To breathe at all is bliss;
the treachery of love is made tangible by the bold infractions of our wild-winded hearts.
I think all they ever wanted from us
was “perhaps,”
Yet here we are,
Churning up the melting pot dregs when we kick up our feet
and pressing them curiously to our lips,
Making love in libraries and music in our minds,
Indulging in sticky-fingered truth,
Raging with open palms against the bitterness we inherit,
“Asking for it,”
Love us
Love us
Love us.
mentors and friends at a tSB retreat, Winter 2008
A letter I wrote to myself, during a group exercise, at the beginning of my first year with the Service Board (haven’t heard of them?! Learn about all the goodness and sweetness here):
Dear Irene,
Hi. I doubt you remember me. Once upon a time, you were 15 and lonely and all you wanted was for your life to start. I hope Mama was right when she said I would have an amazing life someday. Was she? Are things any better? I wish you could tell me but I guess the element of surprise is important, right?
Who knows when you’ll get this. Who knows if it’ll fall off the back of a truck in Southeast Asia and be used to start an arson fire. All I want is for you to be happy. I want you to be enjoying your life and I really hope you got better at snowboarding. I hope you still realize how incredibly lucky you are to have all these incredible people around you, and I hope you know how much I love them. Most of all, I hope things got better for you. Something tells me they did.
<3Peaceout.
-Irene M.
1-26-08
A letter I wrote to myself during another group exercise at the end of my first year with tSB:
Dear Irene,
It’s hard to pick just one moment from this surreal blur of improvement and amazingness that has been the last 6 months. This year has been full of surprises, and so have I.
I’m going with every time someone asked to hear one of my songs or told me something about myself I didn’t know before. Those were the moments when I grew.
In my wildest dreams you’re happy, travelling and playing music. You’re wild and beautiful and in love. That is just in my dreams, but if I’ve learned anything this year it’s that dreams come true. I’m going to make it happen. Did you?
I’ve shown myself that I have things to be proud of, and others have reminded me. I’ve learned to be proud of them, met some of the most beautiful people and made some bomb friends.
I’m making the life I want and nothing can stop me from making my own dreams come true. I hope you’re still as headstrong and passionate as you are now.
“Faith in the present gains faith in a better future.”
Peace+Love+Hippie Drugs
<3Irene
’08
I received both of these in the mail from tSB headquarters sometime last year and they have finally resurfaced in my endless sea of papers. I love how optimistic I was, how young and how naive in spite of the grief and struggle that marked those early years of my adolescence. I love the wild, beautiful, music-making, headstrong woman I was and wanted to be and am and will always be becoming. I’m grateful to her for reminding me of that, and to tSB for the connections I had and have, with myself and so many other wonderful people.
To tell the truth – even when it makes me look silly, even when it makes me feel stupid,
even when it’s inconvenient, embarrassing, expensive, or uncomfortable.
Not to assume that others know what I want, need, am thinking, etc. without being told, asked or reminded.
To value the company of other living creatures, always. Time is a gift.
To listen to my body and heart when they tell me I’ve hit a limit.
To enjoy the work I do, even when it feels like there’s too much of it.
To eat slowly and never talk with food in my mouth.
To both give and graciously accept compliments.
To listen more than I talk.
Loving acceptance of people and things I don’t understand.
Moderation.
How to share my feelings without crying, panicking, lying, or all of the above.
How to multiply on paper.
So many things passed without noting – the end of my first serious relationship. The end of slumber parties. The end of being the first to wake up Christmas morning. The end of hating mushrooms and lettuce. The end of nose picking (thank god). The end of overalls embellished with farm animals (though that’s one I can see coming back someday soon…). The end of a horse obsession. The end of “five more bites” and my daddy singing me to sleep at night. The end of public school. The end of bedtime.
It isn’t all endings, of course. In the last ten years I left and returned to Alaska. I learned to cook, drive, sew, knit, use a credit card, bathe a dog, flip a breaker, insulate windows, can food, hit on someone without creeping them out (OK, sort of), mourn a loss, do yoga, live on my own. I met someone I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with – I didn’t (whew). I graduated from high school. I had my first “real” job. I applied to the school of my dreams and didn’t even get wait-listed, and ended up exactly where I was supposed to be in spite of that. I made best friends, and lost them. I found religion and lost that, too. I befriended my parents. I befriended myself.
It feels as though I am being given a gift by time and the modern calendar. By marking the beginning of a new decade at this point in my life, it’s as though I am being permitted to close a door behind me. Not locking it, but containing all of the pieces and lessons and inspirations of that last growing period, so I can make the best of this one. The learning never stops, of course, but maybe I can use this fresh start of sorts to be more the person I want to be, to be happier, to become more whole.
Then again, maybe I can just work on keeping up with laundry and dishes and homework and work work and working a little more me-time, family-time and dream-time in around the edges. I’ve been feeling so tied-down lately, it’s good to remember not only how much I’ve grown up, but how young I am and how much I have both behind and ahead of me, how lucky I am to know the people I do and be the places I am.
Man, I’m looking forward to the next ten years.
I may be weary, but I am not lessened by my tiredness. I am as much now as I was when I woke up this morning, as beautiful and as strong, I am as little as I will ever be, and do not need to believe that the world is sitting on my shoulders to justify the rest I desire. I am allowed to be slow. I am welcome to be calm, to slow my mind and let unfinished tasks fall to tomorrow. It is all right to stop. It is OK to cry, to sigh, to seek comfort. I am as alive and worthwhile as I ever was and ever will be.
I forgive myself for being forgetful, selfish, crude. I forgive myself for yelling, for weeping, for wanting more than I need, for taking more than I want, for acting before thinking, for gray hairs and missed opportunities. I celebrate my age, my mind, my body, the things I did today and the things I did the days before. I look forward to all the chances I will have to do things tomorrow, both new and unfamiliar.
I relieve myself from the responsibility to worry, the desire to lust, the urge to complicate, the tendency to regret, the easy ways I remind myself of all my failings. I let go of all the tattered ends of things long since lost or abandoned.
I admit that I am imperfect, that I occasionally act like I am less than I could be, that I shrink away from pain and gravitate to tempting heat and ease when my strength falters. I admit that I can be impatient, thoughtless, tasteless, irresponsible, adolescent, self-centered and cold. I admit that I alone control the way I am, and I commit to making an effort now, tomorrow, the next day, and from now on to always try and be the best friend, woman, neighbor, employee, partner, dog-mom, and human being I can in every moment and instance.
I open my arms and breathe deep, because the grass is wet and I am whole and things are beautiful as they are, wonderful as they will be, with the mysterious and blessed future only moments away at any given time.
I want for nothing, I am letting go. I am free.
What differentiates “boys” from “men”? I’ve known, lived and conversated with both, and I’ve discovered that there are a few defining features that appear clearly on one side of the maturity line or the other. This issue may be more relevant to those of us in the “in between” years (I’m thinking 18 to 22) where both age groups are socially accessible and appealing in their own ways, but I’d say everyone’s had a run in with this dispute of developmental zoning, be it negotiating or communicating your son, neighbor, partner, brother, or friend.
I’m no expert, but here are my observations:
Men possess the ability to hear the word “menstruation” without cringing, making puking noises, cracking a joke or losing all interest in food for the next three days.
Men also have the ability, and willingness, to break up with someone nicely. I mean, men hurt feelings, too, but someone who is truly adult has discovered that it is infinitely better to hurt someone’s feelings once with the truth than it is to prolong the landslide with a retaining wall of bullshit and excuses.
Having sheets on your bed at all times, or not (the occasional laundry day disaster or family emergency is excused) is a pretty clear indicator. This might sound like a no-brainer, but you’d be amazed at how many post-adolescent males still haven’t figured out the basics of hygiene in a living space. This one is right up there with wearing the same socks until you can smell them (while they’re still on your feet), washing dishes with toothpaste, and vacuuming/Febreezing dirty clothes to avoid going to the laundromat.
Boys have this phobia of in-person and direct vocal contact. If you have your hands full and call to the next room for help getting this light fixture to stay up/cat out of the bathtub (or getting it back INTO the tub, as is more often the case)/diaper changed/small kitchen fire extinguished and you receive a text message 2 seconds later saying “busy” or “be right there,” you have a problem.
Gift giving is a problem for boys. Men can come up with some pretty catastrophically terrible presents, as well, but generally speaking an adult man has the sense not to hand his partner a bottle of perfume wrapped in a crumpled up piece of tissue paper as she’s getting out of the car to go to the grocery store. I mean, I don’t expect every box of Bandaids, sandwich, pair of socks or even birthday present you buy me to be laid out in an unexpected-yet-thoughtful, romantic and semi-public place with background music, sparklers, rose petals strewn “carelessly” around and a scavenger hunt of heart-shaped clues leading up to it. However, when the occasion dictates obligatory gift-giving, or you’ve had the good fortune to remember that I like things that are blue and sparkly for some reason besides the fact that you screwed up and are trying to redeem yourself (or, come to think of it, even if you DID screw up and you ARE trying to redeem yourself), it isn’t that hard to put it in a damn gift bag and leave it on the kitchen table. As a rule of thumb, unless it’s part of some contextually witty, thought-out plan, parking lots are a terrible place for gift-giving.
The age old “Who Pays?” debate has no safe answer, no matter who you are. Women have to sidestep coming off as either militantly feminist or embarrassingly old fashioned, whereas men will pretty much be construed as chauvinist pigs no matter where they stand on the issue. The same goes for debates like “Who Opens the Door For Who?” and “Exactly How Frantic Am I Allowed to Get About Your Terrible Driving?” Men, however, are aware of the fact that these conversations are not simply about the logistics of a relationship. Such exchanges can lead to real arguments and uncomfortable misconceptions of your sweetheart’s opinions of numerous historical, sociopolitical, racial, and other hot-button varieties of issues, and thus approach the topics with at least a semblance of caution. Boys, on the other hand, will suggest you go to dinner, get in your car without offering to drive instead, tell you every time a light turns yellow and then ask to borrow 20 bucks after you’re already in-line at the drive thru.
I’m sure this list will grow as I’m reminded of other charming displays, but for now, that’s all.
Disclaimers:
*Clearly, I’m generalizing, but I can safely say that every one of the above observations was made with my own eyes and as clear a mind as I’ve ever had (the reliability of which is a topic for later discussion, or adamant disregard on my part, or both).
**The above observations focus entirely on males between the ages of 17 and 26 who reside in the United States, all of whom dated or spent some other justifiably large amount of time with me (which probably tells us something about their personality types). Elsewhere, I can only assume life is at least slightly different.
In his work Ancient Society (1877), Lewis H. Morgan asserted that Evolution was linear and progressive. Though this theory has been long since disproved and antiquated, modern Western society still harbors some fondness for this concept when it comes to the individual. We demonstrate in our collective rituals (funerals, wakes, baby showers, etc.) that we consider people closer to the end of the line more sophisticated and advanced on a fundamental level. This is not, however, a complete, or even true, representation of a human’s condition at different stages of life. We do not become more perfect with age, or closer to the highest, most perfect tier of existence. We simply become changed. We may become older and wiser, but we do not become inherently better with aging.
According to Morgan, the least developed societies were at one developmental end in a state of Savagery and the most civilized (Victorian England, according to Morgan) were on the other end. Societies evolved along this trajectory from Savagery to Barbarism to Civilization, becoming more sophisticated and functional as spiritual and humane beings along the way, as well as becoming more advanced as a group.
We have, at least academically, come to accept that societies once considered “primitive,” like, say, Australian Aborigines, are, from a culturally relative standpoint, just as advanced as “developed” countries like the US. Though technology may not exist on the same level, societies are measured in their progress by their adaptations to their own environment and cultural context, not our own. We seem to have failed, however, to judge ourselves, within our own Western society, the same way.
The most obvious example is in our ritual reactions to death. The death of a baby or young child though tragic, is marked very differently than that of an older or elderly person. A baby’s death is a loss of potential, treated as sad because of the child’s un-lived life. We do not remark on their individuality, however small. We talk about the family, commemorate their unfulfilled hopes for the deceased. We regret that they traveled such a short length of the line between birth and death. The death of an older member of society, however, is marked by the commemoration of their accomplishments, and the things that made them who they were. At the funeral of an adult, we talk about the positive things about them – their career, their children, things they taught us. We talk about them as though they spent their whole lives moving closer to completeness, perfection. We celebrate their life as well as mourning their death, because, assuming they lived to what we consider “old age,” they made the trip. They arrived at the highest tier of being human and plateaued.
The fault in the linear theory is the same on both the societal and individual level: whoever exists on far or “high” end must not either regress or progress, in order to keep the line static. It doesn’t take into account that culture is always changing. Victorian England, for instance, eventually collapsed and moved into another phase of cultural developement, not necessarily ahead of where it was before. So with death of the individual, we cannot progress forever without collapsing. If evolution is linear, it must eventually end, as must life. Due to its finite nature, this directional theory of existence excludes the possibility of life after death, re-incarnation, or the possible equality of perfectness or progress of all humans, regardless of their place in the life cycle.
By placing greater importance on one end of the birth to death trajectory, we imply that humans get better, or more human, with age. This may seem to be true in some cases, when a person has spent their whole life indeed making a conscious effort to improve, but take, for instance, someone who has no concern for the well-being of others or the condition of their soul, the substance of their humanity. According to this theory, someone who spent the majority of their adult life committing heinous crimes, however sweet or functional they may have been as a child, is more or better at the time of their death. The lack of alternatives in the birth-to-death line implies that we can ONLY get better with age, that it is not possible to lose one’s humanity over the course of a lifetime. In the context of history and current events that is, unfortunately, simply not true.
Though children may not have had as many years in which to develop an identity or make positive contributions to society, it is important to gauge their progress as a ratio to the time they have had. A person’s worth or level of development does not depend on how close they are to one end of the line or the other, but, rather, what they have done with the time they have. Life is many things, but linear is not one of them. Death is not the end of the line, but simply one in a long string of events that may or may not end after our heart’s stop beating. Love and mirth and grief and inspiration cannot be traced on a grid. This world is one of seemingly infinite possibilities, but they are not all points on the same line between one event and another. Be it sphere, abstraction or blob floating on a plane of infinite happenstance, life exists neither here nor there. It has no end points, no corners, no direction. Life is dynamic and, quite possibly, simply one event in a series itself. We are no closer to perfection now than we were the day we were born.
Goodnight, Irene 