for my mother. so she knows i'm okay.

 

This year has been a series of small heartaches.

I’m not supposed to say that.

I’m supposed to say that everything is fine.

And it is. Surprisingly, miraculously, it is.

I am, for the most part, treading water quite well, actually.

But in the black-and-white-terror by which we often judge our lives, it has been a spectacularly crummy year. I say that knowing full well that everyone I love has their health and because of that my complaints are just that: complaints, and so not worth much.

But today I will have a second latte before I even leave the apartment.

The weight of some-other-life has been pressing in heavy of late. I feel it most acutely in grocery stores. Standing in aisles, the food poorly organized, the lighting harsh, and the people who work there as unhelpful as unwilling. I feel it standing in the checkout lines. The person behind me always a little too close—their items being scanned before I’ve even signed my copy of the receipt.

And I can’t help but think how those things wouldn’t happen in cities with more space.

Which may or may not be true.

But it’s true of where I grew up.

I feel so very much in-the-middle-of-things. And also nowhere at all. Which is a different sort of middle, and not a very good one.

Except that I’m not in the middle.

I’m on the other side of a long stretch of heartache.

So much, am I on the other side, that I occasionally forget. The body is adaptive in that way—protective. How expertly it smooths the edges of what once felt impossible. But every once and again a residual truth will surface and I’ll realize there’s more to go—small mountains still to move.

And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep. *

Somewhere along the way I stopped believing that good things could happen to me.

Somewhere from within the tangle of that particular devastation I stopped trusting that good things do in fact…occur. To other people, surely. But not to me.

My life would be something else entirely. Something less. And I would weather it.

It’s so ridiculous. I get that. Just saying it out loud, it’s so ridiculous. But it’s also true. And true in a way that frightens me because it’s somehow more true than other truths, and how can there be shades to truth?

And what I’m realizing is that I’ve been toting around this particular truth for far too long, totally unaware.

Meaning, I’ve let it be true. When really it’s not. And that’s on me.

Maybe it’s the last threshold. The last little bit to cross.

But when you’re nineteen years old and shit hits the fan in that way that alters your life in that unalterable way and it takes you six years just to get out of bed without considerable effort, perception and hopes and what you want for your life shifts.

And you settle.

For less.

And you accept that less for so long that it becomes a new baseline.

Until you call bullshit. And start wanting—start expecting more.

Because just to give voice to that scary truth is to dismantle it. To somehow make it less true.

Less true than other truths.

And less important and more part of the past--and the mountains get smaller and the miles less dense.

And the getting out of bed, that much easier.

Treading water starts to feel more like swimming.

Forward to that next shore.

Something about water metaphors, they really get me.

*Robert Frost. Obviously. (Obviously not being the name of the poem. And now is the moment I encourage you to go revisit his really good words.)

the fundamental truth | guest post: chelsea latimer

Over the years I’ve never quite been able to resolve for myself the “you should’t need a man” comments that come my way. Of course I don’t, I think!

The feminist in me bristles as the double standard of women-don’t-need-a-man-but-poor-Jen-Anison-that-she’s-never-found-one.

And because I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and because I think I know some pretty remarkable women, I asked them to sort through their own feelings and spit out some words.

What follows is the third in the series.

Chelsea is a marvel. I came across her blog years ago and often find myself emailing her with the wish (no, the plea) that she write more, more, MORE. Basically I believe her writing makes me better--a better writer yes, but more than that, a better, more fully-lived-in human being.

So without further ado, her response...

I can distinctly remember the moment when I realized I loved myself enough to share it with someone. I’d thought, in past relationships, years of dating, recovered heartbreaks and so on that I “knew myself,” and “loved myself,” but this time it was something different. It was different because I was willing to walk away if it didn’t match up to root desires. The ones that honored my spirit. The thing was, I was only allowed to do this AFTER I’d shown vulnerability. After I’d given someone a chance, let them in, relinquished the pretense. There weren’t walls, or barriers. There was openness FIRST, barriers Second.

Here’s what happened, there came a crossroads where I had to answer the question in a relationship, “Is it worth the compromise?” There were a few things, (as most relationships encounter when you’re creating space for someone in your life) where I had to shift my direct WANT for that of my Partner. This time, however as opposed to shifting, or shrinking my want for my partner, I asked an additional question on top of that one, “Will I STILL love myself after I make the compromise?” While I may have loved myself before meeting him and during our time together, even happily in a relationship- the answer on the otherside of our inevitable compromises may have been “no.” If that’s the reality that meets you on the other side of that question, but you continue anyway (which I had many times in the past) that’s when I knew that my self-love was waning. I finally got to the place where unequivocally, the answer to that had to be a loud, confident, unshakeable, YES.

Women inherently, or excuse me, HUMANS, inherently want to give and receive love. So, why would we ever look at our fellow brothers or sisters, friends, coworkers and pity their plight to find it?

To be earnestly desirous or even aware of love's power there is an initiation that happens, maybe by way of a break up, a BIG QUESTION (like the one I discovered,) an “a ha!” of sorts that leads you to a set of non-negotiables and that resides at the center of your heart, or your gut- if you’re really clear, it’s both. These include boundaries, self-love and awareness of where your joy is conceived. To be intimately, keenly comfortable with showing all the sticky, ripe, bruised aspects of your soul to someone requires an understanding of that trifecta. Time examining, trial and error, research. Know your boundaries, know your self-love; how to give it, how to get it, where it comes from and know your joy. All the reasons we forget who we are and why we want to give/receive love is lost when the answers to those questions are gray, or undefined.

Build a life for yourself, one you’re proud of. One that has filling relationships, deep connections, twinkling lights in the midst of the city or dust covered leather boots in the countryside, awe and adventure....deep self-examination and healing, intimate recognition of your insecurities, your wounds, your big hairy-scary fears. Then, when you’ve cozied up alone, naked in negative space and oversized pillows, loving all of that “Stuff,” and willing to scoot over and let someone peek in, that’s when you know that you’ve done the work. When you still want to get undressed, literally and metaphorically with someone in spite of how truly terrifying that is and say, “I’ll share everything and if you don’t stick around, or don’t like it, I know exactly how ‘without you’ feels and I’m okay.”

Being willing to become soft is neither needy, or lacking intimacy with your SELF, in actuality you may just finally (after years of self-work, nights alone, dates, cycles of life and relationships......) be ACCEPTING yourself. You are not robbed of your independence or autonomy by desiring deeper connection.

One thing I know for CERTAIN is that everything most people do, whether attached or otherwise is to come back to the one fundamental truth that gets us up out of bed every morning, that makes you stay, or leave, or work an extra hour longer to provide; the thing that makes us work hard in general to create something foundational is LOVE. Everything we do, whether we can admit it to ourselves or not has some form of love as the desired outcome attached to it. That can be romantic, familial, or self-love. Allowing someone to love you and to be in the space of desiring to give that love back in return, is not only the greatest act of self-love, but the bravest one. Articulating and surrendering yourself to the flexibility that LOVE requires, while being able to answer the question “Will I love myself on the other side of this compromise?” with a firm “YES,” is inherently feminism. As women, tenderly support the journey of the beauties around you to find love, just remember, always, ALWAYS to keep that, “yes.”

read more of Chelsea's genius stuff here.

part one, part two, part three, part four. part five. 

instagram. tumblr. twitter. pinterest

ways in which to woo me:

 

1. strong coffee

2. sports coats (always the sports coat. never {never ever} underestimate the sports coat

photo by James Minchin III

first kiss

I always say that my first kiss happened behind a couch at the age of four. All hands and knees and tips of the tongue.

We hardly knew what we were doing. But sensed, it was something to be done out of sight—the act of it, somehow illicit.

We crawled behind the living room couch, gathered our limbs beneath us, and with out palms pressed into the wood floor, leaned in, our tongues meeting in the open space between us.

One tip pressed against the other.

We were four and thought that was what French kissing was…a touch of the tongue.

It hardly seemed worthy of any fuss.

Or the subsequent fallout.

We hadn’t considered the window behind the couch. Had misestimated the prying eyes of our three older brothers.

How quickly they told our parents. And how quickly we were spoken to.

I remember little of what was said, but have a clear impression of how Matt and I stood to the side of his childhood home, each of our parents sitting on the swollen yellow of plastic patio furniture.

Matt and I are still friends.

And he’s done something quite worth checking out.

(But I won't give you any hints to what it is).

**And for what it's worth, thank goodness kissing feels just as illicit and just as exciting--when it's done well. (Albeit, for quite different reasons).**

image: TWO CHILDREN KISSING AT

TENNIS NET by Vivian Maier, 1955

R BABY BENEFIT CONCERT

A girlfriend of mine is involved with a really incredible charity endeavoring to improve pediatric emergency care.

Their mission is simple and straightforward: to save as many babies' lives as possible.

(Which seems to me as good a thing, as any, to rally behind.)

On July 23rd they are hosting a benefit concert at The Hammerstein Ballroom. As someone who loves music, and thinks live concerts  one of the very best reasons to live in New York City, an event that marries music and positive change seems like the very best way to spend a Thursday night.

General admission tickets are 100 dollars, with all of the proceeds going directly to the charity.

I will be there with bells and whistles (and probably in a pair of heels--if you're lucky, my gold shimmery ones I save for special occasions). And I was thinking it'd be really great to see some of your lovely faces there.

Click here for tickets.

And to learn more about the foundation, go here.

It's not often that I post about such things--but it's for such a great cause (and I think the music will be so good) that I couldn't help myself.