I recently found a diamond engagement ring and wedding band I purchased three years ago for a young lady I intended to marry. Needless to say, we didn't end up married. Finding that ring (an realizing that I'd allowed myself to lose such a beautifully set, expensive stone in the first place) brought up many emotions I thought I'd left behind.
I've written a series of posts on finding that ring, and what it has represented at different points in my life for the past three years. In the past, I've had heartburn over publishing posts describing my feelings and experiences as a gay Mormon. Now, I'm not one who believes in justifying one's feelings (actions, however, should bear accountability), but I don't like to cause others discomfort. I've debated about publishing these posts (and others on faith vs. nature, personal history, and shifting belief systems) on this particular blog: some posts are are composed as an I'm-writing-to-examine-and-understand-this-thing-in-my-life, and could be controversial or too "diary" driven. I haven't wanted to make certain readers uncomfortable or uneasy about what they'll find when (and if) they read flowers.
So, while I do write about things I've learned while trying to balance a life in the Church and as a gay man, I don't believe flowers isn't the place for that. I will be exploring those sorts of issues at another blog, Notes from "Cole". Head on over there if y'all are interested.
Showing posts with label confidence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confidence. Show all posts
Monday, September 27, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
On Bodies (cont.)
It's been a long time I've been in this body, with all its idiosyncratic intricacies. I've accepted the fact my immune system is weak, that my metabolic rate is exceptionally high and that my muscles will probably never get me a job as an underwear model (but I can still admire those kinds of boys, can't I?). I've finally learned how to eat healthily, how to sleep regularly and how to listen to my body's rhythms and keep myself from overrunning it with too much business. I've finally learned how to dress myself myself and take pride in the way I keep myself preened and coiffed.
Really, my body isn't all as awful as I sometimes make it out to be. I'm always fascinated at how quickly my blood coagulates after slicing my thumb when peeling potatoes for Sunday dinner; at how the wound heals and becomes a scar, a seam of flesh, raised and stronger than before. I revel in the glory of sight and sound and touch and taste and smell. I've always recovered from tough bouts of illness, maybe not totally unscathed, but still, my white blood cells always seem to win out over the onslaught of virus and bacteria. I survived childhood without a broken bone, but I believe my bones would have healed themselves, too, had the need presented itself.
Bodies are a wonder. Even mine.
It took a funeral to remind me: I'll be happy to keep it as long as I can.
Really, my body isn't all as awful as I sometimes make it out to be. I'm always fascinated at how quickly my blood coagulates after slicing my thumb when peeling potatoes for Sunday dinner; at how the wound heals and becomes a scar, a seam of flesh, raised and stronger than before. I revel in the glory of sight and sound and touch and taste and smell. I've always recovered from tough bouts of illness, maybe not totally unscathed, but still, my white blood cells always seem to win out over the onslaught of virus and bacteria. I survived childhood without a broken bone, but I believe my bones would have healed themselves, too, had the need presented itself.
Bodies are a wonder. Even mine.
It took a funeral to remind me: I'll be happy to keep it as long as I can.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
On Bodies
My dad recently spoke at the funeral of a man who was his cousin and best friend growing up. The man miraculously survived a terrible motorcycle accident a little over a month ago. He wasn't wearing a helmet and received some pretty traumatic head wounds. I believe he was in the ICU for a few days, followed by a convalescence at home. His recovery was going well: he had been in his home for about three weeks or so, doing fine by all accounts. It was quite a shock when he did die. Dad had a difficult time.
This man's funeral, as with all other funerals I've had close experience with, gave me the opportunity to be still and take time to think about some meaningful things. I've thought a lot about bodies. What a magnificent clutch of parts: the blood, the bone, the curve of breath and vertabrae and flesh; the nerves and effortless signals of sensation; the brilliance and the banality of thought and thinking. Bodies are a wonder when you really think about them; I can understand why people call them temples.
That being said, I've had a difficult time understanding and enjoying my own body. I was always that underweight, asthma-and-allergy-prone, sickly-looking kid, often suffering from this bout of bronchitis, that extended case of pneumonia or the flu, sneezing anytime the pollen count was above zero. I remember spending many winter days cooped up (or "crouped up", as it were) inside, wearing tents of blankets and handfuls of Vicks Vap-o-Rub, wishing I were out in the snowbanks with my younger brothers and the cousins who lived next door. I hated the fact that, although I loved camping with my family, I could never breathe through my nose when we spent weekends in the mountains. I desperately wanted to enjoy horses (which were, of course, my favorite animals EVER!!) and other barnyard animals, but the one time I did saddle up, my lungs closed up and I couldn't breathe for two days. Thank heaven I could at least spend some limited time with the cats and dogs we kept as pets, only resulting in enflamed mucous membranes and itchy, watery eyes. Allergies were the bane of my childhood. I even became allergic to the shots a pediatrician prescribed!
Things got a bit better after puberty. I'm not sure if my body actually outgrew my sickly symptoms, or if I just had gotten used to managing them. I still carried an inhaler with me pretty much everywhere I went. My friends will tell you otherwise, and lead you to believe that I often forgot said inhaler and had to leave weekend card-and-popcorn parties to drive home and get it. I still took a daily anti-histamine to battle against post-nasal drip. I still loved horses, but had learned to admire them from a distance.
And, as it happened, I was still quite underweight. I had a pretty hard time watching my young 16- to 18-year old peers, crowing about how much they were working out, comparing the size of their biceps and their calves with each other. I was a skinny kid and just wasn't a part of the sweaty weight-room scene. It was upsetting enough that I remember talking with my mom about it. "Oh, honey," she said, "You just haven't reached your physical peak as quickly as they have. You just watch and see: in ten years, you'll be the desirable one, and they'll be growing bellies and back hair." We giggled at the thought, but I admit, I wasn't exactly convinced at Mom's logic.
Serving a mission didn't help with the feelings of frustration in regard to my health or my body image. I became very ill and was sent home to undergo a a battery of tests to see why I had lost 10% of my total weight in a matter of weeks. After months of Western medicine's tactics failed, I began to search out alternative means of diagnosis and healing. Let's just say it was all, quite literally, a crap-shoot!
End Part I
This man's funeral, as with all other funerals I've had close experience with, gave me the opportunity to be still and take time to think about some meaningful things. I've thought a lot about bodies. What a magnificent clutch of parts: the blood, the bone, the curve of breath and vertabrae and flesh; the nerves and effortless signals of sensation; the brilliance and the banality of thought and thinking. Bodies are a wonder when you really think about them; I can understand why people call them temples.
Things got a bit better after puberty. I'm not sure if my body actually outgrew my sickly symptoms, or if I just had gotten used to managing them. I still carried an inhaler with me pretty much everywhere I went. My friends will tell you otherwise, and lead you to believe that I often forgot said inhaler and had to leave weekend card-and-popcorn parties to drive home and get it. I still took a daily anti-histamine to battle against post-nasal drip. I still loved horses, but had learned to admire them from a distance.
Serving a mission didn't help with the feelings of frustration in regard to my health or my body image. I became very ill and was sent home to undergo a a battery of tests to see why I had lost 10% of my total weight in a matter of weeks. After months of Western medicine's tactics failed, I began to search out alternative means of diagnosis and healing. Let's just say it was all, quite literally, a crap-shoot!
End Part I
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Achievement!
I spent four hours yesterday day learning Rachmaninov's Cello Sonata, Op. 19. Sam and I will play it, along with some Arvo Part and a Beethoven Sonata, this upcoming year.
A year ago, I wouldn't have been able to learn a big piece like this in a day. Granted, it's not perfected, but I did a fine job of analyzing the structure; how the cello and piano parts complement and interact with each other, thanks to some amazing Rachmaninovian counterpoint; figuring out a great fingering and begin to realize a successful musical interpretation. It felt so good to look back on the day and realize, that within a month, I'll be playing this (the most gorgeous third movement ever!) with my favorite cellist in the world.
A year ago, I wouldn't have been able to learn a big piece like this in a day. Granted, it's not perfected, but I did a fine job of analyzing the structure; how the cello and piano parts complement and interact with each other, thanks to some amazing Rachmaninovian counterpoint; figuring out a great fingering and begin to realize a successful musical interpretation. It felt so good to look back on the day and realize, that within a month, I'll be playing this (the most gorgeous third movement ever!) with my favorite cellist in the world.
Monday, April 5, 2010
On an Ending I'm Not Sure I Like
"So what are your plans for the trio, now that Sam and Katie are graduating?" This -- always asked by elegant socialites with silver hair, expensive scarves and high-heeled shoes, their husbands trailing behind their heavily perfumed and circuitous paths, glasses of wine or hors d'oeuvres in hand -- has been the most frequently asked question Sam, Katie and I have encountered in the past whirlwind of university events, concerts and functions at which we've performed. I never really want to answer this particular question, as it's the question that causes me to tense as my little heart gets rent while I examine the truly honest answer: our Tria Fata is most likely coming to it's close.
The three of us have each said it at least once. Sam is probably most realist in this whole "end of an era," and I'm the one who's most doggedly hanging on to it, fantastically hoping the Tria won't end -- we were discussing the opportunity to play on a concert we really don't want to play and Sam said something like, "I want to end trio on a high note. The Beethoven is really the last big hurrah we've got." I wanted to hit him for saying it. But it's true. How can the Tria continue when we're at opposite ends of the country?
We've been playing so well, I keep thinking. How can we think of stopping now? Recently returned as finalists in the MTNA National Chamber music competition, we were invited to play before the amazing Amelia Piano Trio as part of a fundraising concert for the Cultural Affairs Department at our school. We've been center stage for scholarship events. We've been in the paper, on the web, in the community. We've got friends and supporters and (dare I say it?) fans in Northern UT. I feel like we're just on the verge and now we're just letting it go, even if we are letting it go for grad school.
I want to fight to keep Tria Fata alive.
I feel a bond with Sam and Katie that I haven't felt with any other human beings I've ever met. Making chamber music together has taught us how to read each other, how to empathize with and forgive and facilitate one another. We understand in each other the depth of things we can't discuss in words. Our breathing and our movement and our ears and fingers and feelings all sync up with each other when we play; it's only when I'm playing with Sam and Katie that I feel the most safe and the most invincible and the most in tune with that which is greater than myself. There is nothing else like it: the three of us becoming part of the divine by collectively making this thing called music.
I am afraid of what I will lose without my two pals. Musically speaking, they offer a safety net. They can cover for me when I'm technically weak. They offer two different sets of detail-specific ears; two foreign philosophies about how this or that should speak; two instruments of perfectly opposite construct and sound than my own. Their playing has changed my playing, and I hope my playing has instructed theirs, too. Personally speaking, they offer a liberating, risk-taking force (usually Sam) and a voice of conservative reason (normally Katie) in many of my personal desires, beliefs and actions. I trust them more than most, and often consider what both Sam and Katie have to say more heavily than words of advice from other friends and peers. They have become a very important part in how I have shaped my life within the past three years, and I guess I fear that I will lose a hefty part of me when they aren't near.
I've been content to see myself -- and let myself be seen -- as part of this group. The split of the trio frightens me because it will mean I will need to reconsider who I am -- as a student, as a pianist, as a human merely being -- when I am again totally on my own. I will be an individual again very soon. I feel unsettled when considering this.
"What happens to Tria Fata now?" Always, at every function, we field some variation on that question. My question would be this: "What happens to Sam now? What happens to Nic? What happens to Katie?" We are the Tria, but we each are more than the Tria and the Tria is more than any of one of us alone. I think we deal with that strange duality, that I am both this and that as we prepare to leave Tria by.
Each time that question is asked, at every event, I silently go through all of that stuff above, get anxious and uncertain, and look my Sam and my Katie both in the eye, searching for some reassurance that they're cut through by it, too. Then, one of us will take the breath, smile at whoever has made the query, and say, "Oh, you know, we're not really sure. It depends on where we end up..." while the other two stare in silence at the empty cups in our hands.
The three of us have each said it at least once. Sam is probably most realist in this whole "end of an era," and I'm the one who's most doggedly hanging on to it, fantastically hoping the Tria won't end -- we were discussing the opportunity to play on a concert we really don't want to play and Sam said something like, "I want to end trio on a high note. The Beethoven is really the last big hurrah we've got." I wanted to hit him for saying it. But it's true. How can the Tria continue when we're at opposite ends of the country?
We've been playing so well, I keep thinking. How can we think of stopping now? Recently returned as finalists in the MTNA National Chamber music competition, we were invited to play before the amazing Amelia Piano Trio as part of a fundraising concert for the Cultural Affairs Department at our school. We've been center stage for scholarship events. We've been in the paper, on the web, in the community. We've got friends and supporters and (dare I say it?) fans in Northern UT. I feel like we're just on the verge and now we're just letting it go, even if we are letting it go for grad school.
I want to fight to keep Tria Fata alive.
I feel a bond with Sam and Katie that I haven't felt with any other human beings I've ever met. Making chamber music together has taught us how to read each other, how to empathize with and forgive and facilitate one another. We understand in each other the depth of things we can't discuss in words. Our breathing and our movement and our ears and fingers and feelings all sync up with each other when we play; it's only when I'm playing with Sam and Katie that I feel the most safe and the most invincible and the most in tune with that which is greater than myself. There is nothing else like it: the three of us becoming part of the divine by collectively making this thing called music.
I am afraid of what I will lose without my two pals. Musically speaking, they offer a safety net. They can cover for me when I'm technically weak. They offer two different sets of detail-specific ears; two foreign philosophies about how this or that should speak; two instruments of perfectly opposite construct and sound than my own. Their playing has changed my playing, and I hope my playing has instructed theirs, too. Personally speaking, they offer a liberating, risk-taking force (usually Sam) and a voice of conservative reason (normally Katie) in many of my personal desires, beliefs and actions. I trust them more than most, and often consider what both Sam and Katie have to say more heavily than words of advice from other friends and peers. They have become a very important part in how I have shaped my life within the past three years, and I guess I fear that I will lose a hefty part of me when they aren't near.
I've been content to see myself -- and let myself be seen -- as part of this group. The split of the trio frightens me because it will mean I will need to reconsider who I am -- as a student, as a pianist, as a human merely being -- when I am again totally on my own. I will be an individual again very soon. I feel unsettled when considering this.
"What happens to Tria Fata now?" Always, at every function, we field some variation on that question. My question would be this: "What happens to Sam now? What happens to Nic? What happens to Katie?" We are the Tria, but we each are more than the Tria and the Tria is more than any of one of us alone. I think we deal with that strange duality, that I am both this and that as we prepare to leave Tria by.
Each time that question is asked, at every event, I silently go through all of that stuff above, get anxious and uncertain, and look my Sam and my Katie both in the eye, searching for some reassurance that they're cut through by it, too. Then, one of us will take the breath, smile at whoever has made the query, and say, "Oh, you know, we're not really sure. It depends on where we end up..." while the other two stare in silence at the empty cups in our hands.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Eve's Real Curse, or Why Yes! Every Girl Should Have a Gay Boy, Part I
Julyn has been my best girlfriend since the summer of ninth grade. We have quite a bit of history, as best friends should. She crushed on me in high school, and I also felt a deeply mutual affinity and affection for her (secret: I still do). She's been the singular young woman to drop my jaw (with a shocking authenticity) by just entering a room (picture: Nic standing in the kitchen before a prom, corsage in hand, stopped mid-sentence by this gorgeous girl in pink, capped-sleeve and beaded-bodice wonder). We've held each other in times of deep loss and effervescing joy. She's been a constant woman in my life. And I've been her best gay boy all along, even if neither of us were honest about it until about eighteen months ago.
The week I came out to Julyn was not a good one for her. Another good friend of ours and her sister also had similar discussions with her. She had just started a new job and it seems like midterms were coming up. Three gays in two days is a lot to take in: Jules lost the job and failed a few tests. I felt awful, but being the miracle she is, Jules got over the news, and things have been great ever since.
Except for this one time, when Corey and I did a (maybe) bad thing. Corey, Jules and I drove to Provo to visit another of our best friends, Jessame, who was attending BYU's law school at the time. We met Jessame at her apartment and then headed out for what Corey call's "a twenty-something's idea of a fancy dinner" at PF Chang's. After we'd been seated, conversation took a turn to what Julyn thought would be the difficulty of finding other gay men to date in UT. I spotted a cute waiter--tall, with dark hair and features--and flirted a little bit, getting a prompt, yet furtive glance back.
"How did you do that?!" Jules exclaimed, waving her arms, almost pushing Jessame out of the booth.
Corey and I proceeded to give Julyn the lesson in "How to Spot a Gay." I will now defer to a post of Corey's, listing a few of the things we shared with Julyn that night.
Jessame thought our limp-wristed demonstrations were, simply put, absolutely fabulous. Jules, on the other hand, was less than excited. She was shocked. Mortified. A little panicked.
Trying to make light of a somewhat serious realization, Jules half-joke, "You mean I'm gonna end up marrying some ugly, fat, gut-laden, fart-spewing hick?!" The pain and shock and almost-humour on Julyn's face sent a little guilt my way. Trying to backpedal as quickly as I could, I said, "Oh, Jules, darling! Just marry a man with sisters. That way, he'll have all the benefits of style and gentility, and you can still be his type!"
That mollified her for a while, but only until she started to count up the (possibly) gay boys she kept close.
The week I came out to Julyn was not a good one for her. Another good friend of ours and her sister also had similar discussions with her. She had just started a new job and it seems like midterms were coming up. Three gays in two days is a lot to take in: Jules lost the job and failed a few tests. I felt awful, but being the miracle she is, Jules got over the news, and things have been great ever since.
Except for this one time, when Corey and I did a (maybe) bad thing. Corey, Jules and I drove to Provo to visit another of our best friends, Jessame, who was attending BYU's law school at the time. We met Jessame at her apartment and then headed out for what Corey call's "a twenty-something's idea of a fancy dinner" at PF Chang's. After we'd been seated, conversation took a turn to what Julyn thought would be the difficulty of finding other gay men to date in UT. I spotted a cute waiter--tall, with dark hair and features--and flirted a little bit, getting a prompt, yet furtive glance back.
"How did you do that?!" Jules exclaimed, waving her arms, almost pushing Jessame out of the booth.
Corey and I proceeded to give Julyn the lesson in "How to Spot a Gay." I will now defer to a post of Corey's, listing a few of the things we shared with Julyn that night.
- "Is the facial hair nicely trimmed?
- "Does the hair stick up in any way (ie. a faux hawk)?
- "Are the shoes pointy or at least Italian-looking?
- "Does he have cologne in his car? Hair products?
- "Is his butt tucked as he walks?
- "Are his clothes exceptionally well coordinated? (ie. Does his underwear match the rest of his outfit?)
- "V-necks?
"Is there a gym membership on his key chain? Or a rewards card to any of the following: a high-end clothing store, a shoe store, a book store?"
Jessame thought our limp-wristed demonstrations were, simply put, absolutely fabulous. Jules, on the other hand, was less than excited. She was shocked. Mortified. A little panicked.
Trying to make light of a somewhat serious realization, Jules half-joke, "You mean I'm gonna end up marrying some ugly, fat, gut-laden, fart-spewing hick?!" The pain and shock and almost-humour on Julyn's face sent a little guilt my way. Trying to backpedal as quickly as I could, I said, "Oh, Jules, darling! Just marry a man with sisters. That way, he'll have all the benefits of style and gentility, and you can still be his type!"
That mollified her for a while, but only until she started to count up the (possibly) gay boys she kept close.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
A Kind of Thank You, or, If I Could Facebook Tag This, "Tag! You're 'It' Corey!"
I try not to envy Corey too often. Sometimes, though, I do find my little self envying him. He is, after all, hands-down brilliant. His CV is stunning. He'll have no problem getting into any graduate program he wants. He is a caring and honest and blunt and sensitive best friend. He laughs at my stupid jokes and he answers his phone when I call at 1:47 AM after watching heart-rending films about life and love and loss. His is the iron (and irony) that keeps mine sharpened. I love sharing our friendship together. It hurts me deeply when I sense jealousy for his success, when I defend myself against the naysaying voices in my head: I am accomplished, too!!!
I remind myself, sometimes, that I'm a winning individual. I keep good company because I am good company. I'm a talented musician. People like me. I can bake as well as anybody. I'm quick and witty. I don't often have to use spell-check. I am a winning individual, dammit! So why, when my dearest friend shares some of his successes with me, or when I see that his writing evokes a wide and varied response, or when I (don't) compare his successful romantic endeavors (I'm the first person with whom he shares his date stories, for Pete's sake!) with my inexperienced attempts (he's the first to hear my "Did I do the right things to keep him interested?"), do I still sometimes feel that little, green, jealous, weedy seedling souring in my belly? why do I feel the need to keep up? the self-inflicted pressure to compare and compete? I want rip it out before it begins to thrive, keep the licked-wound wedge from souring my admiration for him; however, I've decided that when I stop pitying myself long enough to really look at why those jealous, competitive feelings rise up, I will shift my thinking. I will remind myself to turn whatever those particles of envy are into opportunities to refine myself and my work as an artist and a creative human being. Corey, without knowing it (or maybe he does) gives me a quiet measuring stick against which I can place myself.
We are such a part of each others' lives people have dubbed us "The 'Uncouple' Couple." For all intents and purposes -- excluding attraction and sex -- we have pretty much earned that nickname. We call each other every day, just to visit and keep tabs on each other. We see each other at least once a week, for dinner parties, friend shin-digs, movies, outings to the theater or the opera or whatever. I call him for advice, and he has this way of knowing what not to say when I need him to say what it is I want him to say, and he remains silent and allows me to feel out my own choices on my own. It aggravates the hell out of me. I probably tease him too much. That, my dears, probably aggravates the hell out of him.
A couple of weeks ago, over ice cream, he was telling me about a new guy he's interested in. I was honestly happy for him, but, of course, I had to open my mouth and invite my unique brand of awkward-moment-making. Teasing, I asked, "What are we going to do when I'm not the most important man in your life?" Neither of us had the answer. He just glanced down at the table, wrote something in his ever-present, lovingly scribbled-in notepad, and smiled. I let it go and finished my peach frappé while we continued talking about boys, music and literature, and our plans for the weekend. In the days since, I have thought about my question--quite a bit, actually. Affirming that I believe Corey and I will always entangle ourselves romantically with men other than each other, the question still remains: What will I do when I'm not the most important man in his life? What will I do when he can't be the most important man in my life any more? We've had friends who have gotten married, and we've all learned how to deal with that kind of shift in friendship and its accompanying loyalties, but I'm not sure how to make that change with Corey when it happens.
It's somewhat sobering to think I'll miss that little bit of envy mixed in with such a great deal of love when my best friend's chosen to make Somebody Else his most important, even-more-best friend. I'd feel a little lost, I think, without him and his steady, silent way of encouraging me to stretch myself.
I remind myself, sometimes, that I'm a winning individual. I keep good company because I am good company. I'm a talented musician. People like me. I can bake as well as anybody. I'm quick and witty. I don't often have to use spell-check. I am a winning individual, dammit! So why, when my dearest friend shares some of his successes with me, or when I see that his writing evokes a wide and varied response, or when I (don't) compare his successful romantic endeavors (I'm the first person with whom he shares his date stories, for Pete's sake!) with my inexperienced attempts (he's the first to hear my "Did I do the right things to keep him interested?"), do I still sometimes feel that little, green, jealous, weedy seedling souring in my belly? why do I feel the need to keep up? the self-inflicted pressure to compare and compete? I want rip it out before it begins to thrive, keep the licked-wound wedge from souring my admiration for him; however, I've decided that when I stop pitying myself long enough to really look at why those jealous, competitive feelings rise up, I will shift my thinking. I will remind myself to turn whatever those particles of envy are into opportunities to refine myself and my work as an artist and a creative human being. Corey, without knowing it (or maybe he does) gives me a quiet measuring stick against which I can place myself.
We are such a part of each others' lives people have dubbed us "The 'Uncouple' Couple." For all intents and purposes -- excluding attraction and sex -- we have pretty much earned that nickname. We call each other every day, just to visit and keep tabs on each other. We see each other at least once a week, for dinner parties, friend shin-digs, movies, outings to the theater or the opera or whatever. I call him for advice, and he has this way of knowing what not to say when I need him to say what it is I want him to say, and he remains silent and allows me to feel out my own choices on my own. It aggravates the hell out of me. I probably tease him too much. That, my dears, probably aggravates the hell out of him.
A couple of weeks ago, over ice cream, he was telling me about a new guy he's interested in. I was honestly happy for him, but, of course, I had to open my mouth and invite my unique brand of awkward-moment-making. Teasing, I asked, "What are we going to do when I'm not the most important man in your life?" Neither of us had the answer. He just glanced down at the table, wrote something in his ever-present, lovingly scribbled-in notepad, and smiled. I let it go and finished my peach frappé while we continued talking about boys, music and literature, and our plans for the weekend. In the days since, I have thought about my question--quite a bit, actually. Affirming that I believe Corey and I will always entangle ourselves romantically with men other than each other, the question still remains: What will I do when I'm not the most important man in his life? What will I do when he can't be the most important man in my life any more? We've had friends who have gotten married, and we've all learned how to deal with that kind of shift in friendship and its accompanying loyalties, but I'm not sure how to make that change with Corey when it happens.
It's somewhat sobering to think I'll miss that little bit of envy mixed in with such a great deal of love when my best friend's chosen to make Somebody Else his most important, even-more-best friend. I'd feel a little lost, I think, without him and his steady, silent way of encouraging me to stretch myself.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Nine Lives
I used to write letters late at night when I couldn't sleep, my insomnia born of feelings that were too big to fit inside the darkness of dreams. I wrote to a number of friends and loved ones about different things. Worries I had, things that reminded me of them -- I shared my hopes and dreams for their futures and mine. I kept a book of stamps beside my lamp, and, more often than not, I'd send the letters the next morning. Sometimes, though, I'd re-read them, find them to be too personally revealing, and hide them in the spines of my journals: I thought of these as letters to myself. It's been a long time since I've written a letter like that, something to comfort myself when sleep is evasive; lately, I watch movies.
So, it was past my bedtime and I was flipping through the channels a couple of weeks ago, trying to find a good late-night film. I settled on something called Nine Lives (directed by Rodrigo Garcia and starring, among others bright stars, Robin Wright Penn, Amy Brenneman, Sissy Spacek, Dakota Fanning and Glenn Close). The film, composed of nine Steadicam, single-take shots, shares vignettes looking at singular events in the lives of nine very different women, how they manage their love, and (because of love) how they cope with their ultimate losses.
The film builds to a final scene in which we see Glenn Close and Dakota Fanning playing characters who walk through rows of well-groomed headstones. Close is carrying a blanket and picnic basket while Fanning skips around. Fanning's character asks, "Who waters the lawn here?" Close answers: "There are sprinklers on timers." "So nobody sees it, because they're all on timers and everybody's dead," comes Fanning's matter-of-fact reply. You watch these two for about 8 minutes, and as they discuss the headstones and climb trees, it suddenly blossoms around you -- the knowledge that Close is at Fanning's grave. She's visiting her daughter's grave, and this is all a tragic, poignant daydream. The film ends, as Close quietly, peacefully, sadly rests her head in Fanning's lap. "I'm tired, honey," she says, and that's all.
I wept. Oh, how I wept. For at least 45 minutes. Love is loss, I kept thinking. When I couldn't quit crying, I called Corey. At 1:45 AM. Dear friend that he is, he picked up the phone, "Nic, are you ok?" He sat silently while I continued to cry, asking him if life ever stopped hurting,if we ever would find a place that felt safe and home. "That's a good question," he pragmatically, yet sensitively answered. And though he meant it to be, it wasn't enough to comfort me. I calmed to say goodnight, close my phone and pull enough together to get up and walk into my room, where I emptied myself into my bed.
I pulled the nearest notepad and began writing the first late-night letter I've written in months.
I haven't felt such a drive to seek out physical comfort in many years. Loneliness and displacement had never taken me in their arms so powerfully. Alarmingly so, actually. You have to pull yourself together, Nic. No one can give you the comfort you think you need, I told myself. I finished composing the letter (which I never gave them), and somehow found an empty, hollow sleep.
I've thought a lot about lessons I learned that night. Here are a few:
Love will Eventually Couple with Loss.
Loss is an inevitable price we pay in order to love some place, some thing, someone in the fullest way. We leave home. We lose track of childhood friends. We grapple with the deaths of those we love. Loss is hell, but once you realize it's a part of the deal, it makes Love all the more worthwhile and sweet.
The Sun Always Rises.
I woke up the next morning, yes, with a bit of a night-of-depression hangover, but I woke up! The sun was shining, my shower was lovely, and I could choose to see the bright lights in my life -- I could choose to focus on goodness.
Part of Being an Adult is Taking Responsibility and Taking Care.
I so wanted my parents to fill their old role for me that night -- PROTECT ME!!! But it just wasn't a possibility at 2 AM. I found the whatwithal within myself to stop wallowing in self-pity that night, and I took care of taking care of myself. I'm not writing this clearly, but I found I have what I need when no one else can give it to me.
Trust that Your Friends will Be There when You Need Them.
I didn't worry much over calling Corey at the witching hour. Usually, gearing up for a late-late night phonecall takes me about 20 minutes -- They're probably sleeping. I don't want to wake them. It's nothing, and I can talk to the tomorrow, etc. But I called him as soon as the thought entered my mind. He picked up after two rings. Corey was there when I needed him, and I know he always will be. I know I have so many other friends who would come to my aid as quickly as I would go to theirs.
Cats May have Nine Lives, but We've Only Got One.
Seek truth. Gain wisdom. Practice tolerance and and mete out grace. You've been given only one go at this thing called living, so don't fuck it up.
I never want to feel so lonely again, but these kinds of experiences are the beams and supports which build and harbor the homes of our lives, if we choose to learn the lessons they teach.
Another character in Nine Lives and her estranged sister sing this song to keep time as they clap and clasp their hands together, searching each other's eyes for the love they used to share. I think every word of it is true.
Go well, my darlings.
So, it was past my bedtime and I was flipping through the channels a couple of weeks ago, trying to find a good late-night film. I settled on something called Nine Lives (directed by Rodrigo Garcia and starring, among others bright stars, Robin Wright Penn, Amy Brenneman, Sissy Spacek, Dakota Fanning and Glenn Close). The film, composed of nine Steadicam, single-take shots, shares vignettes looking at singular events in the lives of nine very different women, how they manage their love, and (because of love) how they cope with their ultimate losses.
The film builds to a final scene in which we see Glenn Close and Dakota Fanning playing characters who walk through rows of well-groomed headstones. Close is carrying a blanket and picnic basket while Fanning skips around. Fanning's character asks, "Who waters the lawn here?" Close answers: "There are sprinklers on timers." "So nobody sees it, because they're all on timers and everybody's dead," comes Fanning's matter-of-fact reply. You watch these two for about 8 minutes, and as they discuss the headstones and climb trees, it suddenly blossoms around you -- the knowledge that Close is at Fanning's grave. She's visiting her daughter's grave, and this is all a tragic, poignant daydream. The film ends, as Close quietly, peacefully, sadly rests her head in Fanning's lap. "I'm tired, honey," she says, and that's all.
I wept. Oh, how I wept. For at least 45 minutes. Love is loss, I kept thinking. When I couldn't quit crying, I called Corey. At 1:45 AM. Dear friend that he is, he picked up the phone, "Nic, are you ok?" He sat silently while I continued to cry, asking him if life ever stopped hurting,if we ever would find a place that felt safe and home. "That's a good question," he pragmatically, yet sensitively answered. And though he meant it to be, it wasn't enough to comfort me. I calmed to say goodnight, close my phone and pull enough together to get up and walk into my room, where I emptied myself into my bed.
I pulled the nearest notepad and began writing the first late-night letter I've written in months.
It's 2:21 AM and I've honestly been considering walking up the stairs, filling a glass with cold water and drinking it to wet the dry ache in my throat and then going to your room to ask if I may sleep in your bed until I feel better like I did when I was a little boy.Without meaning to, I had begun writing to my parents, musing about how they could always give me comfort.
I so want to come upstairs and feel safe because you'll tell me you love me and that life stops hurting sometimes. You used to rub the ache out of my legs, and now I think I need you to massage it out of my heart. But I'm not a little boy anymore -- I'm a young man, and I need to trust the truth that I can take care of myself. Trust reveals Truth, right?
I haven't felt such a drive to seek out physical comfort in many years. Loneliness and displacement had never taken me in their arms so powerfully. Alarmingly so, actually. You have to pull yourself together, Nic. No one can give you the comfort you think you need, I told myself. I finished composing the letter (which I never gave them), and somehow found an empty, hollow sleep.
I've thought a lot about lessons I learned that night. Here are a few:
Love will Eventually Couple with Loss.
Loss is an inevitable price we pay in order to love some place, some thing, someone in the fullest way. We leave home. We lose track of childhood friends. We grapple with the deaths of those we love. Loss is hell, but once you realize it's a part of the deal, it makes Love all the more worthwhile and sweet.
The Sun Always Rises.
I woke up the next morning, yes, with a bit of a night-of-depression hangover, but I woke up! The sun was shining, my shower was lovely, and I could choose to see the bright lights in my life -- I could choose to focus on goodness.
Part of Being an Adult is Taking Responsibility and Taking Care.
I so wanted my parents to fill their old role for me that night -- PROTECT ME!!! But it just wasn't a possibility at 2 AM. I found the whatwithal within myself to stop wallowing in self-pity that night, and I took care of taking care of myself. I'm not writing this clearly, but I found I have what I need when no one else can give it to me.
Trust that Your Friends will Be There when You Need Them.
I didn't worry much over calling Corey at the witching hour. Usually, gearing up for a late-late night phonecall takes me about 20 minutes -- They're probably sleeping. I don't want to wake them. It's nothing, and I can talk to the tomorrow, etc. But I called him as soon as the thought entered my mind. He picked up after two rings. Corey was there when I needed him, and I know he always will be. I know I have so many other friends who would come to my aid as quickly as I would go to theirs.
Cats May have Nine Lives, but We've Only Got One.
Seek truth. Gain wisdom. Practice tolerance and and mete out grace. You've been given only one go at this thing called living, so don't fuck it up.
I never want to feel so lonely again, but these kinds of experiences are the beams and supports which build and harbor the homes of our lives, if we choose to learn the lessons they teach.
Another character in Nine Lives and her estranged sister sing this song to keep time as they clap and clasp their hands together, searching each other's eyes for the love they used to share. I think every word of it is true.
Row by row, I'm gonna make this garden grow.
All it takes is a rake and a hoe,
and a piece of fertile ground.
Pulling weeds, pickin' stones,
we are made from dreams and bones.
I need a place to call my home,
when rain comes tumblin' down.
Go well, my darlings.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Guilty Question: A Response to "You're Beyond Feeling" (II)
I didn't know how to answer the man sitting across from me. I felt attacked. I hurt. And then I fumed.
I sat in my hardbacked chair for what was probably only 30 seconds, calling on any god who would give me some fortitude and patience, along with the affirmation that I wasn't spiritually dead or numb. I found myself looking down at my hands -- they were resting open-faced on my lap, and the words "the kingdom of heaven is now close at hand" came to mind. And then, I remembered this time when I was a little kid, romping in the lawn at my grandma's house because she had asked my cousins and me to go out and snap the heads off the dandelions. It was such a glee, bending down and ripping the yellow flowers, smearing their heads down our arms and on our cheeks, pretending the jocund streaks were war-painted stripes; but my favorite part of that afternoon was picking up the dead, dry-tufted heads of seed, and blowing the white petals at each other. I turned and turned in those dandelion seeds, relishing the soft, kissing heaven of them as they landed on my lips and lids and legs and fingertips. I knew when I recognized the feelings from that vivid memory that I was still capable of feelings immense things, even if (for now) they were only recorded in a memory.
I also knew I had every right to be angry. And I was exceptionally upset. I may have dammed certain of my emotions for my own defensive purposes, but I was still a feeling person. Goddammit, I thought, I'm a musician! I create beauty! How dare you tell me I'm beyond feeling, even in a religious context? You deny my ability to feel and create, and you deny me, bishop! And I will not have it! He read a scripture, drawing a comparison between the pure and humble and obedient character of Nephi and the proud, obstinate and doubting portrayals we have of Laman and Lemuel. He then begged the question, "Which do you want to be, Nic?" I didn't offer him any answers. I was too angry, and I knew I would say ultimately divisive things. He said a prayer, and I left, sharing little more than a cold goodbye.
I drove up the gravel road to my parents' house, but didn't pull into the driveway. I kept driving up the hill until I reached the gate my dad and I had spray-painted with the words, "No Trespassing." I turned my car off, stepped outside, climbed over the gate and walked westward. I have always gone to the mountains when I've been profoundly furied or sad or grateful or happy. My mountains seem to have the only places large enough to root soul, and I needed a place to plant down before I lost myself on the wind of my anger.
"Where the hell are you, God?" I yelled. "What do I do? How do I live and find happiness?" I didn't hear any instant answers, but as I kept walking and ranting, the clouds darkened like a scar across the face of the summer sky and I could feel myself becoming a sort of sieve. I reflected on how I had decided to come out; on why I had told my family and a few friends, but had elected to keep "those in the know" a small group; on silent lies I had created in an attempted relationship with a certain young woman who would have been my wife. Grief filtered out of those thoughts and other memories, and I keened and moaned and cried.
And as hackneyed as this image is, rain honestly began falling. Walk back to your car, a thought directed. Feel the rain falling. Go home. Clean up. And then the big moment, I am in you and you are in me. I hadn't heard those words since I had been in Sunday School, but they rang with such power. I quit crying. I walked back to my car, and I felt how the rain fell, landed on my head and followed the course of its falling down my face. I walked in the door to my parents' house, and I felt the first breath of "I'm Home" I'd felt in way too long. I knew I had been created by Love, and that, should I look after it, I'd always be in Love.
I called Corey, my best bud, later that night and we had a long talk about the events of the day. "I'm not going to visit with him again," I affirmed. Corey agreed, "No. No one should ever have to 'visit' like that. You don't need to be broken down."
I haven't been in the bishop's office since that day, but I have been on the search for times when "the Spirit" moves me, opening "every door," I guess to prove to myself that I am not, nor will I ever be, beyond feeling. And so many feelings and memories followed in these past few months, landing like soft dandelion tufts in the places where my soul is hungry and aching. I let them come. I gather them in. They break their heavens upon me, filling my open hands and guiding my healing heart. I post some of those experiences here, on my blog, just to remind myself, and any readers I may or may not have, that the Spirit always speaks to those who want to listen.
I sat in my hardbacked chair for what was probably only 30 seconds, calling on any god who would give me some fortitude and patience, along with the affirmation that I wasn't spiritually dead or numb. I found myself looking down at my hands -- they were resting open-faced on my lap, and the words "the kingdom of heaven is now close at hand" came to mind. And then, I remembered this time when I was a little kid, romping in the lawn at my grandma's house because she had asked my cousins and me to go out and snap the heads off the dandelions. It was such a glee, bending down and ripping the yellow flowers, smearing their heads down our arms and on our cheeks, pretending the jocund streaks were war-painted stripes; but my favorite part of that afternoon was picking up the dead, dry-tufted heads of seed, and blowing the white petals at each other. I turned and turned in those dandelion seeds, relishing the soft, kissing heaven of them as they landed on my lips and lids and legs and fingertips. I knew when I recognized the feelings from that vivid memory that I was still capable of feelings immense things, even if (for now) they were only recorded in a memory.
I also knew I had every right to be angry. And I was exceptionally upset. I may have dammed certain of my emotions for my own defensive purposes, but I was still a feeling person. Goddammit, I thought, I'm a musician! I create beauty! How dare you tell me I'm beyond feeling, even in a religious context? You deny my ability to feel and create, and you deny me, bishop! And I will not have it! He read a scripture, drawing a comparison between the pure and humble and obedient character of Nephi and the proud, obstinate and doubting portrayals we have of Laman and Lemuel. He then begged the question, "Which do you want to be, Nic?" I didn't offer him any answers. I was too angry, and I knew I would say ultimately divisive things. He said a prayer, and I left, sharing little more than a cold goodbye.
I drove up the gravel road to my parents' house, but didn't pull into the driveway. I kept driving up the hill until I reached the gate my dad and I had spray-painted with the words, "No Trespassing." I turned my car off, stepped outside, climbed over the gate and walked westward. I have always gone to the mountains when I've been profoundly furied or sad or grateful or happy. My mountains seem to have the only places large enough to root soul, and I needed a place to plant down before I lost myself on the wind of my anger.
"Where the hell are you, God?" I yelled. "What do I do? How do I live and find happiness?" I didn't hear any instant answers, but as I kept walking and ranting, the clouds darkened like a scar across the face of the summer sky and I could feel myself becoming a sort of sieve. I reflected on how I had decided to come out; on why I had told my family and a few friends, but had elected to keep "those in the know" a small group; on silent lies I had created in an attempted relationship with a certain young woman who would have been my wife. Grief filtered out of those thoughts and other memories, and I keened and moaned and cried.
And as hackneyed as this image is, rain honestly began falling. Walk back to your car, a thought directed. Feel the rain falling. Go home. Clean up. And then the big moment, I am in you and you are in me. I hadn't heard those words since I had been in Sunday School, but they rang with such power. I quit crying. I walked back to my car, and I felt how the rain fell, landed on my head and followed the course of its falling down my face. I walked in the door to my parents' house, and I felt the first breath of "I'm Home" I'd felt in way too long. I knew I had been created by Love, and that, should I look after it, I'd always be in Love.
I called Corey, my best bud, later that night and we had a long talk about the events of the day. "I'm not going to visit with him again," I affirmed. Corey agreed, "No. No one should ever have to 'visit' like that. You don't need to be broken down."
Emily Dickinson wrote,
Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.
I haven't been in the bishop's office since that day, but I have been on the search for times when "the Spirit" moves me, opening "every door," I guess to prove to myself that I am not, nor will I ever be, beyond feeling. And so many feelings and memories followed in these past few months, landing like soft dandelion tufts in the places where my soul is hungry and aching. I let them come. I gather them in. They break their heavens upon me, filling my open hands and guiding my healing heart. I post some of those experiences here, on my blog, just to remind myself, and any readers I may or may not have, that the Spirit always speaks to those who want to listen.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Skinny Jeans
Ok. I did it. I purchased my first pair of skinny jeans, a feat which I never imagined I'd undertake. You see, I don't have the best relationship with my body. At 5'10" and 130 lbs, I'm just a little slip of a thing, and I've never liked being skinny. I've avoided any sort of clothing that accentuates my slim and slender frame; in fact, I usually have worn quite a few layers, just to feel like I look a little bulkier than I am. Or, I'd buy everything a size too big and end up getting lost in fabric.Those tricks never worked, though: I usually looked like I just didn't know how to wear clothes.I've worn my new jeans a few times since buying them, and I've received quite a few compliments, which has helped me feel more comfortable about wearing such ass-hugging pants. Enter my dear, delightful mother.
"I thought you didn't like skinny jeans," she commented yesterday.
"Well, Mom," I answered, "I'm trying them out. A lot of people have said I look great in them."
She frowned as she walked toward the laundry room with a bag of clothes, "But they make you look so...skinny."
I was upset by her disapproval, but didn't want to argue with her. I have, however, thought quite a lot about why I was angered by her comment. I think it boils down to the fact that I'm coming to terms with the fact that, hey, I am skinny. I've become more comfortable with my body. I'm buying clothes that fit well, rather than buying things a size bigger and baggier so I can feel less little. I feel like I look good, and other people are noticing. I guess I wanted my mom to see the way I wore the skinny jeans -- with confidence and style -- rather than seeing that they were only skinny.
I know my mom wasn't attacking me, but I'm kind of glad I got defensive about how I'm dressing myself. That flare of whatever it was shows me that I really believe there's nothing wrong with my small frame. That I'm taking pride in myself. That I can -- and sometimes honestly do -- see myself as an articulate, successful and (yes, even this appealing adjective) an attractive young man.
Friday, October 16, 2009
this flower picks himself
who knows if the moon's
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where
always
it's
Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves Oh, e.e. cummings! He questions our knowledge of the moon and where our flights of fancy take us with such hope. To think of those flowers "in a keen city," so trusting of their beauty that they pick themselves. What a lovely confidence that must be--not to be confused with conceit--to see your self with such truth you'd want to pick your Self, not needing to be "picked" or chosen by others.
I like to believe that the reason we, as human beings, are livinglife is to learn to be divinely confident, just like cummings'flowers, and be at peace with the Selves inside ourselves and also with the goings-on of all that exists outside our own, singular experiences. We achieve godliness, Eternal Life, Nirvana or whatever name you choose to call the perfection of the Best Self when we
can confidently and honestly say, "I belong here, in this beautiful,
creative, eternal place, because I am beautiful, creative and eternal."
I sometimes reflect on the name God used when He was a burning
bush and talked with Moses :
"I am that I am."
The Charleston Heston version of God kind of mumbles it,
"Ayummh tha dayummh," but that's not how I envision
it; perhaps it was said "I am THAT I am;" with an emphatic that,
directing Moses' attention to the beauty and creativity and
eternity of God, to that statement of "I AM [all good things]." God knows
that He is all good things, and my hope guides me to believe that He
is trying to show us that we, too, are all good things.
God wants to take us for a ride in his balloon, full of pretty people, where
we ride "up higher and higher", than all steeples and churches and creeds
and He shows us that we are the flowers, that we can pick ourselves.
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