Conversational Growth

I had the pleasure of making conversation with a stranger a few nights ago. There is an art to making conversation, and when two people come together, sometimes this collaboration yields beautiful results. This time, it did. I left the conversation feeling exhausted as usual, invigorated, and incredibly vulnerable. 

I'm used to spiritual revitalization from mutually supporting my Buddhist community members. I rely on my parents and friends (more heavily than parentals) for emotional revitalization. But it was a strange sensation to feel anything other than drained from interacting with a potential partner. That probably says more about my tendency toward the role of emotional caretaker in romantic relationships than I'd prefer, but I digress.

Initially, I was surprised that I felt vulnerable afterwards, intellectually and emotionally. It's been a very long time since I've felt like that. In the moment, I decided to trust him, even if on a very small scale like telling deeply personal stories of my past. As I digested the reasons why I felt so exposed, I saw that time has taught me to be logical and force partners to access my heart at a slower pace than my heart wants to be accessed. Is that a symptom of being too trusting in my youth and subsequently burned by my partners? Or is it a part of my red-hot heart slowly cooling as I amass wisdom and spend more time in this world?

Because I recognized this trust-aversion at all and because of my residual feelings of emotional defenselessness, I see that I do still have the capacity to trust partners. That's wonderful! In the last six months--when I determined to take a furlough from dating--I wondered if that ["trusting"] muscle was shriveled up and slowly dying… If I can in fact exert that muscle, would it be an act of naivety or faith? I guess that depends on perspective…

Grad School Skate - day 07

I need to take it easy. I've skated every day since last Thursday. When I woke up today, my legs were so sore that I almost hobbled into the kitchen. Never have I physically resembled my nickname, "grandma," than today. Why grandma? I more readily knit and crochet at home rather than go out with my classmates--especially Friday nights. Additionally, I can see why the stereotypical skater's hobbies include skating every chance possible, but also long video game sessions--skating is exhausting and the body must recharge. Since taking up this hobby, I have finally finished LEGO Batman 2, which has taken me two years to finish.

Grad school skate - day 05

I feel like I finally got to something close to cruising. It felt wonderful to have my body and board meld into one, one vessel to hold my mind and soul. The process of cruising, the adventure of riding is calming yet chalk full of unadulterated fun.

I've never really done anything simply for me and my own enjoyment. But this feels like something that is 100% mine and no one else has a say as to what or how I do my thing ("thang"). That feels wonderful. 

Even if I keep skating on the same surfaces--which to date have bored me after I ride them back and forth for a few hours--I want to achieve something close to that mental state again. 

Now, what do I want to call my board? Hm...

Big takeaways: I enjoy skating!

Grad School Skate - Rationale

I've never been one to follow the crowd, or be just another sheep in the heard. But does this explain why I wanted to finally learn how to skateboard at the age of 24? Partially.

I grew up with skaters around me, all of whom were men / boys. I always liked what skateboarding represented - counter culture, self expression, making a playground out of the urban landscape around us, and constantly pushing yourself to be bigger and better.

Maybe I didn't think I was coordinated enough (I wasn't). Maybe I was intimidated because there was one girl skater for every 5-10 boys at the skate park (I also didn't have very much self-confidence back then).

Maybe it was just street skating that was never really my thing. To me, street skating was less about getting around and more about doing tricks and getting hurt. It has always seemed too masculine for my taste and I have never been one to identify with overtly masculine activities.

Cruising on the other hand...

The Story of Only Children and Walls

I am an only child born to older parents, my birth circa their early 40's--it's a miracle my mother survived the ordeal considering her petite stature and my fetal weight. Most of my time spent with peers was in school, at church, or at the park. Regardless, I spent countless hours playing and entertaining myself in my room, alone, with my toys to the extent that my stuffed animals became my friends, and protected me from vampires when the lights were turned off. But that is inconsequential.

If you've ever lived alone, you might find yourself having conversations in your head, often saying the same things many times over, or recalling the same memories or people until you find something else distracting--like sitting in front of a wall. The only response to your call into the abyss of human absence is silence. Consequently, you start to intuitively know yourself very well and become comfortable with me, myself, and I.

Topics that would normally suggest, yield or require discussion become monologues. It is very easy to become close minded and trapped in the room that is your isolation. It isn't that a person in this room keeps everyone else on the other side of the only door in, it is more that no other human is sitting on the carpet with you, sipping tea, as a matter-of-fact.

There are a lot of stereotypes about only children. But I have found that their independence means being unafraid to be alone. For some people, the absence of a loved one (or potentially another person in general) feels like a piece of your world is missing. For me, my world was never missing a piece to begin with, it was simply fuller when others were around. It is easier to cope with absence when solitude is something you have known your entire life.

This blog is a dialogue presented in monologue. A dialogue about an only child, young Buddhist woman traversing American life while not compromising her many identities. Sometimes I wonder how I'm doing...

Redecorating Therapy

The bandaid:

I've redecorated. Currently, I occupy the living room of a one bedroom apartment--it's all I can afford on my under employed salary... I decided a physical change was required. So, I grabbed a friend, hopped in the car, bought an espresso americano and drove. For the sake of ambiguity, I'm going to omit the before photo and present the after:

Only the room divider, duvet cover, 1 cushion, and bed frame are new (this is the scaled back project version, believe it or not...). The bookshelf, TV stand, desk (executive!) and mattress are old. What I wanted was a definitive separation between my space and the common space, work and recreation, relaxation and stress--thus the wall simulating and barrier producing furniture. This was my birthday gift to myself. Respite in times of turbulence such as now.

The wound:

I am standing in a doorway leading to a yard full of green grass. Along the tall outer fence are closed gates. Any minute now, I'm supposed to push open any one of those countless doors and enter a new grassy yard, a new house, a new chapter of my life. And yet, I'm still standing in the doorway, staring out at my options--my future. It seems impossible to chose, impossible to wrap my head around the possibilities, impossible to will my cerebral membrane to produce any thoughts at all. My body is frozen in time.

December 1 is my first deadline for graduate school applications. Over the past month or so, my conscious and subconscious alike have been frantically trying to avoid making any relevant decisions, or even researching alternative programs for my further education. So much so that my partner has caught onto my scheme and isn't putting up with my bullsh*t anymore. Good for him. Next, he needs to teach me the ancient and elusive art of get 'er done. 

To date, my pursuits of graduate program research, selection, and overall future academic self discovery has been stopped and stalled by hopelessness, depression, exhaustion, fear, stress, distraction, and old fashion ornery attitude. It's time I hang up my listless jacket and put on my thinking cap. I'm applying to graduate school!!

Middle Way

Definition of eight winds:

Eight conditions that prevent people from advancing along the right path to enlightenment. According to The Treatise on the Stage of Buddhahood Sutra--Bandhuprabha's work that was translated into Chinese by Hsüan-tsang--the eight winds are prosperity, decline, disgrace, honor, praise, censure, suffering, and pleasure. People are often swayed either by their attachment to prosperity, honor, praise, and pleasure (collectively known as "four favorites" or "four favorable winds"), or by their aversion to decline, disgrace, censure, and suffering ("four dislikes" or "four adverse winds"). (The Soka Gakkai Dictionary of Buddhism 八風 definition)

For most of my young adult life, I have been using this as a guide to keeping calm almost. To me, being calm doesn't mean keeping myself from expressing excitement, joy, or agitation at all. It is more be able to keep my negative emotions under wraps and only expressing the uplifting, endorphin promoting emotions. But that isn't to say I'm necessarily a positive person, because many things I say, think, and feel are in fact pessimistic in nature. 

This concept has also been instrumental in reminding myself not to sweat the small things, something that can be difficult because I'm a perfectionist by nature, and slightly obsessive compulsive. If someone doesn't like my work, that's ok, I can fix it. If I don't get a call back for that interesting job opening, that's quite alright too, everything happens for a reason. If anything, this idea lets me be more relaxed about my life while still focused on my goals and not beat myself up every chance I get. This idea is so important to me, that I inked it on myself.

The Rose Petals of Human Life

Culture and art are like the petals of roses blooming on thorny bushes. Real life has its thorns, but good deeds and compassion make the human being beautiful. Instead of being created by the turbulent surface waves of political and economic affairs, history is the slow, profound ocean current where culture, art, and education play leading roles.

July 2012 Living Buddhism, pp. 43

Offline Dating

In response to Mr. 91, I am in a relationship with someone, who I just happened to first interact with online. We haven't decided on any plausible lies to tell the friends and family who don't know we were members of the growing masses of young and old who can't seem to find a date IRL, thus resorting to the stigmatized (and rightly so--Hell Is OKCupid) world of online dating.

Theoretically speaking, when a relationship begins, and it is exclusive in nature, one should take herself off the market. For online dating, I could change my status, yes, or I could just disable my profile. That wasn't a very hard decision to make. If you haven't perused tumblrs like Hell is OKCupid, then you should invest 5 minutes and do it.

There are plenty of relatively "normal" people on such websites, but there are also some weirdos that women especially have to be weary of. As I alluded to in Mr. 91, there are certain mental filters that potential IRL meetups have to pass through in order to be considered at all. Because, yes, an auto-character reference, however long or short, is baiting a specific type of fish, (hopefully me?) but is still tremendously revealing about the writer--in terms of content and technical language/overall demeanor/vibe. Discerning between normal and psycho and all the shades in between is daunting at worst. But once you find a potentially great person, it brings a level of euphoria and excitement all its own.

Profiles, pictures, messages, answers to ridiculously ambiguous questions, and IMs exchanged until the wee hours of the morning, what do these all have in common? To start, they are glimpses, flashes, snapshots, a tiny window into an entire person, an entire life. However countless many bits of information you might be granted access to, they will never collectively nor independently define the person you are looking at 100%. Knowing someone your entire life, living with them 24 hours a day, 7 days a week until death do you part is the only way to fully "know" someone. (To that point, how well do I know my best friends? hmm...) But back to my point...

It wasn't until the fourth or fifth date that I knew for sure I wanted to spend more time with this person in front of me. It wasn't until several profound conversations had been had, several adventures had been shared, several misadventures had been suffered, and several long moments of vulnerability that this person I originally met online started occupying a noticeable space in my heart. Even then, it was difficult to let myself fall completely into this persons arms, precisely because I didn't know him.

Searching for a partner online, jumping into a committed relationship, meeting a potential mate in person, all of these activities ask for faith. Faith that you will indeed find someone who is compatible and worth your energy, faith your heart won't be broken in the end, faith that the meetup will not end in a physically dangerous situation, etc.

Mr. 91

I almost don't want to admit it, but I've joined the masses and started online dating. My profile is almost 1000 words long, I have multiple photos posted with various backdrops, outfits, faces, and sides of myself on display. Just like any other user, my likes, abilities, and mentioned experiences are exaggerated and downplayed alike---for the record, smashing your entire being into a 1000 word auto-character reference is sweat breaking work! And once it is finished, you have to tweak and pull and mold your online self into a shape that will bait the fish you are trying to snag; because yes, there are many fish in the sea, but no, I don't want to catch a barracuda.

Since entering the realm of singledom, I have resigned myself to initiating contact as frequently as possible. If a guy meets 95% of my own requirements and criteria, off I go typing an attention grabbing message, in hope he will recognize the potential I see in the both of us.

A few weeks ago, after a several weeks of playing word tag, I was scheduled to meet a whopping 91% love match. Using complex algorithms, drawing sweeping personality conclusions from answers to vague questions, and analyzing 5-point scale ratings I gave to potential mates, this man was deemed 91% compatible to me. 91%. That is 9 points shy of a full 100%! Leading up to this date, I thought to myself, "considering the intellectual, news fanatical banter we've exchanged already, we are probably going to hit it off, aren't we? And he's a 91% match! He must be my soul mate!" Pfft. Nice try, naive little girl. I sat in the coffee shop, sipping my tea, anxiously awaiting my prince's arrival when he suddenly walked in, looking calm, cool, collected, confident. He was even wearing corduroy. (WTF!?) As conversation flowed, easily I will add, our date progressed smoothly. Ending with us sitting in his car, digesting our Ramiro's Bros burritos, and talking quietly about the Vagina Monologues.

Then it happened, our fingers interlaced, we looked into each other's longing eyes, leaned in, and kissed one another. He had soft, pink lips, was a good kisser, I found nothing really to complain about except the giant white elephant that started sucking all of the air out of the tiny subcompact. It felt like I was kissing my male doppelganger: me-with-a-penis 2.0. There was absolutely no chemistry and none that could be scrounged up and pooled toward any sort of minuscule investment... believe me, I was searching thoroughly...

Turns out, my expectations were oh too high for a semi-blind date. How can you walk into a situation where you are expecting yourself and the other party to fit into one another like the missing piece of your last, great table puzzle? It is destined to fail! Maybe I'm just jaded. Or maybe I'm becoming less idealistic. Either way, you can't plan love, it just happens. Even in the most fertile of soils and the most meticulously chosen seed, a plant can fail to take root. My moral lesson, having an open mind, an open heart, and open eyes will lead me in the direction I need to go. Since Mr. 91, I've been on several first dates and not forcing myself to bend over backwards to make my subconscious happy has been a huge blessing and tension reliever.

Thoughts on....

Sobriety:
35 days sober to date.
I enjoy the newly achieved mental clarity. Being able to designated drive [automatic transmission only, please] at a moment's notice is reassuring. My wallet enjoys the $40 of extra padding every Monday morning.
Alcohol:
Alcohol is a toxin, a poison that I pump into my body in order to enjoy the sensations it brings to my body and mind. Those sensations do not support my growth or development. Nor do they help me cope with my sufferings and fears. Alcohol is a wet blank I use to drape over my dusty old furniture in hopes of transforming the object into something smaller, more managable. Conspicuous camoflage.
I really do enjoy the substance itself, vodka tastes very nice, Hefeveissen Beers are smooth on my pallet, citrusy cocktails are my favorite. One sip every once in a long while is all I have allowed myself and it seems that is enough. I have taken such a strong liking to abstinence (the sexual sort involuntarily) that my taste buds don't miss drinking two beers with dinner, or four cocktails and a beer on Saturday. One mouthful is enough, just so i can remember the initial warm tingle, preceeding full flavor, burning sensations as the cool liquid reaches the corners of my mouth and flows down my throat. After those rosey, fuzzy pink images and muscle memories flood my brain, the ugly, dark, throbbing hangovers, nights spent over a toilet and drunken regerets following shortly thereafter and remind me with viceral stomach churns why I chose this path.
Alcohol is not my friend, at least not right now, it isn't.

Carly

The Carly I knew was direct and fearless, and the intermittent nervousness in her eyes now seems to indicate a depth of damage I don't fully comprehend. I consider the possibility that her asshole ex-husband is largely responsible for this transformation, but I wonder if I'm simply passing the buck because the alternative is too depressing to consider.

Jonathan Tropper, The Book of Joe, p. 299

Things I Like

It seems I only complain about the things around me I don't like. So I decided to write down things I do like, seeing as even I don't really know what they are...

1. Golf
2. I Love Lucy
3. Romantic comedies
4. Sherlock Holmes
5. Billiards
6. James Bond movies
7. Papercraft
8. The Sims
9. Handicrafts
10. Politics
11. Indie music
12. Beer
13. Vodka
14. Long walks
15. Bodies of water
16. Admiring bodies of water from afar
17. Cats
18. Cleanliness
19. Macaroni and cheese
20. Simple, elegant, understated fashion
21. Androgynous people
22. Old movies
23. Smart phones
24. Comedy in general
25. Nature documentaries
26. C-Span
27. Baking
28. Examples of Murphy's Law in action
29. Talking over coffee
30. My daily planner
31. Tinkering
32. Discovery Channel shows (Deadliest Catch, Auction Kings, American Chopper)
33. Fixing things
34. Legos
35. Reading classic novels
36. Hot dogs
37. Stuffed animals
38. The sound of ticking analog clocks
39. Making lists
40. Collecting quotations
41. The smell of clean laundry
42. Pictures of flowers
43. Puzzles
44. The news
45. Vans shoes
46. Skinny jeans

A friend pointed out that most people don't find out this information until several years into a friendship with me. I should work on that.

Guilt: Past, Present, Future

Olvidar mis errores del pasado y obtener logros en el futuro.

I used to think of experiences from days and years before as a summation of who I am and was at that point in time, that is true as a gage of who I have been but is not applicable to who I am today or who I will be.

I know instinctively that I can be better than what or who I was before, especially when it comes to the pain I inflicted on myself and the loved ones around me.

Its terribly difficult for me to forget. I can sometimes see the effects of my damage in the present and wish from the bottom of my heart that I can take it back or make up for it, in any way that would alleviate the pain I see. This guilt is most prevalent when I am presented with a tiny object or idea that is tied to a specific loved one or more directly, mentally tied to some negative action.

Apologies alone will never be enough but the future self that has yet been formed is the only mode of redemption. Never again will I fall victim to the whims of my fleeting impulses or allow myself to be dragged down and defeated by trivial environmental elements. If my past has done anything positive for me, its purpose has been to strengthen through survival; while never losing sights of my dreams.

When I'm presented with a chance to step forward, tangibly move toward a fuller self, or fall back into regret, I hope my guilt will ignite the courage I need to change rather than excuse my subsequent tail spin. Until then, I am continually fighting to choose the nobler path. Only time can really tell if I'm anywhere near successful.