yeast infections, erectile dysfunction, hemorrhoids and painful intercourse after menopause. Really?!

So the idea of attraction rather than promotion espoused by the Oracle is an outlier. In the book, Oracle's Moon, the Oracle has just finished putting up a basic website, explaining how things work. And, possibly because this witch with the prophetic powers wasn't out shilling her wares (the website wasn't really cutting it), the poor thing had fallen on particularly hard times.  But even though what she offered could have been abused or exploited, Grace, the current Oracle, never thought to do so, because of the tradition of supplication, attraction and offering of the Delphic Oracle. She upheld the honor and tradition of the Oracle, even when it did not serve her.

We can learn a thing or two from this model, seems to me.  There's a whole lot of expectation in the world today from people demanding help—of the magic wand variety. There's a pill for every ill out there, we can get anything we want delivered the next day (and Amazon and Walmart are working hard to make that instant gratification even faster), and no one wants to work too hard for anything. Grace, on the other hand, explains to one of the Oracles "clients" that it is incumbent on the supplicant to make the journey, ask the question, process the information and then do something productive with what they learn.

This is the difference between buying prepared food and making it yourself, even if you didn't grow or hunt the raw materials. How many of us do that these days?  Not me, I'll cop to that right here and now. In fact, while I made the meatloaf from scratch tonight, it was only because I couldn't find a ready-made one at the store that usually carries them. On the other hand, I'm a big proponent of analysis and synthesis, as well as the notion that we value that which we have to work for. So I’m a living, breathing contradiction.  Or a hypocrite, take your pick.

Which leads to the question of value. Can you imagine a society where the value of goods and services is determined by the buyer rather than the seller--after the service has been received?  I'm thinking that isn't going to go too well for the seller. But that could be my New York talking.  I might feel differently if I were from Minneapolis. It is unthinkable that the cost or price not be determined up front—although there are little pockets of experimentation out there trying on this buyer-determined value.  I had lunch at a Panera restaurant once in Portland, OR, where one pays what one can—the idea being that those who can pay more than the value of the products received do so so that those who can afford less can still eat there.  I’m not sure how it all turned out, but it was an interesting idea.  In the book, the Oracle was getting stiffed, more often than not, until some powerful entities sat up and took notice and began to enforce the donation-after-the-fact aspect of consulting an oracle.

I loved the values and ideas promoted in this book.  They made me think and long for a world where there were fewer folks shouting, “Look at me” and more people whispering, “Please connect with me.”  A world where we look out for each other and happily pay a fair price for value received, rather than everyone trampling each other to get the early bird discount like it was Black Friday at 6:00 AM. I love the idea of deciding for myself what I want and what I value, instead of wondering whether my subconscious has been manipulated by subliminal messages I have no hope of discerning, turning me into a lemming falling off the nearest cliff.

I love that my beloved fantasy novels make me think about all of this, and entertain and uplift me along the way. I love the seeking, and the finding even more so. Cause I know just where to look.  Look at me!

Yours, Mine and Ours

I'm still enjoying a return visit with Thea Harrison's Elder Races. I'm currently re-reading Book 3, Serpent's Kiss, which focuses on the First Sentinel, Rune, who is a gryphon (half eagle, half lion, all sexy—in his human form). Anyway, in the book, Rune must fulfill an obligation, which he does, and then decide whether to involve himself in a more complex problem to help a friend. I've written about this issue before here, wondering whether the ability to do something creates an obligation to do so. Today my question is a bit different, and involves the line between what's mine to do, what belongs to someone else, and where the Divine fits into the equation. I've always liked the adage that we should pray like it all depends on God and work like it all depends on us.  This saying can be modified in a few ways. First, if the concept of God is uncomfortable, the ideas of fate, luck or the Universe work too. Secondly, the whole thing works if we understand it entirely in the mundane realm—where we can rely on others—not the Divine—while simultaneously putting forth our best effort.

This is a complex and abstract concept and the whole thing tends to get very muddled in my mind. What to do?  Turn to the genius of Dr. Seuss, of course, who tells us that all of life is a great balancing act. I am constantly wondering how much I need to do, how much I need to turn over, when to ask for help, when to hold on and when to let go. In Thea Harrison's book, when Rune decides to stay and help, it turns out that his actions have far-reaching consequences. This is often true for us as well. There are so many nuances in making decisions and taking action. The whole thing can paralyze me.

I believe that God helps those who help themselves and that the harder I work, the luckier I get. I have never been one to stand around hoping or expecting that what I want will magically fall in my lap. In my experience, that doesn't usually happen, although serendipity is a beautiful angel who occasionally lands on my shoulder and offers her bounty. But I don't think we can count on that. On the other hand, it's also important to make sure we are exploiting opportunities when they present themselves. Sometimes they are easy to miss if we aren't paying attention, as I’ve written about before here.  Sometimes the bush is seriously on fire. 

I love the story about the guy trapped on a rooftop during a flood. A raft, a boat and a helicopter come by and offer assistance, which he refuses, saying the Lord will save him. When he dies and stands before the Lord, the man asks God why he wasn't saved and God replies,  "I sent a raft, a boat and a chopper, why didn't you use them?"  Which adds another level of complexity to my rumination about what is for me to do, when to accept help, and when to surrender altogether. So confusing. 

I guess if it's impossible to find the line, we just need to keep dancing, stepping lightly all around, hoping we don't step on too many cracks. I'd hate to break my mother's back, after all. I'll go with the idea that everything depends on me and act as if it does. But I'll also put in my time on my knees and continue to ask the Divine for help. I'll take assistance anywhere I can get it. 

So whether it's yours, mine or ours to do, and whether the Universe will deign to intervene in a positive way (or possibly to our detriment), I've always got to do my bit like everything depends on it. If I'm really not sure if it's mine to do, or best left for others to carry the water, a little discernment is in order. I think there are basically two types of people in these situations: those who tend to walk on by and those who tend to make like Atlas, with the responsibility for everything resting on their shoulders. I'm in the Atlas category, and if I'm not careful, I can be my own worst enemy. I have to think twice before I decide something is mine to do, because my tendency is to get my exercise jumping to conclusions that it's always all up to me. For others, the opposite may be true, and for those folks, the right answer might be to say yes more often than they are inclined to do.

In any case, it's important not to assume, and to do our due diligence concerning where our obligations—those we choose and those we have thrust upon us—reside.  Yours, mine, ours, God's? These are the questions of a well-lived life. My thanks to Thea Harrison for helping me to sort out some of the answers, or at least to make sure I continue to ask the questions. 

Coming Home

I've been sick. Feel like shit. Flat on my back and weak as a kitten. I'm in serious need of comfort. So, what did I do?  You guessed it, I returned to an old favorite and am binge-reading the entire Elder Races series by Thea Harrison. No joke, I've read Dragon Bound at least fifteen times. As I've mentioned before, I love Dragos and I want to be Pia. I love the rest of the characters, too, and Ms. Harrison has a new addition to the Elder Races, Midnight's Kiss, which I will read at the end of my glorious binge. And today I'm contemplating the way Thea Harrison describes finding a mate. Of the forever, never to be torn asunder variety. The kind of bond forged by the Wyr warriors of the paranormal variety.

I always find it clever when an author changes the traditional spelling of a word to indicate its new meaning in a fantasy world. Sometimes, like in Robin Hobb’s books, the first letter is capitalized, like the Wit and the Skill—two magical faculties shared by the few who are blessed with it. In other books, like Ms. Harrison's, were (as in wolf) becomes Wyr, worm becomes Wyrm, vampire is Vampyre and fae is Fae, of the Light and Dark variety (instead of, say, Seelie and Unseelie--are you taking notes here?!). This is one indication that we're in a world not our own.

There are other indications that this is a brave new world as well. Beyond the creatures that defy our reality is a world with rules and structures and possibilities that go beyond our imaginations. This is why I love the genre so much. When an author as skilled as Thea Harrison builds a world, we feel like it exists, not just in our heads, but in reality, although it is an alternative reality for sure. And when characters are drawn so believably, we might find ourselves contemplating their realties and urging them to alternate action, or feeling happy and sad for them, or wishing we could really be their friends. Or lovers. Or mates. 

I've written before about the wondrous concept of the mated or bonded male. This is a popular theme in paranormal fiction. It is usually applied to a supernatural being, like a shapeshifter or vampire. The details are sometimes particular, but the upshot across multiple series (including the Black Dagger Brotherhood and the Twilight quartet, and, of course, the Elder Races series) is the same: male bonds with female. Bond is unbreakable and immutable. Death of a mate usually results in death, or serious harm to the bonded male. In some series, a female can feel the same thing.

All of this makes for excellent romance. And serious longing. Who wouldn't want to be the object of that much devotion? I certainly would. I think everyone wants to feel totally secure in the love of our mates, sure that the feeling will last for eternity and stay strong throughout the years, no matter what. Kind of like marriage vows, which, apparently, are only binding on less than 50% of the married population. And how sad is that? No bonding there.

But the aspect I'm most appreciative of in this moment is Thea Harrison's depiction of finding one's mate as coming home. Because it's true. The feeling of mutual trust and security in a good relationship that has withstood the test of time is unparalleled. As I'm sure you're tired of hearing, I'm contemplating time quite seriously these days, and its impact on relationships. I've written about old friends and new friends. I've cogitated on the passage of the years, and how they seem to speed up the longer we've experienced the inexorable progression of moments, minutes, months and years.

The blessing of a life partner who has actually experienced life with us is more precious than anything. It is coming home and being home. It's not worrying about being sick and looking like dog meat. It's believing that no matter what, we will work it out—and there are so many things to work out in life—including work, kids, money, hobbies, friends and family—yours, theirs, ours. It can be overwhelming and difficult at times. And unlike the bonded males of my beloved paranormal fantasy, we can't be sure, at least at first, that our partners will stick around for the long haul and not give up when the going gets tough.

And that is the difference, at least in this case, between truth and fantasy. If I lived in Thea Harrison's world, I could have faith and confidence in my love relationship if my partner were a bonded male, capable of mating for life, no matter what. But in truth, no one can be sure, at least in the beginning, where things will go. We want, and we hope and we make plans. But you know what they say about our plans and the laughter of the gods. I think it's true.

It's only after years and years of steadfast purpose that we can really believe that it's going to last. Or maybe it's just me and my messed up abandonment issues. Maybe others are more trusting. For me though, trust comes with time and a proven track record of suiting up and showing up. Perhaps not perfectly (OK- for sure not perfectly), but certainly well enough for me to believe that home is real. Home is where my love lives. 

So I don't believe in the fantasy of the bonded male who knows from the beginning that this is the woman for him, end of story. But I do believe that such bonds are created over time and strengthened with demonstrable acts of love and support. And when that happens, it's just like the fantasy novel—right and true and a blessing beyond measure.

About Last Night

Among the many blessings in my life, I have amazing friends. In fact, I could write an entire post about the joys of friendship, and I probably will, but for today, I want to mention a friend of mine who hosts salons. Not the kind where you get your hair cut and your nails painted, but the kind where intellectually-minded folks gather (the original meaning of salon) in someone’s living room to discuss the issues of the day or other erudite topics for the sheer joy of exercising their brains. How cool is that? I’ve long admired her commitment to furthering the cerebral pursuits of her friends and acquaintances. Anyway, before I go too far afield, the reason I’m telling you about this is because the speaker at yesterday’s salon was none other than yours truly!  And the reason I want to tell you about my experience speaking to a group of folks who don’t read paranormal and urban fantasy (except for our host, my friend, who is an avid fan), is because the experience intensified my mission to spread the word about our favorite genre to as many people as possible. 

The format of this salon involves a speaker, me, in this case, pontificating for about 30 minutes or so, and then engaging in a group discussion about the subject at hand.  I began my talk with an abbreviated curriculum vitae—just to assure everyone that I could hold my own among the incredibly accomplished company attending this event in Washington DC.  Once I had established my bona fides, I told them about my deep happiness in reading fantasy and I explained why it was so compelling for me.  There was skepticism, for sure.  But I think I was able to win a number of them over to the dark side by explaining all the intellectual reasons to read these books (if you need a reason beyond hot, steamy vampire sex—boo-yah!),

My first hook, so to speak, was the concept of world building.  World building interests me for many reasons. The quality of the world building is usually indicative of the quality of the writing.  A fertile imagination can conjure complex and fascinating rules for whether vampires can come out at night, or reproduce, or eat food, or have bodily functions.  World building may also involve the description of exotic, paranormal locales, such as the pockets of Otherland in Thea Harrison’s Elder Races series (Thea is a master of finding beautiful pictures and photos that could be Otherworld locations that she posts on her Facebook page, which are amazing).  World building includes descriptions of the creatures that inhabit these worlds as well as the details of their societies, customs, habits, etc., such as the social mores of shifter cultures, for example, or the anthropological evolution of the opposing courts of the Fae.  Authors who construct worlds get to write their own creation stories, which appeals to the theologian in me.

But the most amazing aspect of world building in fantasy novels is the analogy to our normal, as opposed to paranormal, lives, where, if we are both lucky and good, we are able to build our own worlds and, at a minimum, co-create our own lives.  We are all the authors of our destinies, and the worlds that are built in my beloved books remind me that I am the author of my own creation. It pays to be reminded of that.

Another aspect of paranormal fiction that I discussed at some length at this salon was the trope involving illusion and glamour that is so common in these books.  I’ve written about this before here, and I’m intrigued by the concept of illusion and the ability to see through it—or even the desire to see through it. Not everyone is interested in seeing what is true.  A lot of us prefer to have our truths adorned with lies to make them more palatable.  Mac, in the Fever world of Karen Marie Moning, claims she would rather live a hard life of fact than a sweet life of lies, but I think she’s the exception that proves the rule.  Most of us like our illusions because they feed our denial—another topic I’ve explored in this space here.  And there is nothing that holds a mirror up to our own predilection for deceit than a fantasy world where nothing is as it seems and everyone is peddling their own self-serving versions of the truth.  In many cases, truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

But the most compelling aspect of these books for me, and for my audience last night as well, is the exploration of mortality that the world of immortals allows us to access.  I have found it nothing short of mind blowing to read about the consequences of immortality—none of which are pleasant or desirable—that help me to value the poignancy of our own mortal coil.  In one of my favorite songs, Queen asks, “Who wants to live forever?”  And the answer, especially after reading enough paranormal fiction in which immortal beings become jaded beyond apathy, cruel with the continual need to up the ante, or simply insane as a result of the passage of eons, is not me.  If time is of no consequence, there is no urgency to do anything, and nothing has value because for those who cannot die, tomorrow is always another day.  For the rest of us, we could have an appointment with Death that no one bothered to pencil into our calendars.  The uncertainty and fragility of existence, the inexorable progress toward the end of life as we know it, is and should be the flame under our asses motivating us to pack as much as we can into our brief sojourn as possible. We aren’t going to live forever, and therefore we have an absolute imperative to seize the day. For all of these reasons, I urged my audience last night to check out my “Favorites” page and take a dive into the deep end of these remarkable books.  Because vampire porn is fun and educational.  And not just to learn better technique from those who’ve been perfecting theirs for millennia. After all, everything I know I learned from reading smut.  And you can too.

Gratitude

Today's post is inspired by Pia Giovanni Cuelebre, by Thea Harrison, who always makes time to appreciate the blessings in her life. 

On Thanksgiving I wanted to take a moment to say thank you to my readers who keep finding me and who keep coming back. I am so grateful that people choose to spend some of their down time with me and my quest to live authentically and to find truth in fantasy. I also offer thanks to God/Goddess/the Universe or whatever each of us chooses to call that which is bigger than we are (and I have to digress for a moment--I wouldn't be me if I didn't--and share some wisdom that was imparted by one of my theology teachers many years ago, "there are only two things we need to know about God: there is one, and you're not it."  And now back to our regularly scheduled programming).

I love that that Thanksgiving offers a moment to pause and contemplate all that is good in our lives, all the things that work, all the everyday miracles that we experience but rarely acknowledge. And a lot of this may be trite, or delivered in a more cliched manner than would be the case if I were a more accomplished writer,  but I truly wish for each and every person reading this that you take a few minutes to think about all that is good amidst all that is not. I believe that wherever we focus our attention on gets bigger and invite you to focus your attention on the many blessings in our lives, even if we need to begin our list with the fact that we are breathing today, the sun came up today and we are here on this planet and this plane to see what the day will bring. We each have that each and every day. And it is good.

So, I will begin my litany of thanks with the truly spectacular sunrise I witnessed this morning. I awoke early to hit a Thanksgiving yoga class, just to begin my day in the right frame of mind, and to offer my body some respite before its ritual abuse later in the day (although I have to say that the abuse started early this year and I'm fairly hung over, even as I write this, but I'm focusing on the good stuff here, not what isn't working at this moment, like my head or my stomach, neither of which is too happy with me right now).

So I'm thankful for a beautiful sun rising over the waters of the Chesapeake Bay. I'm thankful for beauty and nature and silence and solitude before the bustle of the day begins. I'm grateful for a moment just to be and to witness that over which I have no control and that which I have no need to control. I'm grateful for the reminder that I can let go sometimes and good things will happen anyway.

And as I contemplate the rising sun, I turn my attention to the people sleeping in my house this morning. My husband, for whom I give thanks each day. He offers me the gift of acceptance in all my imperfections and all my deficiencies. He celebrates my achievements and supports my dreams and endeavors, even when they come at a high cost to him. He has let me be me--even more importantly, over more than two decades together, he has let me create myself in such a way that I can finally be comfortable in my own skin, because I no longer have to conform myself to someone else's ideas of who I should be.

I'm grateful for my twin boys, who challenge me in so many ways to be a more complete person. Each era of their lives had helped me grow and evolve and I am so thankful I get to be their mother.

I'm grateful for my childhood friend, who is here celebrating with us. She represents all the deep friendships in my life and the longevity of our relationship is mirrored by the rest of my circle of close friends who are scattered all over the country. These women are my created family. They are my sisters even though we don't share blood. The blessing of friendships that have spanned a lifetime are beyond measure and I often wonder what I did to be so lucky to have friends such as these. I also have amazing friends from later walks of life who so often  inspire me and support me and provide very necessary perspective. My friends are among my greatest wealth.

And as we prepare the delicious food and set a beautiful table and listen to our children playing and our phones vibrating with a Thanksgiving wishes from those who are father away, I am struck by all the good in my life. It is so easy to focus on what is wrong. It is harder to attend to that which works, that which is quietly fulfilling, undemanding in its wholeness. I'm so wired to seek more, more, more, that I sometimes miss what I already have. Or worse, I discount it because it is not everything I could imagine having.

And the truth is I have so much more than most. Not just in terms of abundance, with which I'm definitely blessed, but also because I have a wonderful marriage, healthy kids, friends who would cross the globe to get me a tissue if I sneezed, and enough self awareness not to take myself too seriously. Life so, so good. Is the same true for you, even if the particulars are divergent? Are you counting your blessings? Have you thought about the immortal words of my favorite philosopher, Dr. Seuss, Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?

So, let's all cultivate an attitude of gratitude. Today. Tomorrow. For as many days as we can. The days we look at the world through grateful eyes are the best days.

Today is one of the best days. Thank you. 

Not All Who Wander Are Lost

When I was young, I was fairly lost.  I was lost in the sense that I didn’t really know who I was or what I liked or even what I cared about.  I was lost insofar as I had no real ability to stand up for myself except with friends who were even more lost than I was, and those relationships look fairly abusive and manipulative in hindsight.  Not pretty.  In my defense, no one ever told me how to find myself, nor was that an activity encouraged by my highly controlling mother.

But there are degrees of lost, and in retrospect, the place where I lost myself the most completely was in my romantic relationships.  Seemed like I couldn’t wait to hand over my personality and all of my free will to the man of the hour who I made my Svengali as I happily assumed the role of Galatea.  The theme of the dominant alpha male is one I continue to reexamine.  It intrigues me.  One question that I ponder with regularly is how to maintain my own identity in the context of a relationship in which I feel inferior in some way.  This is one of my favorite themes in paranormal fantasy, where the alpha males are often exaggerated and the women who love them need to figure out how to keep from being sucked into that event horizon.

Three of my very favorite books/series explore this theme with mastery (there are many others as well), but the ones that come immediately to mind are Thea Harrison’s Dragon Bound (Dragos and Pia), Nalini Singh’s Angel’s Blood (Raphael and Elena) and the Fever Books by Karen Marie Moning (Barrons And Mac).  I love, love, love these books, and I think the main reason is because these women succeed beautifully in maintaining themselves in relationships with men (beings, really- none of them are actually men) who are much, much older, more powerful and very used to the world accommodating itself to their desires and needs.  In each case, part of the attraction for the male is that their chosen woman does not back down in the face of their displeasure or even wrath.   And it takes some huge, brass, hairy stones to do that.  The fact that this sort of courage and intelligence comes in a beautiful, feminine package is a revelation for each of these males.

So let’s explore that “reality” further: that which attracts these males who exist at the very top of the food chain is that these women are most definitely not falling over themselves to people please or to give the big man everything he demands.  They have the intestinal fortitude to be who they are and stand their ground without succumbing to the pressure of acquiescing to everything their stranger, more powerful partner wants.

I absolutely love reading about women who embrace these relationships and then go on to thrive within them.  I can’t say I’ve seen a ton of that in real life, however.  It is such a difficult feat to stand in our own power without aggression or defiance or the need to try to dominate others ourselves.  But to be who we are and let the other be who he (or she) is and to negotiate a path where we can both stand together—together—that is quite the rare achievement.

And their achievement is a fluid one—a slippery little sucker as Julia Roberts described her escargot in Pretty Woman.  To stand together in mutual power while each maintains his or her own personal power over time is even more difficult.  It takes consciousness, respect, tolerance, patience, compassion, and strength.  And to be successful, both partners need to embody these superior personality characteristics and avoid the temptation to be petty, or controlling, or demeaning, or demanding, or inappropriately needy or aloof.  Oh my God, I’m exhausted just writing about the myriad requirements of a healthy, vibrant relationship. 

But, I adore reading about them because it provides me with some guidance, direction, and inspiration to achieve the same in my own life and relationships.

The dance of dominance in any relationship involves some fancy footwork for sure.  I know that in my own marriage we work very hard to compromise where we can, but to stand firm when an issue touches on a fundamental philosophy.  Of course, one hopes that when choosing a life partner we not only seek to look deeply into each other’s eyes, but that we are also looking for a partner who is looking out into the world in a similar fashion.  Holding complimentary world views is an important element of successful partnership.

Another important element is the ability—and the willingness—to learn from each other and to defer to each other’s strengths.  These are particularly poignant characteristics of the relationships depicted between my favorite fictional characters by Thea Harrison, Nalini Singh, and Karen Marie Moning.  Each of these amazing authors’ uber alpha males are willing to learn from their females and to be changed by their love.  And witnessing that evolution is the very best aspect of these amazing books.  I am able to come back to my marriage (and other relationships) enriched by the experience of spending time with these magnificent make believe characters.  And all of this reading is way cheaper than marriage counseling or psychotherapy, so I feel inspired and clever at the same time.

Fixing Humpty Dumpty

I've written before about how events in my life seem to be eerily reflected in the books I am reading. You have to admit, this is quite strange. In fact, there might even be a story idea here; woman predicts the future through reading novels whose plots come true in her life. This is a bit like the YA fantasy series, Inkheart, which I read with my children some years ago, but not really.  Anyhoo, I must say that I'm not so excited that life is imitating art these days. In this particular instance, I can relate all too closely with Thea Harrison's more recent Elder Races novella, Pia Saves the Day. In this installment of the epic tale of Dragos and Pia, there is an accident and Dragos is injured and loses his memory. Pia must think fast and do what needs to be done to bring him back to his senses and to her. Now, don't get me wrong. You all know how much I love Pia and Dragos, but this book made me distinctly uncomfortable. Because the expected HEA didn't really look like I expected. Which makes Harrison an excellent writer, but kind of threw me for a loop.

And then I started to feel like I was riding the Anaconda at King's Dominion when the loops kept coming fast and furious. My husband and I had a fight. It was one of those types of fights that make you go down to the basement to check the foundation for cracks afterward. And there were some cracks. Which was frightening. And in the aftermath of the earthquake, when the repairs are being made, you have to wonder if the repairs will make the structure stronger or weaker.  I'm pretty sure it will be stronger. But only time will tell. And living with uncertainty (which we all do every minute of every day, in reality, although we don't always acknowledge it), is even more frightening. But I can take some inspiration, as I always do, from my beloved fantasy books, and look to Pia and Dragos for my example.

When I read the exchanges between Pia and Dragos after the accident when he doesn't remember her, I was immediately transported to that awful place when I'm fighting with my husband and it feels like any connection we once had has been irreparably severed. Now, I'm told that not everyone feels this way during fights, but I come from a very dysfunctional family of origin where being cut—completely—was the SOP for my mother when she was angry. And that feeling of having the rug pulled out from under me when the most important person in the world is mad or unhappy with me is devastating to this day.

And that is exactly what happened to Pia when Dragos doesn't remember her. The coldness with which he regards her is glacial and so different from the heat they normally generate together. Devastating. She feels like someone stabbed her in the heart. I could relate, though I wish I could not. But she is lucky (which she reminds herself about quite often, which Iove about her). Her troubles were no one's fault--just a freak accident. Mine were of our own making, where the vast differences in my and my husband's personalities had come home to roost and cause all manner of issues.

The details are neither important nor interesting to anyone but my spouse and me. But the unfolding of events and their aftermath follow a pattern that will be familiar to anyone who’s ever had a long-term relationship. I did something that made him unhappy. He did something that both hurt and angered me. Both of us were too raw to talk about it, so we retreated to excruciating courtesy (much like the Elven High Lord and his consort in another Elder Races book, Lord's Fall) lest we exacerbate an already volatile situation.

But, just like Pia with Dragos, those carefully choreographed interactions were absolutely miserable. Because that is not the way it’s supposed to be between people who are in love and who have built a life together. We are the ones who can be free and uninhibited with each other. We can be ourselves with no fear of reprisal or rejection. At least that is the way it’s supposed to be. And when it’s not, the world tilts on its axis and everything is skewed. Nothing feels right when my primary relationship is off kilter. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and I know he feels the same.

But sometimes, like with Pia and Dragos, it takes more than a penny to make things right. It takes time and work to put the pieces back together. And sometimes, some of the pieces might be missing, or damaged. Sometimes, we need to create new pieces to make things whole again. And the hope is that the new edifice will be even better and stronger than the original, and that it will be enhanced by all the extra work.

But the fear is that one or the other builder won't be up to the task, that one or the other of us won't have the skill or willingness to do what must be done or that the contractor simply won't show up for work one day.  Or that a hairline fracture that didn't seem to be very relevant will turn out to be major defect in a load-bearing wall. And the fear can be corrosive in itself, whispering in my ear that it will all fall apart, so I'd better make contingency plans. But when it comes to relationships that are important to me, I don't believe in contingency plans. I believe in making like Lindbergh and not planning for failure.  I believe in assuming success and doing what it takes to achieve it.  And I believe in having faith that my partner will do the same.

That doesn't eliminate the fear, but I've always loved the axiom that says courage is fear that has said its prayers. Being afraid doesn’t mean being paralyzed. So I'll take another cue from Dragos and Pia and take one step at a time in putting it all back together again after Humpty Dumpty has fallen. And because this is a paranormal fairy tale, where everyone gets their HEA, the ending will be different this time, and all the king's horses and all the king's men will get the job done.

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Fall

There is something seriously wrong with me.  And no, it's not that I constantly digress when writing these blog posts. It's a much bigger problem:  I can't enjoy my down time unless I know with certainty that it's a choice. You know what I'm talking about: it's only fun to stay home on a Saturday night curled up with your latest fabulous fantasy novel (say, Thea Harrison's two new awesome offerings or Lara Adrian's just-published Midnight Breed novel, or the new Jeaniene Frost book, for example) if and only if I know I could be doing something else, and I just don't want to.  In the same way, I find that vacation is a lot more fun when my work is fulfilling and I'm making a decision to put it aside to go away somewhere and play. I like having options; life is so much more interesting when we are making affirmative choices, rather than letting life happen to us.  Being reactive is no fun.  It's all about being proactive, but proactivity requires a comparison between at least two alternatives. Choices create contrast.  And contrast creates the sharp relief and helps us to see our lives with true perspective.

So, I'm in an in-between place right now, but instead of enjoying my break and feeling grateful for the slow, end-of-summer pace, I'm totally stressed that there will be no end to my break and my life will unfold without purpose or meaning. Really?  Do they have a name for this kind of consistently-catastrophic-thinking- despite-all-evidence-to-the-contrary? Do I actually believe that this moment of down time signifies the end of all choices for all eternity?  Am I really that pathetic?  If I ponder long enough,  I'm sure I can think of a character this relates to—some sad sack minor character who acts as a foil highlighting what not to do for the main characters who would never think or behave in such a self-defeating way. Or if they behaved this stupidly, like Pia with her first dumb-ass boyfriend in Dragon Bound, for instance, they get over themselves quickly because this is such a silly way to be.

But I can't seem to help myself, unfortunately.  I'm between fantasy series, I'm between work projects, and, frankly, I'm between success and failure with respect to this blog (although you can certainly help me tip the scales toward success by reading, liking, commenting on and sharing my blog/website--pretty please?). I absolutely HATE the in-between. But, again, that is just a shortsighted attitude that discounts the long-term likelihood that nothing stays the same forever and neither will this.

It is also unrealistic to think a life of meaningful evolution is going to be a completely linear progression. Two steps forward and one step back. Or, less dramatically, two steps forward and then a bit of a break to recoup, recharge and reflect. This is a good thing, right? Yes, it is. But I'm the kind of person who believes that if I'm not moving forward then I must be moving backward. And while that may be true in theory, it is also true that while we are smack dab in the middle of everything, it can be difficult to judge our actual location on the path of life.  And, in reality, slowing down does not necessarily mean sliding the transmission into reverse. Neutral is a gear in which we can move forward as well as backward--or just stay in one place for a brief time.

Often, progress can only be perceived in the rearview mirror. Sometimes, when it seems like we're going nowhere or regressing, from the perspective of hindsight we can see that we were actually moving forward by leaps and bounds. Even if it doesn't feel that way in the moment.  We see this in books all the time, where an apparent set back turns out to be the set up for good things that come later. Pia and her penny are a perfect example of that. Or Elena being hired by Raphael, Sookie and the Rattrays, or Bella getting kidnapped by the Lessers. There are so many examples in fantasy, as there are in life.

So a bit of faith is probably justified that all will be well and that inspiration or at least an interesting project will arrive at my doorstep any time now. I can probably relax and enjoy this in-between time where there are few deadlines and demands.  I can sink into summertime for a little while longer and let the living be easy. I can probably stop waiting for the other shoe to fall and just put the damn things on already and walk away from this counterproductive activity.

Old Familiar Places

As you all know, I get so sad when I come to the end of a series.  Truly, I dread the time when I know I have nothing left to read in a particular set of books because I’ve spent so much time with the characters and become so invested in their stories that I just don’t want the party to end.  But end it does, as my wishes rarely have a terribly significant impact on reality, which is a shame.  Anyway—the end of a series leaves me with two choices—spend some time researching a new author and a new cast of characters in a fantasy world I’d want to inhabit for a time, or go back to an old favorite and console myself with the comfort of familiarity and proven enjoyment as I recover from the end of a beautiful relationship.

I’ve been known to do both, in fact, and it occurs to me that my habits are not so far off from what happens in real life when a love relationship ends.  How many of us have scrolled through our contacts (back in my day it was an address book, but same concept) looking for someone we can call for some uncomplicated love?  I know I’ve been guilty of that more than once (before my marriage, of course).  When a relationship ends, it sometimes seems like too much trouble to get to know someone new.  It’s a daunting task to endure the inevitable awkwardness and uncertainty of “will it work or not” that occurs when we audition a new prospect for the role of dream lover or even potential life partner –or both- if we’re very, very lucky.  Sometimes the thought of starting all over again seems like losing those last ten pounds, climbing Mt. Everest and getting a 1600 on the SATs all at the same time.  No can do.  At least not when I’m still raw from the end of a particularly wonderful series.

And that’s when a retread is just the thing.  It’s familiar.  It’s predictable.  It’s comfortable and comforting.  At least in terms of revisiting books.  Because if we take my analogy a bit further, it doesn’t hold up so well in the real world. In the real world, moving backwards and rekindling old flames can sometimes mean opening a can of exceptionally unpleasant worms. For example, we might know that a toddle down memory lane with an old lover is an extremely bad idea, but how many of us actually listen to that insistent little voice in our heads saying “Danger, Will Robinson”? Not me, I’ll tell you.  Nah, I used to barrel forward heedless of the danger, knowing that the old familiar road seemed a lot less scary than forging a new path.  Sometimes, the road less traveled just looks isolated and foreboding and definitely best avoided.  After all, I’m from New York where I learned that if a neighborhood park or street is deserted, then what the hell are you thinking by being there? Asking for big trouble, that’s what.

And who wants big trouble, right? But that’s the fear talking, not the part of us that embraces new experiences, trusting that expanding our horizons is (almost) always for the good and an endeavor to be pursued.  So, the good news is that after a few repeat performances with someone we’ve danced with before, and the realization that it doesn’t work any better now than it did then, we feel ready to move onto new adventures.

Luckily for me –and for you, too, there is significantly less angst involved in transitioning between fantasy novels than there is in romantic relationships.  The really good news in that there’s always a lot less baggage and fewer bad memories associated with revisiting a particular fantasy series that we’ve loved and lost.  We we reread books, there’s no resentment or anger or heartache (unless you are one of the folks who’s still mad at Charlaine Harris for how she ended the Sookie Stackhouse series—come on, guys, she foreshadowed that particular plot twist beginning in the very first book and then kept dropping hints like bread crumbs for Hansel and Gretel to follow! Get over it, already!).  Oops, did I digress again?

Back to the issue at hand, revisiting well-loved books or even whole series.  Personally, I reread Sookie’s story at least once a year, and also the Fever series by Karen Marie Moning. I pick up Dragon Bound by Thea Harrison when nothing and no one else can elevate my mood from the pits of despair, just cause I love it so much. I frolic with G.A. Aiken’s Dragon Kin when I want to smile, and laugh out loud with MaryJanice Davidson’s Queen Betsy when I really need a belly-full.

And the best part is that there’s absolutely no downside to indulging in my desire to make everything old new again with my reading and plumb the depths of these beautiful books to get a new insight or remind myself of a profound truth. Rereading books is nothing, in fact, like revisiting an old lover who might have picked up something nasty since the last interlude.  So, stick with books for your retreads rather than last year’s boyfriend or girlfriend. Because we can’t find truth in fantasy everywhere, just between the pages of our beloved books. And after we've finished revisiting books we've read before, we can move on to something new and marvelous.

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.