Understanding the Meaning of Love

Today I worked at one of my part time jobs. This one has some built in downtime and we are to bring a quiet activity. I brought a book, and I brought an essay to work on. I thought I would try to write an essay for a contest. I didn't think I would win it, this is one that attracts literally thousands of entrants. I thought it would be good practice for me, and because it has a big prize ($3,000) and lots of competition, I would try my best. Then I pulled it out, and looked at the title. "When did you first understand the meaning of love?"
I used up all my first bit of downtime thinking about that question. Not making notes or working on a mind map. Just thinking. Back to work. Next downtime. Had to re-read the question. So, when DID I first understand the meaning of love? Well, what IS the meaning of love? I didn't have access to anything except my own brain at the time, so I pondered. I thought about my first experience of love and assumed that must have been my parents. The problem is I don't think my mom actually loved me. So forget that. My dad loved me. But my dad died when I was seven years old. Did I understand the meaning of love by then? I don't think so, because at that time I think I believed my mom loved me. Although it wasn't long until I understood that she did not.
So then I thought about my own children and how I love them and when I loved them and I just feel like such a bad mother myself that I couldn't think what to write about that. I thought about people I have professed to love and all I can do is wonder: do I understand the meaning of love? I know what unconditional love is when I am on the receiving end: my cat gives it to me. My babies gave it to me until they had been hurt enough times not to trust people any more, to be wary of giving love without condition. I didn't abuse my kids, I don't mean that. But I yelled at them, I withheld love from them, I ignored them when I could have been loving and kind. They felt hurt, ignored, unloved.
And what's the use of thinking about people I've been "in love" with? It was never unconditional, it always changed.
So, what is love anyway? When I say I love someone what do I mean? I love my daughter probably more than anyone in the world. Today that means I would do anything in the world for her. I would die for her. And yet she is also the person I have caused the most hurt. I can't change that, but I would if I could. I love my grandchildren, my sister, my son, my friends, even my mom.
When I say I love you, it means something. I'm not always sure what. I think we've established that it doesn't mean I'll always live near you. For some of the people I love it does mean that I will do anything for you, give you anything I have. Those are a precious few. For everyone else, I'm still exploring the meaning of love. I'm open to discussion.

Overcoming our personal history

Yesterday I went to see a one-woman show by Brenda Phillips called No More Pity Party Blues. Brenda has a gorgeous voice and is a wonderful entertainer. (She is also an artist, and her "tickets" were take home cards of her art. Bonus!) Her material flowed through stories from her life, covering the first time she was "in love" in second grade through being sexually abused by "play uncles" through real loves in her adult life, to today. She shows how she has come to take responsibility for her own self, her own part in her happiness. Along the way there was wonderful singing of the blues and gospel that had the audience moving, clapping, and vocalizing along. Next time she brings this show out to play, be sure to go. I'll let you know as soon as I hear about it. This was a short notice kind of thing, Brenda will be bringing it back.
I too have been working on my own personal history, as I recently wrote about. We all have things we have to overcome. Some are worse than others. For me I find that some of the things that might be considered the most horrendous to others are not the ones that were hanging me up. Or maybe not the first step. My most recent non-fiction piece that I wrote about was about being molested by a friend of my mom's. Not losing my virginity at the age of 12, or being married at 15, or being a battered wife, or when I was raped, or the things that I consider much worse that I won't even mention here. But that molestation was what changed me from the innocent babe that I was, to the person I was to become. I began taking the steps to take charge of my own life, began making my own bad decisions that led to many of those bad things that happened later in my life.
At this stage in my life the big decisions all have to do with forgiveness. Brenda talked about that yesterday. Forgiving oneself. I find it relatively easy to go back and forgive my 12 year old self for the decisions I made, but I still stick at the decisions I made at 21 and older. Intellectually I can say that I did the best I could at the time. When I knew better I did better. My heart twists and turns when I try to forgive those decisions that resulted in pain for my children. I'm still working on forgiveness.

Deep Thinking

My friend Jenny is spending an entire year doing things she has never done and blogging about it. This has led to some deep thinking -- on MY part. Today her entry is about a friend of hers who is moving away, and Jenny thinks about what it is like for the person left behind. I am a person who has moved so many times I can't remember how many, and until today I don't remember giving a thought to how the people I left behind were feeling. Maybe I did. But I don't remember it. I do remember wondering why they would be angry at me, why they wouldn't be happy for me.
From the time I started reading books at age 4, and knew there were other places to be, I wanted to go to those places. And I didn't just want to see them, I wanted to live there. I wanted to live in faraway places. But in lots of places. Also, I love houses. Apparently, all houses. So, I always wanted to move. I like decorating, I like redecorating. I'm forever seeing another place I want to live in. Once I was away from home (at 15), I started changing houses. Once I was free to move out of town, I did. My second marriage was to a military man. After I divorced him, I was even freer to move around. I started in Missouri, but I've lived in Alaska, Texas, Kansas, at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and in Oregon.
I've traveled to every state but Delaware and Rhode Island, and to 20 countries on 4 continents. I have friends in many places, friends I see fairly often. Two of my dearest friends live in other countries. I have as many close friends in NYC as I do in Portland.
Maybe. Maybe I feel that close to them because traveling is such a part of my nature. Maybe they don't feel that close to me. Maybe they only feel that close to people who ARE that close, literally. If I can't be there to wrap my arms around them, hold them when they need it, bring them something to read, make a pot of soup, am I really the friend I think I am? Or am I all just talk? Nice warm cozy words that no one can cuddle up to when pain is real and what they really want is a warm body, not a virtual hand.
These are the thoughts I am having today. I have no plans to move today or any time in the future. I'm happy in my 250 square feet. But if I ever do move again, I will have a different attitude about leaving people behind.

I support women's plays and new work in theatre.

I'm hoping you'll join me in sending money to support this new play: http://www.indiegogo.com/The-World-Premiere-of-The-Garden-of-Monsters
Mara Lathrop is a brilliant playwright who has won awards with her work, and like all playwrights -- but especially women -- struggles to get her work produced. She has raised some money already and is currently raising more specifically to compensate the artists in this production.
I've written here before how I've irritated local theatre companies with my emails addressing the inequity of women's plays in their lineups. I won't go into that again right now. I will say that there is a recent article in the New York Times about the dearth of women's plays being produced in New York. So, even if I weren't a playwright myself, if I were just an audience member -- which I also am -- I would support women's plays. As a playwright though, I also feel compelled to support NEW work. If I don't advocate for new work and ask others to do so, how can I hope to get my own work produced? What if all we ever watched were things we know we like already?
It's beginning to seem that way in movies, isn't it? Everything is a sequel or a prequel to something we already know and love. How safe is that? Come on people! Get risky! Dare to taste something new, see something you might not like, take a chance. A movie is less than ten bucks. So you waste a couple of hours. You can actually get up out of your seat and go home and waste your time in front of the televison. Or, get this: you can read a book.
At the theater, seeing a live play you might want to wait for intermission, or in one of those new-fangled plays where you have to sit through the entire 90 minutes, you'll have to watch the whole thing -- or not! People actually do get up and walk out if they are offended or bored, you can do that. But look at it like an adventure! Be the explorer of your posse. Choose something from your local rag or online calendar that has a title or synopsis that piques your interest, call and make reservations, or buy your online tix, and show up.
Or if that's too bold, just donate a few bucks to Mara's Garden of Monsters. Please.

You think you have it bad?

Sometimes we feel really down, life can be really unfair. Then we look around just a little and sure enough, someone has it worse. One of my dear friend's husband is battling a relapse of throat cancer when the first battle was scarcely over. The treatment is dreadful, and the odds aren't great. They have twin boys who just turned 14. But wait -- they're not the ones I mean. No, it's their friends who were similar. The mom is fine, the dad just lost his battle with cancer a little over a month ago. They also have two boys, one 16, the other 10. The 16 year old was shot in the chest on Sunday in an accident. He's in critical care, has lost a lung. Now it's just Mom and the younger brother praying for all they're worth not to become half a family. Prayer circles have been formed, people are donating blood in his name.

Still, if we look around further, there are others even worse off. People suffering alone with no one to care or notice. If you are alone, maybe you can notice or care about someone today who needs your notice. Sometimes that is all we can do. And sometimes that is enough.

Writing on Wednesday

On Twitter, people use hashtags (the number sign) and words together to create categories that can be searched. On Wednesdays, there is #WriterWednesday or just #WW. People sometimes report what they're writing, where they've been published, or share their favorite authors, blogs, books, all kinds of writing. This is a good way to learn about what is new in the publishing world. New authors to follow, new writers to learn from. I love reading tips from other writers, even if I've heard them before or read them before, it is good to be refreshed. All writers love to read about writing, especially when we aren't writing at the moment.
Today I worked at one of my part-time jobs, which entailed taking two buses on the way, walking a mile after the second bus, working for two hours, then hitching a ride for that mile, and taking two more buses back home. The first bus of the day was 35 minutes late because the Rose Fleet arrived downtown and the bridges were up. So, I spent all that time just standing looking down the street and checking my watch. After a certain amount of time I knew I was going to have to walk that mile. Not happy, me. Not that I can't use the exercise. I was looking forward to having the time to get lunch and go over my script for work. It all worked out okay. I had a cold wrap and still had time to go over the script anyway. Plus I got some exercise.
Walking gave me time to finish up the non-fiction piece I worked on the past two days. When I got home this evening, I went over it again, reading it aloud and made the changes I had made in my head earlier. Then I found three journals to which to submit it, and did so. Now I have something to tweet about. And that's my #WW. You?

Shame

After spending my writing time for the past two days on a piece in which I felt many things, one of them shame, even though I was blameless, the feeling is up there for me today. And along comes Representative Weiner of NY, standing up in front of a crowd of press and accepting responsibility for his admittedly "dumb" actions and feeling the shame of it all. He had some tears, and he squirmed, but he stood up and answered all the questions they threw at him. I thought he would read his statement and leave, but he didn't. He said he would now take their questions, and he took them all. He answered them all, over and over again. He denied nothing. He said that he had initially denied sending the picture and tweeting because he was embarrassed and he knew he had done a dumb thing and he didn't want to get caught. He told lie after lie. And now he was finally telling the truth and he felt horrible, and it was no one's fault but his own. He refused to blame it on alcohol, or anything that could be counseled away, anything but his own lack of judgment.
I don't know the man. As I watched him, I felt as if I did. I felt as if I were feeling the shame, the sadness, the surreal-ness of all those reporters asking those questions. He found the inner strength -- I think -- in the truth. By not having to come up with another lie, by telling the truth, he was able to stand there and continue to answer their questions.
May he continue telling the truth and learn from this. May we all learn a lesson today from watching a man face his shame head on and beat it back with the light of truth.