Love and Storms

It seems that the Weather Channel will now be naming winter storms. Nice "get", WC...finding an unnecessary solution to a non-existent problem simply to get your little channel a little more attention. I will tell you, WC, that here in Maine, at least, you might need more than 26 names just to get through January. May I suggest Rusty and Nora....

I like storms...even winter ones. There is something exciting about tuning into the storm watch on TV and wondering how many inches will fall, how strong the winds will be, which pottery classes will be cancelled. Conan O'Brien joked that he's excited that he might hear, "Conan is expected to bring eight inches."

Winter storms do bring costs....the oil, the snow plow guy, the extra cheese curls I must buy to get through the power outages. And there's the shoveling all winter as the piles of snow get higher and higher simply to find a path so that Nora can get through and accomplish her missions. But the rush of wind, the first few ominous flurries, the hunkering down...basically just a part of winter in Maine and life as we know it. Although I complain sometimes, I know it's a part of why I live here. Like I said, I love storms...

Growing up in D.C., there would only occasionally be winter storm warnings. As kids, we would get excited with the possibilities of school cancellations, snow men, snowball fights, and coming back into the house, encrusted with snow, so that Mom could dismantle our frozen gear and give us a little warm lunch. But, most of the time, these storms would peter out or arrive as just a steady, cold rain. Yuck.
Disappointing. No fun. Not so here where I live now....if a Nor'easter is coming, it's a'coming.

The other part of winter storms I enjoy is when the storm passes and the sun makes a reappearance, producing a sparking, bright day, light reflecting off the new snow....my dogs bouncing and rolling around in fresh, fluffy drifts. Life goes on here after a storm...the streets and even the sidewalks are plowed, the snow is removed from Maine Street in dump trucks...and life goes on. We are then left with a sparkling reminder of where we live and, maybe, far more cheese curls than we ever really needed.

I think that storms are supposed to be just that....storms. The disappointment lies in when they don't measure up as promised...not measuring up to expectations...and not in the minor hardships they bring. We can weather a storm...the cold, the power outages, the shoveling...because it's what we want and it's what we are prepared for. But when Storm Lara or Storm Nancy produce only rain or slush or just a few insignificant inches, we might not admit it, but we know that we'll have to wait for the next storm to have any real, lasting fun.

I think that storms match and evoke the storms...the energies...inside me...inside us. Longing, desire, passion, enthusiasm...just wishing for a little external energy that will bring us alive...to our attention... to our feet. Life passes by too quickly and sometimes, without a reason to care, we begin to stop caring. Ya know?

Today, we just have overcast skies, a little drizzle, and unseasonably mild temperatures. Sigh. A lull between the drama of summer thunder storms and the energy of snow storms likely to arrive in just a couple short months. There is no excitement to this. Waiting....watching...hoping...that the wind will still pick up.

I know that others are out there looking out the window as well...feeling blah, feeling bored, even feeling lonely, just waiting for a little excitement and a good ol' lasting storm that will pull them to their feet for the wind, the snow, and the brilliant, crispy days that follow. And then, those disappointments from past, wimpy, disappointing wash-outs will disappear as merely a contrast to what can truly happen when nature's way...nature's energy...does its thing.

FBriends

Never before....not until the advent of Facebook....have people paid such attention to the numbers of friends they had. It amazes me sometimes to see that some of my Facebook friends number in the hundreds. HUNDREDS! Imagine the surprise birthday party! And the cardiac arrest from hearing "SURPRISE" from 586 people! And the cost of cake! And onion dip!

Well, these couldn't be all truly friends, right? Bragging rights maybe? I recently had ninety eight friends. Now I have ninety five. Yep...I decided to "unfriend" these...um...friends. Crazy, isn't it?
But I didn't do this dastardly deed without long consideration...and even marginal regret. Instead, I figured out that my Facebook friends fall into several categories...all having value to me in one way or another. And my choice to "unfriend" someone would be the result of that person not being true to his/her category. It really doesn't take much....

Friends who have been friends for years and with whom I would have contact regardless of Facebook.

Friends who I knew long ago...in whose life experiences, photos, etc. I have genuine interest, regardless of how often we actually communicate.

Friends who began as colleagues and became friends...a number of late night drinks at the hotel bar will do that sometimes. I am grateful for having them as friends.

Friends who are colleagues as well...with whom I developed really nice connections with, did favors for, and enjoyed relaxing times...and expected our connections to continue after the favors and relaxing times couldn't be continued. Just gave up two of these.

Friends who are colleagues whom I barely know...but share a common interest and professional network.

Friends who also have dogs!....what else do I need to say?

Friends who I actually met online....as in dating online...and made a connection other than that originally intended. Good people....makes me so happy that a couple have found true happiness.
Just gave up one of these.

I even have Facebook friends who are really not even on Facebook....they have no photo, just that creepy outline of a head. Do I wait? Do I run? Do I sit and look at the creepy head?

Like I said, I think all this is okay...legitimate friendships since Facebook as redefined "friend." And I will never ask my Facebook friends if they want to stay my friend or not, otherwise I will delete them. That is up to me...and if it's up to them, I assume they'll leave...or have left...anyway. Are you still there? Hey...wanna be friends?

The Illusionist

In a favorite episode of the wonderful sitcom "The Office," Michael Scott arrived at work wearing a silly fake mustache to cover a cold sore on his upper lip. Believing he now had herpes "duplex," as he called it, he felt it necessary to contact his recent, former lovers to let them know that they may have contracted the disease during their brief, ill-fated encounters. Through this process of revisiting his heart-breaking past, he discovered that none of these women had considered their relationships with Michael to have been of any real significance. It was the sentimental, narcissistic Michael who had magnified relatively brief attachments into magical ones that resulted in, for him anyway, tragic endings. While he had reminisced mournfully, these women had all moved on and had filed Michael away as merely a passing fancy.

As I will often tell my clients, I consider relationships to be nothing more than illusions. Sure.... relationships are many things. They're exciting, passionate, comforting, dramatic...even costly. But there is no actual "thing" that lies between them, only the manifestations of needs, wants, projections, shared memories and a biological need to find a mate for procreation. (see Helen Fisher's "Why We Love") This is not to diminish the power or impact of the connections we make. Nor do I suggest that relationships are not living, breathing organisms in themselves that must be fed and nurtured. It is only to say that, were relationships "real", then they would be viewed, valued and preserved as the same by two people from totally different histories and orientations. And they rarely are.

Remember the movie, "The Fly"? Well, some of us will remember that there were two versions, although I much prefer the earlier, 1950's cheesy one. Vincent Price has invented a machine that would transport himself to another machine. This is pre-Star Trek thinking, so it was a really cool idea. But oops...Vincent allowed a common house fly to enter the first machine and, when transported, we saw the body of a man with the huge head and...well, hands...of a fly. Ugly indeed...but manageable. It never was clear why this homely fly man would suddenly become violent as well. I'm guessing the fly had issues...poor thing...but it wouldn't have been a horror movie without some perfectly healthy victim being chased down by a...you guessed it....slow, plodding creature.

The second version gave us Jeff Goldblum...whom I find to be creepy anyway...suffering the same fate (probably not the same fly), but the creature that emerged was, with improved special effects, far nastier...more horrific...with lots of drool and humps and all that fly hair. Sad really. We could feel for the fly-man...man-fly.

Well, imagine the early stages of a relationship to be the first version. Rather than two people emerging as a loving, harmonious, HUMAN couple, we find a clear problem. It is possible that two people could walk away and retain their original form (the fly hopes so) or simply move on and chalk the experience up to a misguided flight (get it?) of fancy. Then, imagine relationships well into development to be the second version. All kinds of parts, DNA, pointy bristles and human things woefully woven together in such a way that extraction will be most painful or impossible.

With actual relationships, if there is an ugly monster to run or shield oneself from, it might not appear initially. Those needs and wants and projections can hide the evidence that this might be a mistake in the making. We see what we want to see, feel what we want to feel. And, meanwhile, the buzzing grows louder and more difficult to ignore as two people yearn to return to the fantasy of...the illusion of early perfection.

And so....two people meet. They pass the first "test"....acceptable appearances, they both like Fleetwood Mac and, hey...they both enjoy kayaking and long walks on the beach. Great...they begin. It turns out, however, that he (pronouns interchangeable) sees her as a potential life partner and starts thinking about a life together with romantic evenings of wine, fireplaces and, well, lots of Stevie Nicks. She, on the other hand, is merely seeking a temporary dalliance. She passes the time with long chats, flirtations, Stevie, and even sex, but really wants only to get it on and then...move on....never willing to sacrifice the illusions of freedom and something better down the road. He, ultimately, will not escape the underlying differences in agenda, and some horrific, fly-bite-night (heehee) ending.

Ah...but these are the risks we face in finding an illusion...a projection...that actually works. It happens. I even know people that, both honest and forthcoming, both true to their words and desires, work. I even admire these folks because I know there were a few flies in their ointments along the way. And those who are not what they seem...wanting only to seem like someone as opposed to being someone... will only find how elusive illusions truly are.

I have had a number of flies in my little cubicle...and the end result of those sci-fi blendings of lives have even worked out pretty well. A few tentacles here, a few bristles there...but all workable (shave-able?) We can learn from a them at the very least. One person of significance, with a propensity for lying, taught me to be honest. Another with the temper of an angry child taught me to be more patient.
And they both taught me to run clear of anyone who lies or has a temper. And, from both of these lasting illusions...these inadvertent flies, I escaped with my humanness in tact.

If only we could find some way of recognizing the realities behind these illusions while maintaining just a few for shear enjoyment, and work until we might actually have something. Otherwise, once the illusion is discovered for what it really is, the disappointment will only sting and linger...until it is repaired or until the next one.

Wicked Awesome

I have issues with words. I simply abhor terrible grammar and the trends by which improper pronouns and sentence structure seem to have become either “trendy” or perceived as correct. I’m not talking about slang or intentional laziness. I’m talking about journalists and other educated folks not knowing the difference between “she and I” and “her and me.” Then there are  the “irregardless” and “supposably” abrasive annoyances. I’m talking journalists here.

My other language peeve is the overuse of otherwise fine words. Everything seems to so easily be considered “iconic” or “groundbreaking.” But the worst offense me thinks (intentional, okay?) is the word “awesome.” Virtually anything someone really, really likes is “awesome.” 

Ever been to Yosemite or the Grand Tetons? Ever seen the California shore south of San Francisco or the Grand Canyon? I believe the word “awesome” was first created when someone...an English speaking pioneer...first pulled his pony up to the edge of the Grand Canyon and said out loud, “Wow, man...THAT is freakin’ awesome!” It likely echoed throughout the canyon and then Native Americans started using the word. “Mmmm....buffalo meat....awesome.” And the overuse probably if not likely began at that very meal.

Okay, I’ll allow a few exceptions. My dogs? Awesome. Great risotto? Yep. I’ve always thought that the view from an airplane window is most underrated, awesome one. And maybe...just maybe...there are a few certain interactions with a certain loved one when one might at least THINK.... “wow....awesome.” A magnificent symphony, with it’s intro theme, it’s quiet, reverent middle movement, and it’s thrilling crescendo, can be awesome. The anticipation, the building, the evocative changes, and the rush of a satisfying ending make up a most powerful, awesome, experience.

And for some reason...as I am prone to not only free association but also metaphor...leads me to memories with my mother. Prior to entering elementary school, in an effort to entertain me, she would drive me to the railroad tracks...a vantage point near our house where you could park literally feet from the rails. We would sit and wait in our big Oldsmobile and watch the round thing that had the lights. I think it was three green lights up and down that meant a train was coming. The anticipation was part of the entertainment of course.

The ground would slowly begin to tremble, long before any sign of the train. And then...and then...we would see the huge steely black steam engines approach. Sometimes there were two or even three engines coupled to carry an extremely long load. Those big wheels did keep on turnin’....smoke billowed out of the top...the ground shook. I can even remember the smells of the smoke and the hot steel. This is a memory that few will ever see again given the passing of these wonderful, AWESOME, machines. In the words of the talented guitarist and singer Norman Blake:

“Oh, if I could return to those boyhood days of mine,

 And that green light on the Southern, Southern Railroad      

  Line.”

But here’s the metaphor. Just as I’ve heard certain symphonies parallel life with their exciting, energetic beginnings, their pensive, reflective movements, and how it all seems to come together thematically toward the end, I might consider this train memory to preclude the experience of death. There is the waiting...is it coming? Do I feel it coming?” The body, like the ground beneath the steam engines, begins to feel a tremor...into a quake...and then the train passes with a roar and disappears into...well, like death, I never really knew. 

I looked forward to seeing the train. I don’t look forward to death...but it’s part of life and part of life’s experience. When I fly, I do prefer the window and the view and, as I’ve many times said, if the plane is going down, I want my final view to be a very awesome one. But I don’t want to crash just as I don’t want to die. It’s just that, in a very sad kind of way, it must be a very unique, awesome experience. I only hope that, just like the train, I’m headed someplace nice, that someone is watching for me as I pass by and that the destination has a great snack bar.

Death. Awesome. WICKED awesome.