The Unexamined Life

Today’s post isn’t tied into any particular book or books.  It’s about why I’m doing what I’m doing and whether what I’m doing has been what I’d intended when I started.  I would love to hear your opinion, as always. As many of you know, I'm not one to dwell on the past click here.  I would much rather contemplate the adventures of the future and think about all the great stuff yet to come that, in my fantasies of the upcoming present, have none of the unpleasantries of the here and now or the before and over. The future is forever pure in my imagination. Kind of like the birth of a baby, which is always met with joyful anticipation about the infinite possibilities yet to come.But here I am talking about the future when this post is supposed to be a meditation about the past. This past year, specifically. As Socrates said, the unexamined life is not worth living. So, let's examine the past year. I had set a number of intentions at the beginning of the year, and it's good practice to evaluate whether I was successful. I had a number of intentions, but most of you wouldn’t be interested in those, so I’ll talk about that one that might be more engrossing. My most important and motivating intention was for my writing, which, at the beginning of 2014, did not yet exist.

I knew I wanted to share my philosophy of life and love and death and purpose with a larger audience beyond my friends and family, who had stopped paying attention to me some time ago, as friends and family often do. I wanted a platform from which to mentor others and share my experience, strength and hope, potentially sparing others the need to live through some of the mistakes I've made along the way. And also potentially helping others to put things into perspective.

As I reflect on why I decided to start writing, it is instructive to think about whether I have been true to my original purpose. I began my blog for a wide variety of reasons. I knew I needed to write--that there were words and ideas cooped up inside me that were screaming for an outlet. Who was it who said that writers write not because they want to but because they need to?  I can't remember. But it's true. I needed to write like I needed to breathe. And until I started, I hadn't even realized how true that was.

I also wanted to write about my beloved paranormal and urban fantasy books. I had spent some time working through Danielle LaPorte's genius book, The Fire Starter Sessions, and I had come to realize that my books were immensely important to me and that I wanted to talk about that. I wanted to explore the themes I'd understood but had not played with. I wanted to see where these themes would take me and if there was as much there there as I had suspected. There was and there is.

I like sharing my thoughts and philosophy. Hell, who am I kidding?  I like to pontificate and be didactic and stand on my soapbox and go tell it on the mountain.

But mostly, I started this blog because I wanted to engage with other like minded folk and start a conversation about what it means to live authentically, to see clearly and to have the courage to face reality whether I like it or not. This integrity business is not for the faint hearted. It is not for those who want to live in denial, or blame others, or play the victim or the martyr. The cowardly and lazy need not apply. Those who would rather distract themselves into oblivion with food, drink, drugs and/or compulsive behaviors like shopping, gambling, indiscriminate sex and other such self-destructive and utterly absorbing bullshit should also stop reading right about now.

I'm only interested in talking to those who want to go through life awake, or at the very least who want to wake up, even if they're not there yet. This is the no excuses club. Because here is the deal, and here's why I write:  we are all, every last one of us, afraid, confused, and filled with doubt and anxiety about all that we can't control and all that we don't know or understand. How we deal with that fear and confusion and doubt and discomfort is the stuff that makes us who we are and defines how our lives are going to be. No one gets all the good cards. And I don't think anyone gets all the bad cards either (for more on my concept of the universe as one big Texas Hold 'Em game, click here.

Some hands are better than others, true. And mine has been better than many. Remembering that, and doing something worthwhile with all of my gifts and talents is the work of my lifetime. And yours, too.

And my work, at least for now, is this blog, which I intend to turn into a book in 2015, God willing and the creek don't rise, as my mother would say. I feel like I was given a gift of clarity that can be of service to others, and that is what I want to do.

So, all in all, I feel like 2014 has been a very good year, and I am very, very grateful. Thank you all for reading, for paying attention and for helping me not to scream into the void. It's OK to look into the abyss when one has some company with whom to share the view. Thanks for being with me on the journey. I hope I can continue to interest, instruct and interact in 2015 and attract even more fellow travelers to the conversation along the way. Happy New Year.

Restless, Irritable, and Discontent

Why is it that some people just set us off? Why can one person say something and it's fine, but then someone else says it and you want to beat the shit out of them?  I've been spending lots of quality time with family, and I'm just about ready to commit murder. And how, you might ask, am I going to tie this bitch session into one of my beloved fantasy novels?  Never fear, my book addiction comes through for me yet again!  I'm reading the latest installment of G. A. Aiken's Dragon Kin series. This offering, Light My Fire, is about Celyn the Charming and Elina. Celyn annoys pretty much everyone, and they all complain loudly about him. I can relate to their annoyance. And complaints.

And because this is my blog, I'm going to indulge myself in a bit of a cathartic rant. And hopefully achieve and impart a little wisdom along the way. Because I'm me, I've got to spend at least some time considering the whys and wherefores of the situation. Because it really does seem like it's only some people who really get our goat, while others get a pass. I'm wondering whether there are specific characteristics or circumstances that contribute to weighting the scale toward one side or the other.

One element is certainly the tone with which a comment or conversation is delivered. This is why text and email are such dangerous communications media. No tone at all. No ability to soften or sharpen a statement to modulate the message in any way. But then there are times when the person communicating is standing right in front of you, or maybe on the phone and we get the full benefit of their tone and we wished we hadn't. Because the obnoxious tone, coupled with the offensive comment is enough to send us over the edge. And yes, you know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you? And then there's the situation where the issue isn't so much what is said or how the message is delivered. It's the history between two people that tars every statement with the bad blood of a difficult relationship. So when my mother used to make comments on my clothes and appearance, even if the comments were relatively benign, they would set me off as much as if she had accused me of dressing like a two-bit whore. Oh, wait, she did accuse me of dressing like a two bit whore. Which is why pretty much everything she said to me pissed me off. She's gone now but there are others, who shall remain nameless, who make me angry no matter what they say. And part of that is the fact that he has been saying nasty things to me for twenty years. So I get to be annoyed. 

Sometimes, the issue is simply where we are in the present moment that spoils a comment or a conversation for us. If I'm in a pissy mood, which happens more often than I would like, I can take offense or just get fed up with something someone says just because. But if they said the same thing to me when I was in a better mood, no harm, no foul. Which seems kind of unfair to the poor unfortunate who pissed me off because I was in a bad mood. Oh, well.

Another thing that can completely derail my equanimity is the Chinese water torture of someone who just does not know when to quit. Just like Celyn in Light My Fire who asks question after question after question, it can drive a person to drink. I have a kid like that. God love his curiosity, it's a wonderful quality. Except when I cannot answer any more question lest my head explode. Although I try not to show my impatience so I don't quash his inquiring mind, which I am certain will serve him well in his adulthood.

The only productive way to handle this issue, then, is to ask ourselves a series of questions involving how we can channel this irritation toward the greater good, rather than becoming mired in impatience and eventually bitterness. No one likes a curmudgeon. So, what can we do about it? What would we like to do versus what should we do, that is the question. Personally, I'd like to make sure everyone who annoys, offends or irritates me gets it back in spades. But that is neither practical nor nice, so let's move beyond that particular fantasy. What we should do about it is a two-fold prescription: first, let it roll off of you. You know, like a duck. Second, turn off the revenge fantasies. No getting back at folks who annoy us.  It is not a good plan.

Because in truth, the problem is ours not theirs. Any irritation or impatience we feel toward someone else says a lot more about us than it does about them, of course. Only we have the power to give away our power and allow others to disturb our serenity. So don't do it. Just say no. Smile at the irritating person and tell them how much you enjoy their witty repartee. Abandon our high horses and jump down to earth. Because that is the major function of being irritated with others: it makes us feel superior-- we are less irritating, less annoying, smarter and more clever than our exasperating friends and family. We simply feel better when we are irked. Which is why we need to avoid these specious feelings of vexation and resultant superiority.  We need to be tolerant and calm. Not for anyone else's benefit, but for our own.

So, I've come full circle. Celyn gave me the exuse to indulge in thinking about how everyone was annoying me. I was happy to think it was them not me. But I've come to realize it's me, not them. Wow, that sucks. Only good news is that I have a lot more control over myself than others. So if it is within my power to be the duck, then I'm gonna start quacking. I'd rather be a dragon, of course, but it's not clear water rolls off their scales as well as feathers. A question for the ages. 

Merry Christmas, to all who celebrate. Happy night to all who don't. The New Year is almost upon us. Are you getting ready to set your intentions for 2015? 

Signs of Change

Today I'm going to jump right in. No digressions or distractions. Today's post is about transformation, and about what happens when something rocks our world and pulls the rug out from under us. What does the aftermath of these earth-shaking events look like? How does the landscape appear when the dust settles? The short answer is, everything changes. Sometimes slowly and sometimes quickly. Sometimes the changes are temporary and sometimes they last forever.  And sometimes they are obvious, but not always.

I'm thinking about all of this as a result of reading the second book in the Sanctum trilogy, The Boy, by Madhuri Blaylock. This offering is even better than its predecessor, The Girl, which I wrote about here. As a fantasy novelist, Ms. Blaylock is able to create the perfect construct to highlight this theme of transformation and its complex consequences. And here comes the spoiler alert--in the book, one of the main characters, Wyatt, is killed by a former brother-in-arms.

Wyatt is killed after he's had his life upended by the harsh realization that everything he believed about his life and the cause to which he's committed his life is a lie. He is killed shortly after he falls in love with the being he had been ordered to destroy. He is killed shortly after everything he knew to be ground truth was revealed as quicksand. But then, because this is fantasy, Wyatt is brought back to life. Mostly. The fragments of his soul are gathered and reconstituted and he is alive again—more or less. But he is changed, both physically and mentally. His once-blue eyes are now green. His memory has significant holes in it. He is not the same. And in his difference, his relationships are affected too. And all of this is a wonderful metaphor for the truth we find in similar—figuratively—situations in real life.

I love the way Madhuri Blaylock captures how, in reality, we have to gather the shards of our being and put them back together after a trauma or major life-changing event, like a death, a job loss, a major illness or injury. And I especially love that there is a physical manifestation of the change to signify the internal changes in Wyatt. I have wished in the past, after a death, for example, that people could see--actually see-- that I wasn't the same person anymore, that the changes that had been wrought by the circumstances of my life had transformed me to the point that I could no longer be related to in the same way, nor could I be assumed to react in ways that might be familiar to those who knew me before.

For me, though, as for most of us, that didn’t happen. For others, more unfortunate, perhaps, the changes are so profound, both physical and emotional, there are more obvious signs, like Wyatt's change of eye color. The world knows that someone is no longer who they were before when they’ve lost an arm or a leg or an eye, for example, through war or accident. And when the evidence of their transformation is as overt as that, we know to tread lightly, and to take care in our approach.

But maybe I’m being presumptive in suggesting that an outward manifestation of internal transformation is a good thing.  Wyatt certainly didn’t think it was a good thing when those around him, particularly Dev, treated him with something akin to horror, or worse, pity. So maybe it’s better not to wear our internal landscape in our outward appearance. Hard to say.  Maybe the grass is greener for all concerned in most situations, and it doesn’t really matter in the end.

And then we have the question of what happens after the transformation occurs and we are faced with the new reality of our world. Do we reject it, like Wyatt?  I know that I’ve tried that approach--cursing the Universe for leaving me bereft and vulnerable.  What happens when we can’t accept the reality of our transformation? Do we fight it? Collapse into ourselves?  Push others away who would try to help? I think many of us do all of those things when faced with major changes in our lives.  Are there better ways of responding to major transformation?  I believe there are, and that with practice, we learn to accommodate change in a healthy, constructive manner. But it does take practice, because the first time our worlds get rocked, it is unclear that the essence of who we are remains the same, regardless of changing circumstances, and regardless of how those circumstances change us.

After a trauma, it may seem that we are not the same people not only to others, but also to ourselves.  Getting to know ourselves after a major change is challenging, another reality that Ms. Blaylock captures perfectly.  Asking others to get to know us anew is even more difficult. And if we doubt, as Wyatt does initially, that the core of who we are remains unscathed, then the task is even more difficult. Fighting our way back from the brink of that doubt, as Wyatt does, is the work that we are called to do as we negotiate life’s vicissitudes. If we remain true to ourselves—if we know the truth of who we are—then we can shoulder the inevitable burdens of life. This is the truth that both Wyatt and Dev come to in The Boy, and it’s done with excruciating authenticity. As in life, it takes time, and effort, and perseverance.

But the result is worthy.  The result is valuable.  If we can come back from the brink of despair and desolation, no matter how bad the trauma and no matter how difficult the transformation, then we get back to ourselves.  We can reclaim the shards of our essence and return to life and to love. Not everyone makes it, I’ve seen.  But it is inspiring when it happens, just as it is to read about in The Boy. And it reminds us, or at least it should, to take the time to be confident in our essence, so that we can find our way back when the planet tilts for us and we must gather ourselves anew, and come back to who we are, and who we strive to be.

The Pretenders Sing-Along

I've just finished the second book in Elle Boca's intriguing Unelmoija  series, The Mindshifter. Ms. Boca has created a very interesting world and I'm enjoying the unfolding of the story and the development of the characters. As always, my favorite parts of the book involve the deeper themes I’m inspired to contemplate, in this case a variation on the Harry Potter syndrome: the idea that one day we could wake up and find out that we aren't who we thought we were and that our whole reality has been turned on its head. What would that mean for us? How would we react? And what aspects of our character determine the direction we take upon learning that we are, in fact, more than we feared, and maybe even as much as we’d secretly hoped?

In Ms. Boca’s world, there are individuals go through life not realizing the truth of their identity, and then find out as young adults about their special status as part of the Weeia race. I don't know about you, but I would have given almost anything to learn that I was extraordinary (in a literal way) when I was growing up (and maybe even after I was grown up). Doesn't everyone secretly, or not so secretly, yearn to discover how and why he or she is special or unique? Don't we all want to be exceptional?  How great would it be to find out that instead of being Joe Sixpack or Jane Winespritzer, we were actually part of an exclusive club of superhumans?

This situation is similar to a common theme of childhood, one that I remember pondering a great deal when I was young: What if my parents weren't really my parents and I found out that I was secretly switched at birth and I wasn't who I thought I was? What if I were really a princess, or a queen, or a fairy (and yes, I had a very active imagination and spent way too much time reading). This would explain, to my childish way of thinking, why I felt so out of place in my family. It would explain my feelings of exclusion and difference. And, as an added bonus, it would also mean that my mother, with whom, as you know, I had such a difficult relationship, wasn't really my mother. Which was good news in my book. It would have also meant that my beloved father wasn't related to me, either, but in true kid-like fashion, I tended to gloss over that part of the logical sequence.

Not only that, but if we woke up one day and someone told us we were part of a secret world, it would clarify so many baffling facts—well, at least for me, but maybe you all are more normal than I am. Instead of feeling like a freak or someone who sees life from the outside in, as I did for so many years, especially from my early teens into my late twenties, I could think of myself as part of an ultra-covert, super cool, in-crowd of people like me who I didn't even know about, but with whom I now belonged.

And if that were true, then I would also be able to validate my secretly-nurtured, barely acknowledged and rarely shared conviction that I really am singular and extraordinary and worthy. That all the rejection and dejection I've experienced was just the necessary tempering of the metal to make it stronger before it emerges into the world ready to fulfill its function. Wouldn't that be something?

And as I write this I realize anew how much I used to yearn for the kind of legitimization that anonymous Weeia in Ms. Boca’s world received upon learning of their previously unknown heritage in the Unelmoija world. I so wanted something or someone outside of myself to tell me that I was more than I feared I was. But here is where truth and fantasy diverge. Beyond the fact that no one in the real world is going to tell us that we are members of a secret race of superhumans (beyond White Supremacists, or other misguided haters, of course), we don't, in fact, need that to happen.

We are all special and unique and valuable. By virtue of being garden-variety humans, rather than a superhumans, we are part of the club, a member of the in-group. We all get to participate in the privileges and responsibilities of being human. Just plain human. That we don't feel this way is a tragedy of epic proportions, generated by incompetent parenting as well as the constant comparisons we make about ourselves while being forced to watch artificially enhanced people pretend to be perfect on TV, in the movies and on social media. Sadly, as we strive for a perfection that doesn’t exist in reality, we enter a vicious cycle of inadequacy and self-hatred, leading back to our secret desire to get a letter from Hogwarts telling us that our lives to date have been just the warm up—that the real thing is starting soon, and it will be so much more, so much better than what we have.

Don’t believe it. It isn’t true. Because I’m special.  So special. Just ask Chrissie Hynde.

When Love is Not Enough

I've been told that love is all you need. It sounds good. I wish it were true. But it's not true. And it's a dangerous untruth, at least in my mind. I've gone down many a bad road and made many a wrong turn under the misapprehension that love is enough. I've stayed in relationships well past their expiration dates and performed many heroic feats of attempted salvation in the hopes of convincing a beloved that love will save the day. Only, sometimes it can't. Or it won't. Either way, the disappointment of discovering that love does not conquer all can be absolutely devastating.

Why am I thinking such depressing thoughts, you may wonder. Well, I'm still contemplating the experience of reading the entirety of the Vampire Academy series in one fell swoop. It was an utterly marvelous adventure in which I lost myself for hours on end in a thoroughly compelling world filled with characters I cared about and loved to spend time with. Thinking all the while that I was so grateful to have discovered (along with millions of other fans) another truly outstanding series and author.

Now don't get me wrong, I enjoyed this series immensely. I found myself forgoing other activities to be able to read instead. And I always like it when a series actually has a beginning, a middle and an end, rather than going on ad infinitum like some series I could name. Nothing good ever comes from a never-ending story. At least not in reality. But, having said that, Ms. Mead left quite a number of loose ends dangling like participles at the end of a poorly-constructed sentence. Not generally considered good form. I had a lot of questions, personally, which I won't list here, lest you haven't yet read the books. But suffice it to say, there was quite a bit of Batman's utility belt going on toward the end--you know what I mean--miraculous coincidences, deus ex machine, everything tied up neatly in a bow. And you know how I feel about that. I'm opposed, for the record.

And, in case you need a spoiler alert, here you go--spoiler alert--Rose and Dimitri get their HEA (I know, you are totally surprised!). But I have to say, I had a bit of a problem with it and here's why:  Richelle Mead got it right the first time, when toward the middle of the series things fall apart between our erstwhile hero and heroine. And while I was sad that things were going south for them, and that I was only going to get one stinking, tepid sex scene after three or four books--oops, did I say that out loud?!--I loved the way that Richelle Mead described the absolutely heart-breaking, gut wrenching phenomenon of knowing someone loves you and also knowing that it doesn't matter, that it's not all going to be OK, and that despite true love, the two of you are not going to go riding off into the sunset together.

Has this ever happened to you?  If not, count yourself among the fortunate. I think I read too many historical romances as a teen; you know, the kind where the hero and heroine hate each other for most of the book or have some other compelling reason to keep them apart, despite their palpable attraction to each other? But it always works out in the end for these fantasy lovers, and, in fiction, love usually does conquer all. And while I'm not a child of the sixties, I liked the Beatles as much as anyone, and I absolutely believed love is all you need and all you need is love. So when I dated a series of completely unsuitable men who I absolutely believed in my heart of hearts loved me, I held onto those relationships with everything I had because I thought that love would prevail, if I could just persevere.

But, here's another spoiler alert, this time, of the real life variety:  love doesn't always prevail. My problem, it turned out, was that I was listening to too much Beatles and not enough Rolling Stones. I should have paid attention when Mick Jagger sang, “Angie, I still love you baby, everywhere I look I see your eyes.” But the song is still about him breaking up with her. And I hated that part of it, and secretly berated Mick for leaving his love.  Because if he loved her, why was he leaving her?  I really didn’t get it. And, on top of my tendency to perseverate to Angie, I had a bad habit of listening to Guns and Roses Don't Cry over and over again, until my roommate wanted to throw herself out of the nearest window (which was 39 stories above street level, so you can imagine her annoyance). It’s harder to let go when you know that love isn’t the problem. At least it was for me.

I've been in at least two, maybe three relationships where the man I was with was in love with me--and acknowledged it-- but didn't like that he felt that way so he punished me for it. Twisted? Upsetting?  You bet. Truth?  Absolutely. In fact, this is exactly like the situation between Rose and Dimitri at one point in the series, and I celebrated the author's foray into authenticity.

But then Richelle lost her nerve.  She cheated. Like a light bulb going off, Dimitri "realizes" that true love must endure, so he gets over himself and throws himself wholeheartedly into the relationship with Rose and they get their HEA after all.

I think this could lead to the creation of dangerous expectations concerning romantic liaisons for some individuals. This is not usually what happens in real life. In real life, when someone can't accept love, it's usually because they are emotionally damaged in some way (in the way Dimitri is damaged, in fact), and it is only rarely that another’s love can overcome that (at least not without massive therapy for the damaged person). But how many times have we told ourselves that if we can just love our beloved a little more, hold on a little longer, it will all be OK? How many times have we made excuses for the other, dismissing hurtful behavior, rationalizing that he didn't mean it?  Yup, I thought so.

Abandon this trope--it doesn't work. Love is marvelous and unquestionably necessary for relationships to work. But it is not the only requirement. Respect, trust, and compatibly are equally important for the long-term success of any romantic alliance. I wish someone would write a song about that.  I’d hit the repeat button and settle in for a long listen.

It's Just a Matter of Trust

I just finished the fourth offering in Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series. The books are getting better and better. Always the mark of a truly gifted author. This one, Mine to Possess (commence eye-rolling now), is not really a Psy-Changeling story, as one half of the romantic pairing is (mostly) human (with, as usual, a little bit of something extra). The story centers on a couple who knew each other as abused children who survive a violent past together, but are then lost to each other for twenty years. When they come together again, there is a significant amount of betrayal to overcome between them, as well as the dysfunction produced by the tragedies in their shared and separate pasts. Deep stuff. And the larger back-story running throughout the series is also extremely complex and thought provoking. The primary issue that captured my attention in this novel is the creation, destruction and recreation of the bonds of trust between two people.  Trust is such a difficult subject. In my experience, trust is a function of both external and interior forces. Some of us, myself included, did not learn trust from their families of origin. For some, these early lessons may lead to lives of deception and dishonesty--both toward others and toward themselves. Some of us, though, the lucky ones, begin to walk down this road but able to achieve a course correction, and learn--usually with difficulty, to have honest, authentic relationships.

But as Talin and Clay show us, trust, once broken, and between two damaged individuals, is a tricky thing. We may want to trust. We may need to trust. But, in my experience, we cannot will ourselves to trust. In the book, both Talin and Clay come to a series of intellectual realizations that are then coupled with the impact of their mutual attraction and comfort they find with each other. There is so much complexity in their relationship it was really gut-wrenching to read at times. There was an element of previous sexual abuse as well as sexual acting out as a means of self harm. Lots of stuff going on here. 

And my only quibble with Ms. Singh, who I love, is that I think overcoming those kinds of psychological obstacles would take a lot more time and shared experiences than she portrays. But I guess I'm willing to suspend my disbelief about this (ironically I have a lot less trouble suspending disbelief with shapeshifters, vampires, witches and angels-- go figure) for the sake of argument and the development of a compelling plot.

I think a lot about trust. It's such an important element in living a full and authentic life. But trust is so hard. I don't know that I can say that I trust anyone unconditionally.  I'm not sure that kind of trust actually exists. There are many different levels of trust, and many different ways to trust. For example, we trust a variety of websites to recommend people who perform critical functions for us, including doctors, lawyers, babysitters and contractors, not to mention restaurants and hotels. We trust machinery to work (having experienced the vertical climbing abilities of ten-person Hummers in Moab, Utah, I am quite familiar with putting my trust in machines). Anyone who flies understands that it really isn't magic or purposeful thinking that is keeping that winged aluminum tube aloft--my personal efforts to the contrary--it's that we trust that the engineers and mechanics and pilots are doing their jobs and that we won't go down in fiery flames.

But that is a different kind of trust than what is required in interpersonal relationships. For example, I trust that my oldest girlfriends will not start telling tales out of school about my misspent youth to anyone else. I trust that my relatives will help me move furniture or let me borrow a van or give me a kidney if I need it.  And, fundamentally, I trust that my husband won't leave me after two decades of marriage on a whim because I've suddenly become more trouble than I'm worth.

At least I think I do. But sometimes I read these paranormal romances and wonder whether my ability to trust isn't somewhat impaired. It was hard to relate to Talin's decisions, conscious and unconscious, to love Clay no matter what, even knowing that she might lose him again, and that in losing him, might irretrievably lose herself. I want to have that kind of courage, and the strength to overcome my self-imposed barriers. But I'm not sure I can. And I'm not sure that this is something we can make ourselves to do, as Talin does. Perhaps it is, though.

I've read a lot of books by Nalini Singh, and I've come to trust her philosophy on relationships. There is that trust again-- and I'm willing to consider that she is right here, too, and that it is possible to make a decision to trust. Or at least to act as if we do, which is sometimes the best we can hope for.

Nothing More Than Feelings

I'm reading the latest installment of Darynda Jones' Charley Davidson series, which is so much fun. The books are getting better as they go along, which is awesome. My only real complaint is that I started the series when only the first three or four books were out, and I've had to read new installments one at a time instead of all at once (when Charlaine Harris was writing the Sookie Stackhouse books, I reread the whole series every year when the new one came out, which was awesome but no longer feasible with my schedule and my list of "to read" books, which is getting longer all the time). But I digress. Again. I know, if you only had a nickel for every time I do that, you'd have a pile of nickels. Got it. 

Back to Seventh Grave and No Body, which has made me laugh out loud on several occasions, including the scene where Charley and her best friend are watching a birthing video on the Internet, which an onlooker mistakes for South American porn. I mean, really, I had no idea that one could discern the various ethnicities of porn to such a degree of granularity. And the little sayings at the top of the chapters always make me chuckle (my favorite for this book is "We are all searching for someone whose demons play well with ours."). And who wouldn't fall in love with a character who asks people whether they like their coffee the way she likes her Death Stars, "gigantic, on the Dark Side, and powerful"?  To quote Darynda Jones some more, "Gawd, I love these characters!"  

But now I'm really off the reservation and need to find my way home. Maybe I could get some help from Charley's fiancé, the ultimate bad boys of whom I've written before. He has a map to the gates of Hell permanently tattooed on his arms. Might help. Might not, as I'm drifting even further afield. So, if you could read my emotions now, you would know that I've been very busy amusing myself, but now I'm anxious that I might have annoyed you, dear reader, and that my indulgence could cost me your good opinion of me (assuming you had one to begin with, although if you are taking the time to read my posts, that's probably a good bet--wow, with those kinds of deductive skills, I could be a detective). The issue at hand is whether we would want our significant others to know what we are feeling.  Like, all the time.  In every situation. When I first read about Charley and Reyes' ability to read each other's emotions I was fairly appalled. I can't imagine wanting my husband to be able to know me that clearly and completely. But then I started to pay a bit more attention at home and to reflect on the idea of what we hide from others and what we think we hide, but really don't.

So, would we want our significant others, our friends and even strangers to be able to read our emotions like that?  Again, I think not, in a big way. But, the question at hand is whether we actually fool ourselves into thinking our feelings are so well hidden to begin with. Personally, I've been told I wear my heart on my sleeve so much that I've got a permanent divot on my bicep. Apparently, I shouldn't count on a lucrative career as a professional poker player either.  It's been said that when I school my face it resembled preschoolers playing in the sandbox, rather than a well disciplined organ of my iron-fisted control. So, for me, I'm already an open book. Just ask my husband, who seems to know me better than I know myself sometimes (not an inconsequential feat for someone as introspective and contemplative as I am). He often anticipates my thoughts and actions to an almost scary degree of accuracy. And here I was thinking I'd been clever in telling our children not to let Dad know I bought them the really expensive brand of football gloves when he specifically told me to get the cheaper ones. He can always read my pride in thinking myself clever and my guilt in disassembling. And he knows.

But what about those of us who pride ourselves on how close to the vest we play our cards?  Those of us who delight in denying our companions and observers any insight into the inner workings of our minds or even an inkling of the true feelings of our hearts?  I've written about these people too, as well as my utter delight in cracking the ice that obscures the churning waters beneath click here.  How would these paragons of cluelessness feel if everyone knew what they were feeling?  I'm thinking “horrified” would be a good descriptive adjective to use here. 

Having said that, though, I think the clues are there for those who care to look, even if we can't be 100% accurate about what we are reading off of others. I think that in truth, everyone has "tells" if we know what to look for. A clench of the jaw, a flash of the eyes, movement of the Adam's apple as someone swallows with surprise or some other deep emotion. I think none of us is as inscrutable as we think we are, although some people do elevate obfuscation to high levels.

So, maybe we are more like Charley and Reyes and know what others are feeling than it appeared at first glance. Maybe we just need to pay a bit more attention to becoming aware that there are teeming emotions all around us and respond accordingly, rather than becoming annoyed at the driver in front of us who didn't start as quickly as we'd like or the person in line ahead of us who failed to get her money out of her wallet even though we'd been standing there forever. Because if you pay attention, you might notice that the other is roiling with emotions because they just lost a parent, or a job, or their minds over something that sent them over the edge. 

Feeling others' feelings can make us more empathetic people. Blocking, as Charley tries to do briefly and with hurtful consequences, results in making us less empathetic, less connected, less human. And, as often happens for me, it took a book about demons and angels, not to mention ghosts and other supernatural phenomena, to appreciate the reality of my more mundane world and existence.

Alpha Girls Rule The World

I just finished Nalini Singh's Branded by Fire, one of her Psy-Changeling novels. And oh, my God, can I relate to Mercy--alpha female, strong, independent and capable(just like another Mercy I know by Patricia Briggs—another of my favs). But it seems that strong, independent women get shit from everyone. If one does not happen to belong to a pack of predatory shapeshifters, as Mercy does and I do not, being an alpha female can be very difficult. In the real world, strong independent women are seen as ball-busting bitches. No one thinks twice about calling you aggressive or saying, "No one likes you."  What I've actually found is that it is only the people who are threatened by female strength who are the ones who don't like us. But it still hurts when people are nasty just because they think they can be.  Female strength is often equated with a lack of emotion, as if strength in women makes us less feminine and therefore less emotional or sensitive. Which is a ridiculous argument on a number of different levels: first, "real" women are not more inherently emotional than men; second, strong women are not a different species than "normal" women; and third, who is coming up with these silly stereotypes to begin with?

People think it is OK to say mean things to someone they think lacks human feeling. But these are the same people who supposedly think alpha girls lack a sensitivity chip, so why aren't folks more afraid of us?  After all, we might bite them. But I digress. Again.

And, actually, the phenomenon of being mean to strong women is not really what I want to talk about today. Shocking, right, that I'm at the third paragraph of this post and I haven't reached my topic sentence yet?  My seventh grade English teacher would be appalled. Oh, well. So, finally, the topic at hand is the loneliness of the alpha female.  Mercy is lonely. She is afraid that she will never find a mate because she will never find someone who is both strong enough and flexible enough to engage in the dance of dominance that is necessary when two strong, independent individuals try to get together.

Ms. Singh does such a good job describing the very real downside of being an alpha female in the real world-- a difficulty in connecting with others because connection requires surrender, and letting go of control, which is hard for everyone but especially for alphas--male and female. And life without intimate connection is lonely.  But it takes a certain kind of strength to cede control. And it takes a very sophisticated understanding of the healthy aspects of dependence and reliance to truly connect with others. So while this kind of connection is possible for alphas, it takes a conscious decision, which Mercy comes to understand. And which is as it should be, in fact.

It is hard to let go for those of us who like to be in control. It's scary. And uncomfortable. And dangerous. Most of us who live in carefully constructed houses of illusion don't want to be disabused of those lifelines. Just like Mercy, the idea of total surrender can be anathema to alphas. And for females, showing a man the truth of who we are, as Mercy is determined to show Riley, often results in the man finding the nearest exit.

I love the way that Riley evolves to understand that to be in love with a female alpha is to love her dominance and seek her trust so that she can let go with him. I love that he wants to protect her but that he loves that she can protect herself. The whole romance is so well done and so well described that I felt like I was right there with them, figuring it out, one step at a time. Not necessarily neat and tidy, but real. 

And I'm so glad that Mercy doesn't have to be lonely or submissive. I don't agree with imposed roles, particularly based on gender (I know, you are shocked!). I am so grateful that I was born after the advent of feminism into a culture where women don't have to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. Like Mercy, I would never survive with my sanity intact if I hadn't been. And I'm glad I'm not lonely either, and that my husband loves my strength and doesn't insist on always being in control. Just like Riley.  I love this truth in fantasy.

One of the things I loved best about this book is that this time, it's not only the male who is alpha. I love that Nalini Singh is exploring the phenomenon of the female alpha. We're out there. We exist. And we want men who can appreciate us and cherish us not in spite of our more "masculine" character attributes, but because of them.

Female alphas are hot. Just ask Mercy. Or Anita Blake. Or any of the heroines in Kresley Cole's Immortals After Dark series. These women are smoking! And I don't mean cigarettes. And their men understand that to win the heart of an alpha female--and keep it--is an accomplishment of epic proportions.

The Divinity of Domestic Goddesses

I'm still reading the Vampire Academy books by Richelle Mead. And I'm feeling called to comment on her observations about the dichotomy of individuals--mostly female--who seem to fall into two categories: warrior women and domestic goddesses. The heroine of these novels, Rose Hathaway, my girl crush from last week, clearly falls into the first category. But one of the interesting aspects of these books is that Ms. Mead expresses--through Rose--some longing for the ability and inclination to be more oriented to the home and the family. And one element of this theme that runs subtly through the series is the implicit notion that these ways of being are essentially mutually exclusive. 

Being a warrior precludes domesticity, maybe especially for women, at least according to Richelle Mead. And I need to give this serious thought. Because I really don't want to believe that this is true, but, unfortunately, I suspect that it is. So, for today, the question is, can the same person be happy and fulfilled out in the world kicking ass and taking names while also enjoying pursuits closer to home, including cooking, cleaning, gardening, child care, and general homemaking?

When I married my husband, I felt I was very clear about my position on traditionally-dictated gender roles. I was opposed. With prejudice. He says I misled him during our courtship with protestations of delight in exercising my culinary skills, limited as they were. He claims, and I'm not commenting on his veracity, that as soon as we got married, I ceased spending time in the kitchen. I came back with the observation that I still enjoy spending time in the bedroom, so he should be quiet and grateful.

He encouraged me to take a gardening class (the fact that I needed a class should have been his first clue that perhaps my thumb was less than chartreuse). We had a conversation about cleaning bathrooms, where I had to point out that the bathroom belonged to both of us, and therefore it was not my job to clean it, but rather ours. Just as childcare was also a shared responsibility. I get so angry when a father refers to caring for his children as "babysitting."  When a parent cares for a child it's called "parenting" and should not be considered a cause for expecting a medal.  My husband doesn't do that, just for the record.

Over time, my husband came to understand that I had no more affinity for domestic activities than he did, and that, as a result, we needed to share these responsibilities so as to balance the burden equitably. But the truth is there are people out there, mostly but not exclusively female, who enjoy these sorts of activities. Lots of folks like to cook, don't mind cleaning, and delight in playing peek-a-boo with a toddler 100,000 times in a row. Not to mention those who feel that kneeling all day in the dirt under a hot sun is the height of relaxation and fulfillment.

I am absolutely not one of these people. And part of me really wishes I were. But the part that wishes I didn't feel so wretchedly bored and put upon by domestic chores is at odds with the part that believes, like Rose and her creator, that if I enjoyed homemaking, then I might not enjoy my pursuits outside the home as much as I do, nor would I be as motivated to do them as I am.

Is this a false dichotomy?  Perhaps.  Can women bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan?  Undoubtedly. Does that mean we have to enjoy both?  Probably not. Now, I know that such people exist; women, especially single mothers, who do it all and do it well. And I also know there are women who claim to enjoy both work and home activities.

But these women, at least from my vantage point, are warriors on hold. It's possible that before the house and the kids they were fierce and intense in their purpose, as Rose is. But domesticity is domesticating, no doubt about that. What makes us good at nesting undermines what makes us good at risk taking, a necessary component of the warrior mentality. And we can argue about whether it is the nature of the attachments that encourages risk aversion or the distraction of the tasks themselves. For me, it's the dilution of focus that compromises my ability to kick ass and take names effectively.

Being a warrior isn't just about war and physical fighting, although that is certainly true for Rose.  Being a warrior is the ability to achieve difficult goals. It requires the capacity to focus on complex relationships and the patterns of many moving parts. From my perspective, domestic goddesses are able to focus their attention on many things at once, to keep many balls in the air at the same time and to juggle them all with grace and efficacy.

All I know is that I wish I gotten me some of that genetic code. I wish I could be happier in my kitchen and my backyard. I wish I were the type of mother who relished making Halloween costumes for my kids and cupcakes from scratch. Instead, I was the kind of mother who dressed up as Princess Leia for our Halloween party, wielding a light saber (and yes, I am aware that she didn't have one in the movies) and leading the charge of 15 eight-year-old boys into battle against a drone army armed with laser guns. It was ok, though. One of the other mothers brought the cupcakes.

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. 

That's What I'm Talking About

I have a girl crush. I'm a little in love with Rose Hathaway, the badass heroine of Richelle Mead's YA series, Vampire Academy. Generally, I eschew YA series; I can't really handle all that teenaged angst, once was certainly enough for me. Nor do I like the high drama over absolutely nothing, especially among the girls, although being the mother of two teenaged boys had taught me that high drama among teenagers is not limited by gender.  And finally, I really don't appreciate the absence of hot sex scenes in these YA books. I'm all about the chick porn. Having said all of that, however, I also have to say that I have barely been able to tear myself away from these books for the past week. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm being driven by the kind of compulsion that fuels the magic in Ms. Mead's interesting, original world. But perhaps not. I think this kind of compulsion is just the result of good, old-fashioned compelling writing. I can't turn the pages fast enough to see what happens next. And each book in the series is better than the last. Coolio!

So, back to Rose. She has firmly taken her place in the pantheon of warrior women I aspire to emulate from my beloved paranormal fantasy books. Included in this august group are Mac, Anita, Merry, Jane, Mercy, Cat, Sookie, Elena, Pia, and even some of their more light-hearted sisters, including Betsy, Glory, the other Jane (Jameson), Nix, and her Valkyrie contingent. These women kick ass and take names, as I’ve described before. But the thing I love most about them is their ability to overcome their own compulsions. And Rose might actually take the prize in this arena—her evolution from a girl who consistently gives into her reckless and irresponsible side, with all the hedonistic pleasures it promises—into a woman who consistently does the right and responsible thing has been enlightening and instructive. In this, she is like all of my favorite ladies, but her situation is maybe just a little harder. After all, for her, doing the right thing means killing the man she loves.  She definitely wins the competition, I think. What am I talking about, you may wonder again, as you have before. Don't worry, I'll tell you, just as I always do—eventually. When I can find my way back to the point of my ramblings. I'm talking about resisting those overwhelming feelings we all have to do things that feel good in the moment, but that we absolutely know are not good in the long run. Or even in the moment immediately following the immediate moment where the bad behavior seems like such a good idea.You know what I'm talking about: the ice cream at the end of the meal, even though we're trying to lose a few pounds; reading just one more chapter or even just one more page when we know we need to get going to meet another responsibility or just get to sleep so that we won't be zombies in the morning; or skipping the gym in favor of the local watering hole to meet some friends. That's what I'm talking about. 

But wait, there's more; diet, sleep and exercise are child's play compared to the more important decisions we make while under the influence of the compulsion of ease and avoidance of pain and discomfort. What about when we know it's time to leave a job, or a spouse, or a friend, or just a bad situation?  And we don't. We put it off just a little while longer, kind of like Rose does when she knows she should stake the bad vampire, but she hesitates because she just doesn't want to do that right this minute. She tells herself she'll do it in a few minutes. But for Rose, like for us, procrastination is paralysis.  But unlike the rest of us, or, maybe it’s just me, Rose gets over her procrastination PDQ and does what she needs to do—even when she is fighting the physical, emotional and mental withdrawal from some pretty potent magic, which works like the best drugs imaginable, giving her an incredible, almost irresistible high.  Almost irresistible.  As in, not quite, because resist she does, though God only knows where she found the strength, because I sure don't.  I’m just not sure I could be so strong. Could I get up and walk away from something that felt so good, and seemed so real?  Surely I’d like to think so, but I doubt myself all the time.

Luckily, we are all given lots of opportunities in our everyday lives to practice this particular form of compulsion resistance.  Temptation calls at almost every turn—and we are often in the position to wonder whether we really need to do the right thing because it’s the right thing, or because we’re afraid we might get caught if we don’t.  If we are honest with ourselves, would we all be completely upstanding citizens if there were no penalty for transgressing?  Would we jaywalk? Snag a candy bar without paying? Cheat on a paper or a test? Kiss our sister’s really cute boyfriend if he wanted? Probably not.  Or maybe so.  Each of us has to answer for ourselves. As I’ve noted many times before, doing the right thing is hard to do. If it were easy, everyone would do it.

That’s what makes Rose Hathaway such an excellent role model, and why I have a teensy swoon going on for her.  I want to be just like her. I want to do the right thing, no matter the cost to my heart or my comfort or anything else.  But, I have to say, I don’t think I could kill the man I love even if I were convinced it was the right thing to do. The good news is, I don’t have to make that choice today.  But I can be inspired by Rose and her willingness to do the hard thing.  Because it always helps when we see someone else succeed in doing things we want to be able to do ourselves.  If she can do it, maybe so can I.

No One Died and Made Me Queen. Unfortunately.

I want to be Queen Betsy. Without having to die first, of course. But with the awesome shoe collection, naturally. What the hell am I blathering on about, you may wonder?  Well, I spent my weekend nursing my psychic wounds after a week of feeling like everyone was out to get me and reading the Queen Betsy series by MaryJanice Davidson. These books are a hoot, not to mention hot (Eric Sinclair definitely makes my Man Crush Monday short list). And they are fun and quick and totally capable of distracting me from all my woes. What these books didn't do, unfortunately, was dissuade me from my recurring fantasies concerning all of the people with whom I'd like to share a piece of my mind.  Or maybe more than a piece. After all, I'm practically a genius and I'm sure I can spare it for a worthy cause. Just ask me.  :-)

I love the way Betsy tells people off. I'm sure it's not polite to be impressed by someone who calls other women low-class cows, but if the shoe fits, you should buy that Blahnik, right?  I love that she never pulls her punches and that she always calls people on their bad behavior, even when it's not socially acceptable or politically correct. I spent way too much time daydreaming about what I could say to all the people who annoyed the living daylights out of me last week and caused me to feel offended and defensive all at the same time, which is a cool trick, you've got to admit.

So, I got to enjoy Ms. Davidson's books not only for their direct entertainment value, but for the vicarious thrill I experienced watching Betsy mouth off to a wide variety of humans and vampires alike--she's an equal opportunity mouther offer, after all. I was able to burn in effigy all those who hurt my feelings and wallowed in hypocrisy and lived in deep denial about their own significant failings while pointing out all of mine.

But then I had to stop and consider whether I really wanted to turn these particular fantasies into truth. Sure, it took Nalini Singh/Psi- level lockdown not to tell the asshat at the Pentagon to take his White House name- dropping and tell it to someone who hasn't written briefings for Presidents and Secretaries. As Shania would say, that don't impress me much.  And it took every ounce of self control I possessed not to return fire with prejudice against the person who informed me my family was deficient because we enjoy our electronic devices a bit too much for her judgmental tastes. And, as I went home and seethed in self-righteous wrath, and read about Queen Betsy to take my mind off my troubles, I had the time to consider my desire to spray it not say it.

With respect to the asshat, I've got to ask myself, who cares?  Not me, actually. Poor guy is stuck in a windowless room 16 hours a day. I'm sure that's got to affect the old brain cells. And name-dropping is probably all he has to show for his vampire-like pallor from all those fluorescent lights. And my judgmental and tactless friend who eschews electronics?  Well, she probably has a point, which is why it pissed me off so much, and why I went home and took away my kids' cell phones, not to mention my husband's iPad (can you say Clash of Clans widow?).

So maybe mouthing off shouldn't be my go-to strategy. Maybe the cost of indulging my inner-Betsy would be too high and totally not worth it. And maybe the way I handled it, in fact, and not in my admittedly-rich imagination, was the way to go:  read the fantasy books to distract myself and use the time to calm the hell down and act in a more considered manner. This way, I can fantasize away without actually endangering anyone else or any of the relationships I value. I think is the definition of a win-win situation. So, while I still want to be Queen (and wouldn't the world be so much better with me in charge?!), perhaps I don't really want to be Queen Betsy after all. Queen Anne will do just fine, thank you very much. 

The Shelf Life of Sympathy

I've had a rough year in terms of death. It began with the death of my mother sixteen months ago, followed swiftly by the passing of my mentor and close friend who I'd known and loved for 25 years. Then, after a brief respite, two of my childhood friends, who are still among my best friends, each lost a parent who'd been parents to me as well for most of my life. Each death felt like a body blow as the world became depopulated of people who knew me before I knew myself. And not only did I begin to feel like I was living in a fundamentalist version of hell where I was left behind, it quickly became apparent that the next generation waiting in the wings to greet the Grim Reaper would be me, my husband and my peers. Talk about a cold splash of water to the face.  The implications were legion and complicated and intertwined. And in my grief I barely had the headspace to unpack any of those boxes to look inside and see what was wrapped up in all those layers of confused emotion.

Mostly, I just hurt.   And I felt like maybe I was losing my mind. I did things that were totally out of character for me. Like driving 100 miles one way, stopping, and turning around to drive back. Sobbing most of the way. I'm sure the roads were super safe that day. I also ranted and raved, mostly at my family and closest friends. I went to bed early some nights and stayed up till dawn on others. I could not find a comfortable place for myself, no matter what I did or didn't do. I had to re-learn to live in a world that no longer included individuals who shaped not only my reality, or rather my old reality, but who also shaped me, because they had created boundaries to my universe, dictating what I did, and said and thought and even what I was willing to admit to myself that I felt. Without them I felt ethereal, that my essence was dissipating.

And mostly, people were awesome. At first. For a while. And then maybe less so. And then less after that. And the very first thought that came to mind was that sympathy definitely comes with an expiration date. Unfortunately, the one grieving doesn't get to decide when that date is. In my case, the expiration date was significantly short of the actual amount of time spent in the most intense throes of my sadness. I suspect this is true for most of us.

I was reminded if this phenomenon by two things, which, as I'm coming to expect, coincided in a way that seems increasingly unlikely to be coincidence. I'm rereading the Black Dagger Brotherhood series and thinking about Tohrment, whose mate and unborn baby are killed early in the series, leaving him grieving and seemingly irreparably broken until he's given a second chance in Lover Reborn. As are all the Brothers, Tohrment is a compelling character and JR Ward makes us feel every emotion that he feels. His pain, which goes on and on, drives him to do crazy, out-of-character things, like leaving his adopted/foster son, who is also grieving, and basically trying to kill himself so he can join his mate. His Brothers don't know what to do. And they are clearly discomfited, though happy, when he is returned, almost dead, but not quite.

The second event involved speaking with a friend who has recently lost her father.  She is lost in grief, simply lost. And it was so difficult to speak to her. Even though I know exactly what she is going through, the raw emotion, the intensity of her feelings, and my own helplessness to help her made me very uncomfortable. And I felt that way and behaved commensurately despite the fact that I know how disappointed I felt when others have presented similar reactions to me in my grief.

Why is it so hard for us to share a common human experience with each other?  Why do we react with what amounts to aversion to those who are grieving?  Why do we only tolerate our own discomfort in offering sympathy for just a short time after a death, and then expect the one grieving to take their tears and loneliness underground and out of sight?  I've seen this happen too many times to believe that this is not the norm.

We must think grief or misfortune is catching. We must believe that we might attract death to our door if we associate with others who have been visited recently. Or, as we have no idea what to say or do, the excruciating awkwardness of the situation compels us to avoid it.  I get it. But we need move beyond those initial feelings and offer support to those who need it.

The gifts of presence and witness are highly underrated. We don't have to do or say anything, in fact. We can just offer ourselves as fellow humans who either understand or don't. Doesn't matter. We can connect without saying a word or doing a thing. And we should. It's what we have to offer someone experiencing what we will all face at some point or another. There is no expiration date for grief and loss and it's inauthentic to pretend there is. We are all entitled to our feelings and we all deserve to feel connected to life through our fellows when that connection is interrupted by death. It’s what the Brothers do for Tohrment.

The way the Brothers surround Tohrment with their presence and love, without necessarily doing anything in particular, is instructive. It's another reason to read these amazing books. And the next time someone needs to affirm life after a death, let's all commit to overcoming our reticence and to behaving like the Black Dagger Brotherhood would.  And certainly we can behave as well as a group of mythical vampires whose job it is to save humanity, no?  WWBDBD?

It's Not Fair

So, I'm reading Night Pleasures in Sherilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunter series. And I'm sure I'm going to have as much fun mocking these titles as I do with other  series'--I'm thinking of submitting my own suggestions for silly,  salacious titles to the Ministry of Silly Names--I'm sure it must exist. But beyond the title, this is the first real entry into the Dark Hunter series, and I'm enjoying the way the world building is shaping up and I'm beginning to see a number of intriguing characters whose lives I will look forward to exploring as the series continues. And because this is a mature series and I'm just joining the party, more fun for me. Yay.  As you might expect by now, I haven't gotten to the topic of this post, which is all about the concept of fairness and how it relates to reality. In the Dark Hunter world of Night Pleasures, Kyrion, a two-thousand year old vampire (who is one of the good guys, of course) and Amanda, a twenty-something, quasi-normal accountant, trudge the complicated road to their HEA, overcoming obstacles of circumstance and internal resistance. They really don't have much in common, after all, what with the 2000-year age difference and the whole vampire-versus-human issue between them. But one area of significant divergence is their respective perspectives on the concept of fairness. What is it? Does it exist? Can you count on it? And what happens when one's expectations of a basically level playing field disintegrate under the onslaught of repeated encounters with a less-than-benign reality?

These are questions worthy of contemplation, I think. And they are certainly issues that have occupied my personal brain space in the past as they do now, having been inspired to think about all of this as a result of Ms. Kenyon's well-developed world and characters.

Basically, life isn't fair. But so many of us seem to think it is or it should be. Where does this magical thinking come from and how can we dispel these destructive delusions so that we don't get smacked upside the head with the cold slap of reality?

I believe the basic difference, as evidenced by Kyrion and Amanda, actually, is one of age and maturity. Kyrion has been around the block quite a few times at this point, and Amanda is a relative infant in comparison. So it stands to reason that Amanda, with her dearth of life experience, still believes the myth that life is fair, while Kyrion, in contrast, has learned, the hard way, that life and fairness aren't even in the same ball park, much less the same field, level or otherwise.

The fairness of life is a concept for children. And really, only those children who are lucky enough to have an advantaged upbringing, including a stable, peaceful home life, sufficient food, medical care, education and time and space for the kinds of play kids are supposed to be able to enjoy. Which describes a pitifully small portion of the total population of kids in the world, unfortunately.

If life were fair, all kids would experience happy upbringings. And adults would also live in a world free from hunger and violence and prejudice and fear. But that isn't the world we live in, is it?  Or at least the majority of humans do not.

The concept of fairness is actually insidiously undermining, in my opinion. It seduces us into believing we "deserve" the good things in life, and, probably, we do. But so does everyone else, pretty much. I work hard. And so does the custodian at my kids' school. But I'm betting that I get to go home to a better life at the end of my work day than he does. Is that fair?

Is it fair that I was born white, economically advantaged, intellectually gifted (not a boast, read my bio-I'm not taking credit for my gifts, they just are), relatively attractive (which counts in our society, fair or not), and relatively healthy (as compared, say, to my 33-year old friend who has cancer)?  Doesn't seem fair to me. I didn't do anything to deserve these circumstances and attributes. I got dealt a good hand (a subject I've written about previously in my blog, Why Me?) And I've played the cards fairly well, for sure, and I get to take credit for that, but the initial starting point had nothing to do with fairness.

So, I'm on team Kyrion when it comes to my perspective on fairness. I think Amanda needs to grow up and realize that life isn't fair. It just is. And what we do with what is is what makes us who we are. And that is all the fairness we get in this life. And that applies to all of us. So maybe the field is level after all. Or maybe we are all stumbling around on highly uneven ground. What do you think?  

Assume the Position

I've just read the latest installment of the Jane Yellowrock series, Broken Soul, by Faith Hunter. And I'm delighted to report that this series is getting better with age, which isn't always true, so I'm quite happy when it is. And I love Jane. Just like I love Anita Blake, Meredith Gentry, Pia Cuelebre, Mac Lane and Catherine Russell (Cat). These are powerful women who make me swell with pride that I share their chromosomal makeup. I am woman, hear me roar. In Jane's case, that is a literal statement.

There are so many things I enjoy and relate to in these strong, fierce women, and I know I'll have more to say along the way as we journey together with these blogs. But the subject at hand today is the amazingly realistic way Jane (like Anita, Merry, Cat, and the others before her) assume the mantle of power and authority to take up leadership roles and guide their people away from danger and toward safety, redemption, connection, and fulfillment.  What I find particularly poignant and authentic is the relatively reluctant way Jane steps into her role, but how, once she decides to go there, she picks up the scepter of leadership with strength and purpose. It's a beautiful thing to witness. And it's inspiring to experience the journey with her.

Why wouldn't someone want to assume the position?  It comes with power, authority, respect and deference. People in leadership positions have all sorts of folks sucking up to them and telling them all sorts of things I, for one, want to hear. Like how fabulous I am, how smart, beautiful, clever, witty, funny, strong, real, whatever it is I want people to think about me. And leaders have followers--individuals who live to fulfill our every wish. What's not to like?  Sure, that all comes with a lot of responsibility and accountability and an obligation to meet certain minimum standards. And the reality is that the higher the position, the more burden you get with all the perks.

We could take a page from some of my old government contacts and accept all the fun parts of leadership and sort of forget about the rest of it. You know, take what you like and leave the rest? What's so terrible about that?  Sounds pretty good on the surface to me. 

Except, like the price Jane Yellowrock must pay to bend time to her purposes in Broken Soul, there is a price for taking without giving back and exercising power without compassion or compunction. But the reality also is that lots and lots of toxic leaders are placed in positions of power and authority who then abuse that power, sometimes in incredibly egregious ways. I left a job in the Pentagon once because I couldn't stomach the miscarriages of justice that occurred in the name of kissing some jerk's ass. And there are so many terrible examples of toxic leaders in the world today both in American politics and corporations as well as in the rest of the world.

But I'm digressing fairly far afield, so back to the topic at hand, which involves women in power positions. And the women who inhabit my beloved fantasy books are decidedly not toxic. I think that a healthy dose of reluctance in accepting positions of authority and power speaks to someone who understands the difficulties of leadership and is therefore probably qualified to exercise it. Like Jane. She is no power-hungry megalomaniac. But she is a predator, and she never wants to put herself in a position of being prey. Which, in her case, means taking charge and living large. Which Jane does with aplomb. And grace. And compassion. But what I also enjoyed reading in Jane's evolution from a lone hunter to a responsible and effective leader was her uncertainty and incredulity that anyone would ever take her seriously in such a role. That felt so authentic to me. Because if we aren't questioning ourselves and our qualifications to be doing the things we do, especially when our actions impact other people, then we are probably on a slippery slope to egomania. So Jane's introspection and moments of self doubt are probably indicative of someone well qualified to lead.

And the doubt and introspection are well founded. Lonely is the head that wears the crown and all of that. Lonely and scared and angry and guilty, in fact. Comes with the territory as leaders like Jane make life and death decisions with less than perfect information. Jane experiences first hand the unfortunate results of actions she had taken thinking she understood the situation and finding out belatedly that she was missing crucial facts. Which resulted in good people dying. No wonder Jane is reluctant to assume the position. It's a painful and difficult thing to do. Kind of like a bad game of Twister. 

And maybe women think more about all of the consequences of power and authority more than men do. Or maybe I am extrapolating from a pathetically small sampling of me and Jane and Anita and Cat. But, as I always do, I figure if someone is writing about this, and millions of people are reading about it and voting with their wallets and their reading time, there must be a horse in there somewhere. As in, where there is smoke there is fire. Most of the time.

So, for me, women in positions of authority are not only hot as hell (just ask Bruiser), but also smarter than the average bear. Or Beast. What do you think?

The Other as Hell Spawn

I've just finished The Girl, by Madhuri Blaylock, an intriguing series opener with attractive characters and an original world. I'm definitely looking forward to how the author develops her concepts and characters. I love that this book dives deep into one of the more unfortunate aspects of the human animal, which is to deny humanity to our enemies and competitors. It is a well-documented fact that we humans like to demonize those we hate, to objectify them in order to make ourselves feel better about behaving badly towards them. So, in Ms. Blaylock's book, even her title points to a major theme of the story; the main protagonist is, in fact, just a girl, not the crazed and animalistic demon she is portrayed as being by the powers that be who seek to destroy her.

For the vast majority of the population, it would be unthinkable to kill another human being. But when we need or want to hurt or kill, literally, such as in war, or figuratively, such as in bullying or character assassination, one of the ways we make it easier on ourselves is to think of the "other" as being wholly alien from who we ourselves are. “Not like us” equals OK to demean, degrade, deprive, and destroy. 

How do soldiers prepare to kill fellow humans who happen to wear the uniform of an opposing force?  By making them sub-human and therefore worthy of death. In fact, all military and paramilitary training is designed to help human recruits overcome the natural reticence we all have to take another human life, and to live with the regret that normal, healthy humans experience when we do kill. In another example, we may wonder how whites in America were able to enslave and mistreat their darker-skinned brethren.  The answer is the same: by designating them as only partially human (three-fifths human, to be exact, a little more than half). How did Nazi officers kill Jewish babies in front of their mothers and then go home to play with their own children without a second thought? Because Jews were portrayed as being less than human and therefore in a completely separate category as the Aryan race. How do serial killers torture and kill their victims?  By seeing them as objects, not people. Do you remember the scene in Silence of the Lambs where the senator’s daughter tries to tell the crazed killer her name so that he might see her as human?  Didn’t work, of course.  He loved his dog a lot more than the “thing” in the pit.

And there are many other examples of this very ugly, very human phenomenon.  The rationale behind it must be that we are somehow biologically hardwired to recognize another of our kind and to see ourselves in them so that we are naturally reluctant to kill or damage them in any way because it feels like hurting ourselves.  Therefore, if we want or need to behave badly, we must first rewire our brains so that we do not recognize ourselves in the “other” so that we can destroy with impunity.

And lest we think that this activity is limited to others who take this tendency to the extreme, let me assure you that we are all alike in this way.  It is human nature to decide between two options:  generally, either we identify in or we identify out. So, for example, when we audition to join a new group, be it professional, personal, or religious, we must first decide—or have it decided for us—whether we are a good fit. If we are already in the group, it is up to us to determine whether the candidate is “one of us.”

Some groups are determined by like-mindedness or common benefit, such as special interest groups, hobby groups, or religious and political affiliations.  Some groups are determined by function or purpose, like labor unions or industry associations. Some groups are purely social, and exist mostly to distinguish between “us” and “them.” The Greek system (sororities and fraternities) and exclusive country clubs come to mind in this category. And, of course, not all groups adopt an exclusionary clause—I’m sure there are some groups that genuinely embrace a live and let live approach, but they seem to be the exception, not the rule.

We form groups to define ourselves, to provide a label that can tell us how to act and even how to think.  It is so much easier to color within the lines if we know where they are. We also seek to belong to groups that represent something bigger than we are so that we can remind ourselves that there is more out there than just us.  It’s lonely as a lone wolf.  We want to be part of a pack.  We are hardwired to this too.

Which would be just fine if we didn’t need to take that tendency a step further and promote our own affiliations at the expense of others.  Because while it is true that we can all stand taller on the backs of those who don’t belong, such positioning creates a shaky foundation for growth and authentic expression.  And when we take it to the next level and demonize the other, as The Sanctum does to the girl Madhuri Blaylock’s book, the results can lead as far as death and destruction, as it does in this story.  But Ms. Blaylock also shows us hope that at least some of us can overcome our tendency to exercise the exclusivity clause, and replace it, instead, with a more inclusive approach. I believe that when we overcome our more reflexive responses, and engage the more reflective aspects of our consciousness, we begin to walk the road of authenticity, which, as you know, is one of my primary goals in life.

We don’t need to fear the other.  We certainly don’t need to damage or destroy in our fear.  We can take a page out of Madhuri Blaylock’s book and choose to expand our group, to change our self-definition to include the other.  Because, in truth, we are the other.

Love and Other Distractions

I love being in love. I especially adored the thrill of new love. And, truth be told, I was addicted in many ways to unhealthy infatuation and inappropriate dependence on romantic attachments in my younger days, although I told myself I was just a fool for love. Really, I was just a fool. I was guilty of "the sickly devotion of it all," as Nalini Singh writes in her newest Guild Hunter book, Archangel's Shadows. As I have with the seven Guild Hunter books before it, I'm deeply enjoying the fast-moving plot and the interesting and complex characters Ms. Singh writes. I'm also enjoying the many profound themes that she explores in these novels. I'm only a part of the way through the book and I've already highlighted more sections than I can count to come back to and ponder each passage's significance. The theme I want to explore in today's post is about the nature of real love, as well as the characteristics of the pyrite we often mistake for love, dependent infatuation.

In Archangel's Shadows, Nalini Singh writes about old vampires who keep a "blood family," humans who serve as food but also companions to the vampires with whom they form bonds of love and affection. She contrasts this arrangement with vampires who keep "cattle," humans who serve the same function for a vampire, but whose purpose is a bastardization of what the relationship should look like in its more idealized form. As always with my beloved fantasy novels, and because they include a paranormal element, a skilled author like Ms. Singh is able to highlight aspects of human behavior in an extreme way, which is what she's done here.  In Ms. Singh’s world, vampires are powerful and seductive and they are able to choose among an almost unending selection of humans who compete to become the chosen ones from whom a vampire can take sustenance and sex.  Because it is a seller’s market, and because the currency involves not only money and power, but also status, protection and the ability to relinquish one’s need to make decisions, the vampire is completely in the one up position.

In the Guild Hunter world, just as in our society, there are legions of individuals who seek to trade their bodies and their wills for the privilege of living in a gilded cage.  And these “cattle,” or, perhaps more descriptively “sheep” convince themselves that they gripped by grand passion, as one of the protagonists describes his feelings for the vampire who convinced him to surrender his humanity. Humans do this a lot.  Of course, there are men and women who are more calculated in their quests to achieve standing and security through the barter of their youth and beauty.  But many humans in our world who want to achieve fame and fortune through association with another desire to wrap what amounts to blatant prostitution in the cover of true love and mutual caring.  As Ms. Singh highlights with the exaggerated nature of the power discrepancies between humans, vampires, angels and archangels, individuals of every conceivable makeup do the same thing.  It seems to be the nature of the beast.

And while this inequitable trade is interesting in itself for what it says about human as well as supernatural nature, the issue at hand (I know, I’ve digressed again) concerns the opportunity costs of infatuation, and a useful test to determine whether seemingly deep feelings for another are true gold or fool’s gold. In other words, how can we tell the difference between infatuation and love?  I believe that Archangel’s Shadows provides some significant signposts to authenticity in this arena for those of us who care to look.

As described by Ms. Singh, infatuation, usually coupled with unhealthy dependency, robs us of ambition and the desire to do something with our lives.  Infatuation is an all-consuming feeling that takes over our thinking and infuses our bodies with the chemical equivalent of a particularly good high.  Infatuation causes us to become completely distracted from reality, just like the characters in this book who fail to recognize how wholly they are being used until they no longer serve their purpose (because they are too old to appeal any longer), when they are discarded, although they are convinced it is all out of love. Infatuation blinds us much more effectively than love, in fact.  But more than being blind, fool’s love binds our hands behind our backs and serves to ensure that we accomplish nothing of note, because there is no space in the infatuated brain and heart for activity that does not involve the object of our infatuation.

By contrast, true love encourages our personal growth, and supports our being or becoming the best and most complete person we can be. True love does not distract, it enhances our lives, and serves as the foundation from which to take risks, personal, professional, and emotional, because we feel secure in our base, supported in our endeavors. Real love does not result in the abandonment of our dreams; real love helps us to make those dreams a reality. Real love magnifies reality while infatuation and dependency dissipate reality.  It is an excellent metric by which to evaluate one’s feelings.  By its fruit the tree is known.

In Archangel’s Shadows, the false feelings generated between predatory vampires and their cattle are contrasted with the true bonds between Ashwini and Janvier. Their love broadens and deepens their respective life’s passions and purpose.  When love is real, dependence is transformed into intimacy-creating vulnerability when we can reveal our innermost selves to the other and be safe and cherished for all that we are. False love often finds us trying to conceal various aspects of ourselves that we perceive to be less than attractive or acceptable.

So, as always, I am indebted to one of my favorite authors for illuminating reality through the medium of fantasy. There is so much depth to be explored, and so much rich reality to be pondered.  And all of this reality and expansion of my consciousness demonstrates clearly, to me at least, that my abiding passion for these books is true love, not merely infatuation or dependence. Because while these wonderful stories do help divert and entertain me, allowing me to put down the burdens of my life for a brief time, I also emerge from this diversion more informed and more aware than I was when I started. True love and grand passion together.  Yippee! 

Getting Past Our Pasts

Why is it that men who get around get lucky and women who do the same get slut-shamed? Why is it considered an advantage for men to be sexually experienced but that same experience makes women used goods? I actually know a man who asked his girlfriend, who is a friend of mine, whether her vagina had been worn out by its many encounters. Really?! Should I ask him if his penis has gotten smaller from all the friction he's generated using it--like a half licked candy cane? I can't believe there are really men out there who still think this way. But there are.

Why am I thinking about the haters today? It's because I just finished the new Kresley Cole Immortals After Dark offering, Dark Skye. Among other interesting themes, this book explores how two individuals, a virgin male and the sexually experienced woman he loves get past her past, which he finds both repugnant and hurtful. He has spent hundreds of years knowing she's given herself to other men (they were broken up, after all) and it's been eating him alive. When they finally get together, his attitude is one of forbearance and condescension; he feels she should be grateful for his willingness to consider her as a mate given her state of tarnish. Thankfully, his sterling mate spends quality time disabusing him of this Neanderthal attitude and explaining in no uncertain terms that she refuses to feel bad or ashamed for her choice to exercise a healthy sexuality. I was cheering her on every step of the way.

Dark Skye is the story of a Sorceri princess and a prince of the Vrekeners, creatures of the Lore of uncertain provenance. The two were childhood sweethearts whose story goes horribly wrong. She is his mate, the only woman who can complete him. She believes he killed her family. Needless to say, they have a bumpy road to achieve their HEA. But it's fun and exciting along the way, as it always is always with Kresley Cole.

I've always figured that men value virginity because they don't want to suffer by comparison. Which makes sense, of course, as most men have little idea how to satisfy a woman (see my post What Women Want). But the whole practice of making women feel bad for enjoying sex and celebrating their sexuality makes me crazy. And I become enraged when I hear about men who think less of women (or worse, their own woman) because the women sowed their own wild oats before settling down to domesticity. Personally, I want to be with someone who has been around the block once or twice and has chosen me above all others.  I'll take on the competition any day of the week. Bring. It. On. Similarly, I want to be with someone who had already sown his own oats. I'd hate for him to get a wild hair later in life and wonder what he's missed. I really don’t share well with others.  

So back to the double standard we call gender equality. Seems grossly unfair to me.  And at first, I thought things were getting better when I listened to women talk about men who are “players” in a negative way. But then it quickly became obvious that the connotations are divergent enough to matter.  Slut-shaming is a terrible term in itself and says something about the attitude implied by the nomenclature.  When women talk about a man being a “player,” they are usually using the term in a derogatory way to indicate that the man is incapable of making a commitment—that he “plays” women, rather than being a “keeper.”  Taken this way, it is a man’s lack of desire to commit that makes him undesirable—not that he’s dipped his wick in innumerable candles. Moreover, a man who is a “player” is considered to be in the power position—a player is someone who holds the cards, so to speak.

When a woman is referred to as a slut, she is not considered to be in control—she is considered to be the one who is controlled—controlled by her nether regions, or at least using them to get ahead in the world. Which usually implies she has no other discernable gifts or talents. She is tossed about just like a ship on the ocean—being buffeted from pillar to post.  A “player” is looking to avoid relationships.  A “slut” is using her body to coax a man into hanging onto her for good.  Seems fairly inequitable, no?

And so, this is why I love Kresley Cole and her fellow paranormal and urban fantasy authors so much.  Each and every one of Ms. Cole’s heroines enjoys a healthy sexuality and healthy sex—defined as anything consenting, otherwise unattached adults want to do between the sheets, or in the car, or in the trees or the fields, or the hot tub for that matter.  And these women apologize to absolutely no one for their tastes or proclivities.  They are women, hear them roar—and moan, and pant and gasp for breath as they relish the men they are with and the heat they generate.  Slut-shaming is not tolerated in the world of Kresley Cole, or Laurell Hamilton, Thea Harrison, Nalini Singh, Jeaniene Frost, or Patricia Briggs, among others too numerous to name. All of these amazing authors’ amazing heroines are strong, independent women who are not ashamed of their bodies, their sexuality or the number of partners they’ve had, whether that number is high or low.

The point is, it doesn’t matter as long as everyone knows the rules. For Kresley Cole’s Dark Skye heroine, what she did when she believed her relationship to be irretrievably over was her business.  And her virgin lover was finally able to get over himself and over her past as he understood that once she committed to him, what came before became irrelevant to their current reality. Past performance is not indicative of future outcomes. Isn’t that what the stock brokers tell us?

Dark Skye is a great book with an important message. There should be only one standard for both men and women.  And what comes before shouldn’t impact what happens now and into the future. And true love trumps playing the field every time.