When Melissa’s trust is broken, she examines past and present with hope for the future

Here a lie, there a lie everywhere a liar, liar pants on fire.

When someone loved and trusted lies, its hurtful and makes me feel as though I am not worthy of the truth. Trust is so precious, and yet we take so much of the universe on trust. Having my trust violated leaves me feeling lonely and kind of empty. Ironically, it’s also kind of lonely to try and stand strong and sure in my own truth and experience.

In the third grade, my teacher Mrs. Randolph gave the whole class a word problem. Something along the lines of, “If ten monkeys hiked to the peak in search of one banana, but two of them took the bus half way, and had to wait for the bus for 30 minutes, and the bus travelled at 20 miles an hour and the rest of the monkeys high tailed it, who got to the banana first?” Mrs. Randolph instructed us to remain at our desks until we had the answer to the problem. When we thought we knew the answer we were to come up to her desk and whisper it to her. I came up with the answer right away and in front of the whole class Mrs. Randolph called me a cheater — except there was no way I could’ve cheated. In effect Mrs. Randolph was lying but calling me the liar. At eight years old, it was challenging to hold on to what I knew was true even as my teacher was abusing her power. I knew in my heart that I came up with the answer and that was an early lesson in trusting myself. A year later I read in the newspaper that Mrs. Randolph had been arrested for shoplifting, which somehow proved my case.

As a child, my mother would wash my mouth out with soap when I was caught lying. I can’t recall what I lied about but I do know that my lies were an effort to maintain control over a situation and avoid my mother’s inevitable disappointment in me.

The great poet and feminist Adrienne Rich wrote a seminal essay over 30 years ago, which I find myself returning to now, “Women and Honor: Some Notes on Lying”. In the essay, Rich explores the ways women lie to themselves and to one another and outlines a cultural history of women lying for our very survival. We’ve come to expect certain people to lie, in fact it’s become de rigueur —politicians, (“I did not have sex with that woman.”) sports figures (“What steroids?”), the Catholic Church (“Pedophilia? Never!”). But what’s happening when we lie to ourselves, and one another?

“…the liar is concerned with her own feelings. The liar lives in fear of losing control. She cannot even desire a relationship without manipulation, since to be vulnerable to another person means for her loss of control…The liar leads an existence of unutterable loneliness…The liar is afraid…She is afraid her own truths are not good enough…The liar fears the void.”

“To discover that one has been lied to in a personal relationship, however, leads one to feel a little bit crazy.” *

Despite all evidence to the contrary I’m not crazy. I know the truth of the situation and standing in it is taxing and lonesome. However, for me the hardest part of watching a beloved and trusted person lie is the crushing disappointment.

“An honorable human relationship—that is, one in which two people have the right to use the word “love” — is a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying to both persons involved, a process of refining the truths they can tell each other.

…It is important to do this because we can count on so few people to go the hard way with us.”*

I’ve long adhered to the feminist belief that when we have more women in power—more women leading—the world will be improved. But can that be true if in our most intimate relationships, be they friendships or more, we do not honor one another with the truth?

“Truthfulness, honor, is not something which springs ablaze of itself; it has to be created between people.”*

Women! Be the “truthtellers”. Go the hard way for the sake of honor. Go forth and CREATE possibilities amongst us. The truth will set us free.

—-
* Rich, Adrienne, “Women and Honor: Some Notes on Lying “, On Lies Secrets and Silence: Selected Prose 1966-1978, W.W. Norton & Company, New York, London Copyright 1979

In an effort to understand her mother, Melissa peels back layers of her own heart

In the summer of 1963, my mother left my father. I was just six and my brother turned three a few short weeks later. Thirty-six years, several boyfriends and one more divorce later, my mother admitted to me that the love of her life had been my father.

My mother’s admission about the love of her life was stunning and surprising. I asked her why; given that my father was the love of her life she left him? She replied, “He was young and stupid and always had something to prove.” I wondered what 20-something (man or woman) is not young and stupid with things to prove?

A year after this conversation my mother died. I discovered then the only things in her safe deposit box were the letters my father had written to her asking, and then pleading with her to come back. I cried then for my mother, not for her death but for the fact of her pride — the pride, which kept her from the love of her life for most of her life, which by all measures was not a particularly happy one.

I think of my mother now and wonder what she did with that love — for and of her life? Did she push it aside? Assuage it with vodka? Did she make hash marks on the kitchen calendar noting each full moon passed without her love? Did she hold righteously to her belief in my father’s youth and “stupidity” even as the years passed? I asked my father about their divorce wondering if there was anything else that would have prompted her to leave. Without knowing what my mother had said, my father said, “I was young and stupid and didn’t consider her in ways I should have.” His crimes were so human and temporary.

My mother has been gone 11 years now. She was never one to say, “I am sorry” or “I was wrong”. I know that on the human fallibility scale there were many reasons my father could have found to leave my mother had that been his inclination. Instead he stayed, he tried and she would not give. Ultimately my mother and her two children were the losers.

Like so many daughters before me I’ve spent much of my life trying to understand my mother, and also trying not to be her. Of course the effort to understand my mother is the work of understanding myself, be we different or be we same.

I’ve been “in love” two times. My second love is the one of my life. During the course of this love I made mistakes, no matter how hard I tried to be conscious, mature and awake. I held onto things that in retrospect showed me to be “young and stupid with things to prove” without regard for age — my crimes of humanity. The hardest part is not simply the loss, but the ways in which I blame myself. It’s easier to lose when you know you gave it everything. If not, well that’s a bitter pill.

While muddling through this time I’ve taken an online writing workshop called “Forgiveness Through Writing”. Out of eight sessions the most heart wrenching/breaking/cracking for me was the one in which we had to begin with the words, “I was wrong…”

Ultimately, given my maternal legacy, I found sitting down and writing about the ways in which I was wrong to be liberating. But now I fear the life of regret. My father wrote with heartbreaking beauty in his letters seeking forgiveness for the ways in which he failed and asking — given their great love — for the chance to do better, to be better, but my mother wouldn’t give. She lived the rest of her 37 years with regret and an ache in her heart that no amount of denial or vodka would ease.

I have friends who soon will have been married for 50 years. I asked one of them today if during that time he ever felt they would not make it. He thought for a moment and replied, “I don’t think I ever thought we wouldn’t make it but there have been some touch and go times. Just four years ago we had a really horrible time. If you asked either of us now, we could not really say what happened because we simply don’t know.” Another friend who has been with her partner for 30 years says, “I still screw up, shut down and get afraid even after all this time.” Another couple of over 30 years speaks of “their work” and “their many differences”. The common denominator here is commitment and devotion. All of my long-term couples have said, “it’s hard and…it simply doesn’t work without commitment and love, the love is the easy part but it’s also a rare gift. That’s the reason we do the work and walk the path to take care of the gift. We are here to grow each other.”

Melissa reflects on the legacy of separation and the ways in which we cope

Some week’s back, the cover of The New York Times had a picture of two young boys tearfully clinging to their father who was returning to one war zone or another after a leave. The look of panic and pain on the younger boy’s face haunts me.

I have a similar photograph from 70 years ago on the day my grandfather left to go to war. In the photograph my eight-year-old father appears more stoic than the boys in the NY Times but I know from letters and first hand reports that the one photograph of that day does not tell the whole story.

I will always wonder if the father in The New York Times photograph comes home. I know my grandfather didn’t and that legacy of separation has been passed down in my family. This is the story of countless families throughout history, changed by the legacy of loss at the hand of war, economics, borders, political posturing and empire building.

The legacy of being left is in the minting of fresh victims — leaving them to continue the tradition. Those who carry it generally accept the story, but the heart of it is rarely known.

I am interested in the heart of it, the healing at the heart of it, given that to heal means to make whole.

My personal history (though not exceptional) is one of countless separations particularly as the child of divorced parents. A recent revelation from my father about the first year of my life sheds light on why separation has always taken a particularly hard toll on me even as an adult.

So I’ve been thinking about the ways in which those of us living in a state of separation, from family, countries, and loves, cope — the ways in which we maintain connection and self soothe our longing. Of course when my grandfather left his family, there were letters and telegrams, for a few months anyway. Now we have Skype, satellite telephones, Facebook and email to name but a few of our connective devices. However, I am more interested in the personal, often private rituals we employ to keep the heart and soul of our connection to a person, and sometimes a place, alive.

I’ve been taking an unofficial poll. One woman says that she keeps a handkerchief in her pocket and when she holds it she imagines she is holding the hand of the one she is missing. This has particular resonance for me because I sometimes hold my own hand when sleeping or in the movies to achieve the same feeling.

James Joyce wrote about the concept of epiphany as, “the sudden revelation of the whatness of a thing,” when “the soul of the commonest object…seems to us radiant.” This may be why some people have certain objects that are imbued with the essence of the person, be it old sweatshirts or rocks picked up from a special shared place. The fabric of connection runs in both directions. My unofficial survey shows the desire for keeping the connection alive is shared ,such as when one person gives the other a particularly chosen thing when they are separating — a “magic bear” totem for example. For some a simple red leaf folded into a note will hold them for months. My best friend Carol wore garish socks. She collected them. After she died, I took one pair and put them in my top drawer. For several years each morning when I got dressed and opened that drawer, I saw Carol and was connected to her in that moment.

Others rely on scent; a particular cologne, lotion or soap used by the missed will help to alleviate the pain of the one doing the missing. Or the particular taste of something will bring the beloved to mind — in my case it is one square of Lindt white coconut chocolate layered on top a square of any really good dark chocolate and eaten together.

Some are more ritualistic, using the same mug every morning without fail until they are reunited with their missing love(s) or taking a walk each day to sit on the same bench once shared and having a private conversation — sometimes aloud with the one(s) who are not there keeping the spirit of connectedness alive.

I am equal opportunity in this regard. I’ve got all of the above going at one time or another. And when nothing else is at hand, the moon never fails. When I look at the moon I know that anyone I am missing or thinking about sees the same moon. And I know that (as a friend of mine said) even though the weather may be different from one viewing place to another, the climate of our hearts is the same.

As Christie checks in, her mind checks out — a new year, a new approach

New Year’s Eve celebrations have seemed less than satisfying in the past few years. Most parties are filled with couples and at the stroke of midnight I am the one standing off to the side gamely smiling. So I decided I would try something different, a personal 24 hour retreat to contemplate the year past and the year about to arrive.

On Friday afternoon I took myself off to an expensive local hotel and checked in. When I handed the completed form to the desk clerk, she read it through and stared at me. “You live in St. Paul?” I nodded. She gave me a piercing look and handed over my room key. As I walked to the elevators I could feel her eyes on me, and the little bag I carried. It was not until I reached my room that it dawned on me, Crikey; I’ve been put on suicide watch in a luxury hotel! I wondered if I should go back down to the desk and assure them I was sound in mind and spirit. Then decided that I may not be that convincing.

I was here to think, and not think. To let thoughts come and go and travel where they may. To examine some of my irrational fears, search for prejudices and pre-conceptions, try and discover what I wanted in my life and what steps I needed to take to make it happen. All this I would have to do while ordering room service every hour so that no-one would break the door down to see if I was “okay.”

Starting with irrational fears: fear of losing my house key and being locked out when no friend with a spare key was available. Solved. I have hidden a key outside and, because my memory is not as good as it once was (I can hear you laughing), I’ve put a note on the fridge door (which can be read through the kitchen window) saying ITS IN THE …. Fear of locking my key in the car, because of the insane auto-locking system. Solved. I do not lock my car anymore. Yes, I know that’s asking for it to be stolen, but honestly, it’s a 2001 VW Jetta with a permanent oxygen sensor problem. If anyone wants it, vaya con Dios my friend.

When I looked at these fears, I realized they seem to be pointing to a question about my single state, and also to some prejudices and something I may want. I have no partner to call to the rescue and make me laugh instead of cry. I have lots of friends but it’s not the same is it? Do I want to continue alone, or am I ready to share my life again? Can I find a special pal to please and who pleases me. Next steps? With light heart and open mind, I will get out there again and see if I run across a chap who is as willing to take a chance as me. Wish me luck. I’ll keep you posted.

Melissa’s love story continues…

A few week’s ago, my dear friend Lu sent me the card above. She is one of the few people in my life who still sends actual mail and I love her for that. This particular card has been sitting on my desk as a daily reminder.

I suppose the card’s message is always an important one, but for me it is particularly timely and this is also an especially difficult blog post to write. For those of you who have been following us here, you may remember the essence of my post CHANGE: From the Files of “Be Careful What You Wish For” and “Never Say Never”— essentially a love letter to one with whom I had fallen in love. The same one I changed my life for, my “last great love”.

New love is so alluring, folded as it is into hope, delight and discovery. As a then 51-year-old, it also caught me completely by surprise. I am not an impetuous person, but in this case, in middle age, it seemed dangerous to waste time, and so we didn’t. But as with many great loves, the ending is not always happy, and I am sad to report here that we are no longer. I have not wanted to write this not only because it is sad, but also because I feel embarrassed that I put this love out in public and have seemingly failed so miserably. Also it’s hard to put something, anything, out there when I feel as I do that my guts are being ripped out.

But here is the truth and the reason why I decided to just send this into the Blogosphere, it is never a failure to take a chance on love. I believe this in each and every cell of my body. Someone showed up, (a beautiful, funny, smart, dear, extremely complex and challenging woman), and I recognized her as someone I was meant to spend my life with. Now I see that the “life” part was maybe not it, but the “recognition”, unmistakable as it was, cannot be dismissed. Maybe sometime in the future I will understand what and who we were to each other, or maybe I won’t. But I do know I have loved her with all my might. And sometimes love is simply not enough. And now we are done, and what I thought was my future, isn’t.

I am working double-time to avoid the slippery slope of recrimination and blame. It would be very easy to go there, to engage in the hurtful, acted out on Facebook, but better not to, even when I might believe I have been wronged. More damaging still is the tendency toward self-blame, doubt and despair.

Given that I believe everything in the universe is consciousness expressed in different forms, or as in quantum physics, everything is a form of energy, I know that words have indelible power, a power to destroy and a power to create and uplift. So as I begin to gather the pieces of myself splayed about, I avoid reading the hurtful—and I also do not send it or speak it, to my beloved or to myself. I have many fears and anxieties, and for the moment deep sadness is a given. However, hard as it is to choose otherwise, I am opting for other language. Instead of a mantra of “I am sad, or lonely, scared and hurt”, I listen and repeat after young Jessica as seen here (sent to me by my friend Denise). May Jessica, and indeed all of us always know the power of the words, “I like” and “I love” and where and to whom we belong, no matter the inevitable heartbreak on the road.

Repeat after me, “Life is good, I am healthy, I am smart, I am courageous, I am happy, I am good…I am!”

Follow the adventures of Connie Stetson, candidate’s wife, as she heads out on the campaign trail, once again…

Hi there. The lovely Mrs. Stetson here, and just returned from an event in one of our more charming off-the-beaten-path communities, El Portal. It was the annual Spring Fling in EP. A day of music, BBQ, beer, crafts, flea market, activists of all stripes, (GO No-Way Subway!!!), and the usual round-up of old friends, neighbors, conservationists, kids and dogs, and of course, the opportunity for a little campaigning, glad-handing, and baby kissing. Yes, dear readers, Lee is running for office again and I just can’t wait to dust off my pillbox hat and pearl button gloves.

A couple of weeks ago we had the dubious honor of attending the Republican Central Committee’s “Meet the Candidate Night” where we were regaled with each conservative candidate’s personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Why bother to call yourselves Republicans anymore? How about re-branding you as Christi-cans, or Republica-mentalists? It was fascinating, in a “can’t take your eyes off a train wreck” sort of way, to watch as each candidate for the Republican nomination for the 19th congressional seat vied for the title of the most conservative conservative, or the original conservative, or the most racist conservative, or the biggest sexual deviant freak conservative.

Why, I could have listened for hours, if only I didn’t have to heave up my rubber chicken dinner. No one talked about any real issues, or discussed real solutions to our state and national challenges, save for the one guy who said about health care, “Repeal it, repeal it, repeal it, shoot it, and repeal it again.” But Jesus was in the house, so let Him handle the issues.

Lee and the lovely Mrs. were also seen attending the Democratic Club’s gala Jefferson Dinner where thankfully no one prayed but someone definitely farted, loudly, and in the middle of a passionate speech by a labor union activist. I can’t prove it, but I believe it was an undercover conservative trying to be “silent-but-deadly”, and failing.

Today we’ll doll up and trot over to our wonderful neighbors, George and Angie, who are generously hosting a fundraiser afternoon tea, they are NOT tea-baggers, mind you, and Angela is a BRIT, OK? This I’m very much looking forward to, because we love them, they’re right up the street, and Angie knows me well enough to pour scotch into that Spode. It should be a delightful soiree.

The upcoming calendar is a mixed bag of campaigning opportunities. A cocktail party, a debate night, and a get-out-the-vote push, these are all chances for the candidate to get out there and mingle, listen, and share ideas about the issues that most concern the folks who live and work in this incredible, unique place we call home.

I am proud of my husband for being willing to take on local politics, “pothole politics” if you will—but remember the adage that all politics is local. So the next time you’re at a political fundraiser and see a lovely woman standing aside, smiling and nodding, who’s eyes appear glazed over, don’t just stand there and pity her. Offer her a drink, for Christ sake, and write her husband a check. Her feet hurt. She’d like to go home and wash her face, brush her teeth, put on her jammies, get into bed, and watch Dancing With the Stars.

Thank you for your support,

The Lovely Mrs. Stetson

The above post is solely the opinion of its writer and is not endorsed by any political party or candidate on any planet in the known or unknown universe.

Back in May, Carine Fabius posted a blog on Fifty is the New.. called “Thoughts on Passion”, which was an excerpt from her book-in-progress on the subject. The book is still in progress. Here’s another excerpt.

Having sludged through the molten lava of passion and survived, I continue to wonder about the mysterious ways of this disease. It invades the psyches of singles, divorcés and women in long-term relationships, making them question the compromise of magnificent love and searing sex for the security, affection, friendship, sweet love and good sex that comes with the passage of time (men do this too, but that’s another book).

So, I decided to go on a journey of discovery about passion. To probe our yearning to make peace with its fading, while insisting it stay as if it was our birthright. To discover why we hold onto the notion that an illusion might somehow take root, sprout leaves, and become a solid tree that keeps on blooming.

To get to the bottom of all this nonsense, I thought I should go to the source! No, not that strange and mysterious Creative Force, which seems to have hard-wired us to seek the unattainable. I mean all those smart women out there, who keep dissolving into pliable liquid wax once the heat of passion comes a callin’. I figured if I asked enough of them the same questions, I, and by extension, we, might come to a place of knowledge and understanding about that big WHY?

I asked each woman seven questions, and the results were strangely satisfying. It wasn’t like an individual realization by any one person turned my brown eyes blue with the weight of revelation. In many instances, it was one phrase or pithy insight revealed in an unusual context, the kind that gave me, not an AHA! moment of cosmic understanding, but one more head-cocking pause or spark of clarity. Average people say the most illuminating things. And illumination, no matter how permanent and transformational we wish it to be, is usually a quieter, slower, and subtler happening that chips away at the giant boulder of our convictions; or even better, the granite stuff that comes of experience.

Here’s a sampling of the answers I received to the question: On a scale of 1-10, how important is sex or passion to a relationship?

9 1/2
You don’t have sex with everybody. You can share all this stuff with a best friend, and have fun and intellectual stimulation, but, there’s a spiritual link between two people who decide to share their life together; and that’s one of the most sacred ways to show it, and to connect. (Lilac, 51, married)

About 9.999!
I love sex! But now with menopause and these hot flashes, it feels like it’s a bit of an imposition …
Does it bother you that you often feel that way about sex?
It does. (Jasmine, 52, married)

I think it’s a 5
Sex is important; but if it’s lousy, I would not stick around. If it’s bad, it’s not happening a second time. (Daisy, single, 35)

I don’t feel like it’s terribly important. Maybe I’d call it a 6.
But then again, that might be me being closed off and guarded. I know a lot of people would say it’s a 10, but I’m a lot more reserved about letting go, and being completely in the moment. I don’t like to be vulnerable to getting hurt. So far, it’s been working for me ‘cause I’ve never been devastated by a guy; but sadly, I feel like it’s hurt me in a way. (Violet, single, 25)

10!!!
(Marguerite, 49, married)

5
For my ex it was 10. If I felt loved and important to him, then I wanted to do it, but he just needed to do it because he’s a man. That’s one of the things we were always fighting over. (Orange Blossom, 32, divorced)

7
Bottom line is the friendship, not the passion. I think friendship leads to good sex. If you don’t have friendship, you have bad sex. (Tuberose, married, 47)
In response:
I don’t know about that. You can have zero friendship and have the best sex. (Lavender, divorced, 47)

What are your thoughts on passion?