I have come to the conclusion that (as I am apt to do) I have crossed the line into buying too deeply into my own bullshit. Not that love and compassion and the need for human connections and serving each other is bullshit. It's all very real and true and I believe in all of it absolutely and without reservation. But I am prone to Taking Myself Too Seriously Syndrome and it's about time I called myself on it.
The crux of it is that I've been feeling for a while now that most of my relationships are unbalanced in some way: the two-way street doesn't flow with equal force in both directions. Problematic, for a dyed-in-the-wool idealist like me. But I talked myself down from it! I really did! I was all,
"Self. Nothing is perfect, Self. You have to look at flow over time, Self, and I'm sure that over time everything shakes out even, so don't get so upset. Relax. Go with it."
The first remarkable thing is that this ridiculous pep-talk actually worked. It's possible that the actual language I used when talking to myself in my head was somewhat different from the words above, but the gist was the same, and no one really wants to know how pretentious and pedantic I am to myself in my own head. It's positively precious, how hoity-toity my tone can get. I probably don't need to tell you that, dear Reader, since you're reading this and you know perfectly well how pretentious I am.
But over days and weeks of meditating on the concept of flow and time, I came to what I thought was a very determined peace with the fact of lopsidedness in relationships. I was OK. I was on an even keel.
It didn't last, clearly, or I would have nothing to write about. Everything is fodder for more words, dripping from my fingers like lovely and useless petunias. (Gilded lilies? I can't decide whether I prefer the continued alliteration, or the hilariously arcane allusion.)
But I've been snippy and mean and generally uncomfortable for a few days (sorry, Mom/Dad/Baby) and last night (yesterday? last week? It's hard to know whether the moment of epiphany occurs at the moment of verbalization or some time before that) I realized that I'm still struggling with the idea of all my lopsided relationships.
You see, I am unbelievably, unutterably, indescribably lucky. I am privileged beyond your wildest imaginings to have really amazing, awesome, awe-inspiring people in my life. These people are also ridiculously generous with me. I have been plagued by the sense that I am getting so much more from them than I am giving them, and that makes me so uncomfortable I can't deal with it. In fact, it makes me so uncomfortable I become a raging anger ball and kind of (a little bit) a bitch.
This is selfishness. I'm only ok with lopsided relationships if I get to play the martyr, be the selfless giving monolith? Not cool. Not cool at all. I believe absolutely in the power and the value of love and compassion and serving others. But it goes too far when you won't let other people have compassion for you, or love you, or serve you. Because if the purpose of a life is to do these things for other people, you're denying other people purpose by refusing their generosity.
Not ok, Self. Not. At. All. Knock it off, raging megalomania.
Why am I so uncomfortable? Because I don't credit the idea that me, myself, is enough for my friends the way that they, themselves, are enough for me. This kind of thinking denies these amazing, wonderful people that I love so dearly any agency. They don't get to make determinations for themselves; my determination of "not good enough" or "not enough" or even "lopsided" supercedes whatever they feel. Everyone is an adult capable of managing their own lives; I do believe this. So if they feel cheated by me, they'll tell me or they'll drop me, and until such a thing happens, I have got to stop worrying. I have got to let go of the idea that I'm getting more than my share, because my "share" is whatever is willingly given. The more we all share, the more there is to go around.
Flow is a multi-directional thing. And my perspective is not the only perspective. And if I'm going to love the whole world, I have to let the whole world love me, too. I have to let go, and just go with the flow.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Balances
Life, the Universe, and Everything have been conspiring to bring the idea of balance to the forefront of just about everything I do lately. Everything is an exercise in balancing, or a lesson in how to balance disparate wants and needs against each other, or a warning about what happens when you lose your balance.
How do you balance the obligation to take care of yourself with the desire to take care of others? How do you balance the need for stability against the demands of incurable wanderlust? How do you apportion your time so that everyone with a claim to it gets a share? How do you decide who to give claim to your time? How do you keep from leaning on anyone too hard when you're tired?
All questions of balance.
Perspective has a way of shifting rapidly; a month ago, two months ago, I would have told you that my life was much like strolling through a wide, flat field: lots of room to frolic, lots of margin for error. Lately I feel more as if I'm walking the knife-edge of a precipice. There's an exhilaration in the endeavor, a degree of excitement, a playful tendency to tempt fate. But there's not a lot of room for error. One misstep and I'll stumble. Maybe I'll fall, maybe I won't, maybe the fall won't be so bad, maybe falling off the edge is the only way off the precipice.
Or maybe I just need to change my perspective, maybe it's not a ridge pole I'm walking after all, maybe the field is still wide and flat and I just can't see.
I am struggling with balance, though. I keep getting knocked off of mine. You're never really done learning a thing; I thought I had found my balance. The key to balance is to find the solar plexus, the center around which everything else moves. This is as true in some amorphous idea of "life" as it is in the body. Life is a balancing act, give and take, ebb and flow, the self against the other against the world, a series of calculations and judgments and weighings.
So here is life, the universe, and everything teaching me that balance is not something you find once and have done. Like anything else, it's a constant process of learning and refining. The balance I found a year ago doesn't work today, because I am different and the things I carry are different and the people around me are different and my life is different. I am not Snow White; I do not live unchanging under glass, and everything is always in a state of flux.
I think I'm adding things, willy-nilly, careless: I think my wanderlust is overpowering my balance. I strike out for new things and new experiences and new horizons heedless of the distance and my unpreparedness and realize halfway there I might not make it and then I want someone else to carry me.
How silly. If someone carries me, I never actually arrive there.
So, here I am. Reaching for new things that are only half-seen and less-understood, blindly groping for the newness of it, the adventure, the thrill. I will probably always do this. This is wanderlust, in some rarefied form that doesn't actually require me to go somewhere else. I will always be finding my balance anew.
If I lean on you too often too long too heavily, give me a hug and push me off. Smile. I'll remember that I'm striking out for new horizons and that if I let someone else carry me I'll never actually arrive. Then come with me. Because I'll want you there in whatever new land I land in.
How do you balance the obligation to take care of yourself with the desire to take care of others? How do you balance the need for stability against the demands of incurable wanderlust? How do you apportion your time so that everyone with a claim to it gets a share? How do you decide who to give claim to your time? How do you keep from leaning on anyone too hard when you're tired?
All questions of balance.
Perspective has a way of shifting rapidly; a month ago, two months ago, I would have told you that my life was much like strolling through a wide, flat field: lots of room to frolic, lots of margin for error. Lately I feel more as if I'm walking the knife-edge of a precipice. There's an exhilaration in the endeavor, a degree of excitement, a playful tendency to tempt fate. But there's not a lot of room for error. One misstep and I'll stumble. Maybe I'll fall, maybe I won't, maybe the fall won't be so bad, maybe falling off the edge is the only way off the precipice.
Or maybe I just need to change my perspective, maybe it's not a ridge pole I'm walking after all, maybe the field is still wide and flat and I just can't see.
I am struggling with balance, though. I keep getting knocked off of mine. You're never really done learning a thing; I thought I had found my balance. The key to balance is to find the solar plexus, the center around which everything else moves. This is as true in some amorphous idea of "life" as it is in the body. Life is a balancing act, give and take, ebb and flow, the self against the other against the world, a series of calculations and judgments and weighings.
So here is life, the universe, and everything teaching me that balance is not something you find once and have done. Like anything else, it's a constant process of learning and refining. The balance I found a year ago doesn't work today, because I am different and the things I carry are different and the people around me are different and my life is different. I am not Snow White; I do not live unchanging under glass, and everything is always in a state of flux.
I think I'm adding things, willy-nilly, careless: I think my wanderlust is overpowering my balance. I strike out for new things and new experiences and new horizons heedless of the distance and my unpreparedness and realize halfway there I might not make it and then I want someone else to carry me.
How silly. If someone carries me, I never actually arrive there.
So, here I am. Reaching for new things that are only half-seen and less-understood, blindly groping for the newness of it, the adventure, the thrill. I will probably always do this. This is wanderlust, in some rarefied form that doesn't actually require me to go somewhere else. I will always be finding my balance anew.
If I lean on you too often too long too heavily, give me a hug and push me off. Smile. I'll remember that I'm striking out for new horizons and that if I let someone else carry me I'll never actually arrive. Then come with me. Because I'll want you there in whatever new land I land in.
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