The Adventure of Pain and the Pursuit of Happiness

I have a frown line. It slices my brow in half and renders me looking "bitchy" even when I'm feeling rather docile. It's a real condition, you know. I know because I've read about it on the internet. It's called 'Bitchy Resting Face'. You learn more about BRF HERE.

I have pondered several theories about how I developed this condition. Was it from squinting too much? Concentrating too hard? Do I pout a lot? Did squirrels descend upon me in my sleep and scratch my brow? Or, Am I a bitch? We may never know...

There is one theory that I've recently contemplated with some seriousness. Maybe, I have been unhappy. Unhappy, a lot. More than I've been happy. Enough to leave a permanent (at least without Botox) imprint on my face. A symbol to the world around me that I have been angry or sad or distressed... unhappy.

I watched a PBS movie a month or so ago, called 'Happy'. It discussed what makes people happy, presenting the very common philosophy that happiness is somewhat self-made. Happy people DO certain things that unhappy people don't do. The narrator introduced viewers to a variety of very happy people living in seemingly destitute surroundings, but, because of their community/generous spirits/positive outlooks they were untouched by their lack of comforts and conveniences. Of course the movie also touched on the merits of low-stress living and lots of good sleep.

The positive-thinking model for happiness has always disturbed me. Books like, 'The Secret', left me empty and unsettled, irritated even. It's not that I don't see value in optimism, or seeking out the silver linings; I just strongly disagree that a person can positive-think themselves out of legitimate trauma. The theory ignores the very natural and necessary stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I'll concede that everyone is impacted differently by the disappointments of life. Some seem to wear no evidence of hardship at all. I'm both happy for, and question the depth of, those people.

Then there's the, "it could be worse, you could be...." answer to adversity; or the, "but look at all that you still have," response to loss; or even the, "buck up, we all have bad days!" pat on the back in the midst of devastation. These statements come from a place of naivety; at least I choose to believe that people don't say these things with the intent of belittling a person's very real pain. (See, I can be positive!) I'll never forget receiving a card from a well-meaning friend, at a time when I (the mother of three small children) had just lost my home, my church, much of my social support, and was facing my husband's pending imprisonment. The card said the equivalent of "darn, I got a run in my stockings and hit all red lights today - time for chocolate!" Do I even need to explain why that sentiment came nowhere near to easing my pain at that time? A "bad day" does not equate to a devastating blow. And yet, even a bad day merits the stages of grief, if only mildly so.

Like every other being, I have experienced loss. Some of my losses have been disappointing, some have been heartbreaking, and some have left me in utter desolation. I have no need to compare my losses to those of others. Certainly, and sadly, others have experienced more loss than I have. But the tragedies in my own life have challenged the plans laid in my DNA, and changed my very form (evidenced by my BRF??); much like the scars left by falling off a bike, chicken pox, pregnancy/giving birth, or injuries from war.

Last night I sat in a group therapy session. I listened to the stories of others and the insights of the moderator and internalized what I could. The group is for codependency, a little habit I picked up (in truck loads) along my way. Essentially, the message is to love myself better, and to love others without destroying myself. It's teaching me to allow the grief, be kind to my heart, and take care of myself.

I think I've struggled the most with letting go of the injustices and the hurts and accepting the reality of my life's picture. The death of my birth-father, painful break-ups and multiple divorces, betrayals, losses of homes, cars, income, beauty, and struggles with health; just typing the memories causes my throat to tighten. I've become disillusioned with so many of the desires of my youth. The canvass, which in the optimism of my childhood was soft and fluffy white, has over the years been slapped with abstract lines and harsh tones, portraying a scene that is drastically different from the hopeful visions of my prior self. Who is this painting of? Is she ok? Do I accept her, this ragged Picasso-like shadow with a frown line etched in her brow? I want to. I want to be proud of her. I want to LOVE her... me.

In our group, the moderator re-stated the ever cliche, "Life is not fair." She gave some impactful quote that more eloquently said that pain is a fact of life; the sooner we accept that truth, the sooner we can move on. Half of getting through the pain is just acknowledging that it could even happen to us. Hence, the 'denial' stage of grief. I guess many of us have a tendency to believe that we shouldn't have to feel pain.

Pain is the inevitable challenge of life. The irony in the acceptance of pain and the experience of loss, is that therein is the birth of empathy. It is in learning to cope with pain that we experience the rawness of compassion for the hurts of others and the beauty of our connection with humanity. Empathy is a powerful ingredient in the ability to love. It is in the adventure of pain that we find our courage, stamina, resilience, and our capacity to love, which, I suspect, is also the epicenter of genuine happiness.

In the words of Helen Keller, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."

For the Love of All That is Holy; Losing My Religion

I've mentioned before that my birth father left my mother for another woman. He left her the day before I was born. He was angry at her for getting pregnant. He was very narcissistic according to all accounts I've gathered from those who knew him.

Growing up without a father in the home those early years didn't phase me all that much. I mean, I missed my dad and I wanted my parents to be married like other kids' parents were, but my day-to-day life was relatively unhindered. One issue that did plague me, however, was that my parents were divorced. From what I'd picked up (from somewhere in our church-centered circle), divorce was a grievous sin, punishable by eternal damnation. This disturbed my impressionable five-year-old mind deeply. I'd learned that divorce was only permissible if infidelity had occurred, so I found some relief in learning that my father had been unfaithful. At least my mother, who was raising me, wasn't going to burn. Of course, I couldn't shake the guilt I felt over the recognition that I was glad that my mother would be saved, even if at the cost of my father's soul. It wasn't that I wanted him to be eternally damned, it's just that I knew her better. This notion that I chose my mother's salvation over my father's haunted me in my teenage years, following my father's early and torturous death from colon cancer.

I was a "Believer". From my earliest memories, I believed in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. I believed the bible was the infallible word of God. I believed I was born into the one true church. And I wanted to be good. I couldn't wait to go to heaven. I was told that death would be over and in an instant I would open my eyes to the coming of Christ. I would get to go to heaven, where there was no pain or suffering; no fathers leaving pregnant mothers; no hardworking single mothers leaving their children in the care of babysitters for weeks at a time; no suffering from cancer. I have a vivid memory of standing in the kitchen one sunny afternoon, holding a knife I'd pulled from the kitchen drawer, contemplating the pros and cons of killing myself so that I could skip the living part and go directly to Heaven. I wasn't depressed or suicidal at all. I was just a believer. But, standing there, I realized that it might make my mother sad if I died, and I wasn't totally clear on the whole suicide thing - is it suicide if you're just trying to fast-track it to the streets of gold? So I decided to put the knife down and go out back and play. This is a true story.

I wavered in my faith at times, and tripped up quite a lot on following God's word, but I maintained my deep belief into my early years of motherhood. I wasn't just a blind believer either. I studied my bible. I learned of grace and attempted to practice love and forgiveness... acceptance of others. I become open to the possibility that mine wasn't the one true church, but that God was bigger than that and would make all things clear in the end.

On April 2, 2003, my pastor-husband returned home late from a church leadership meeting with news. I sat on the couch of our little Oxnard home as his words blew through me with a paralyzing chill. A betrayal had occurred. A confusing act of dishonesty, for which we would now stand trial.

I cannot overstate the profound devastation that I felt that night, and in the harrowing months that followed. I recognize that sensation now as shock. It's a feeling of surreality, a separation of your mind from your self. Denial, disbelief, panic, pain, bargaining... all the stages of grief hitting at once in an overwhelming wave of loss. Too much for the mind to process.

The church had their own reaction to the betrayal. They were hurt. They were hurt and exceedingly angry. In the wildfire of the news, they frothed with fury. They held meetings discussing the unforgivable sin, and the punishments they felt we deserved. The rumors grew into their own form of evil. We started getting threatening phone calls and letters. People that I had loved... the conclusions they drew, the hate they expressed, the absolute confidence they held in their actions against us. Group think. Burn him at the stake! Who cares what happens to his wife and children! They made callous statements, "I'd feel better if he lost everything," "Maybe if Cherie left him or if he went bankrupt or tried to kill himself, then I'd think he understood the magnitude of his sin." "We are warriors for the Lord, we need to break him at foot of the cross." They sent letters out to all of the churches on the west coast, exposing the allegations against us. They sent letters to all of the churches in Arizona (where we had moved to escape the hate) warning of our evils and telling church leaders that we should not be allowed to attend. I know of these letters because I saw them. At one point we were informed that private investigators had been hired to follow us and hack into our computers.

Nothing felt safe anymore.

A very precious few extended words of comfort to us during those days. I'll never forget those that did. One was the realtor that handled the sale of our home.

We sold our home in order to use equity to pay off debt to the church conference, but the conference leaders played dirty with the escrow and strong-armed the escrow officer into turning over funds that exceeded their due; funds that, by prior established contract, were the rightful property of my parents. Funds that exceeded $50,000.00. To be more clear, the conference leaders knowingly and effectively stole $50,000.00 from my parents while in the same breath publicly condemning us. And, while they had promised to drop the allegations against us if we repaid our debt to them, they withdrew that promise at the last minute.

It was our realtor that saved us. When he discovered the actions of the conference during the escrow process he was so disgusted that he contacted his friend at the LA Times who agreed to write up an expose of the conference leaders' underhandedness. Then our realtor informed the conference president that the expose would be published that Sunday and there would be picketers outside the conference offices Monday morning if he did not return the money to my parents and withdraw all allegations. The next day we received the call. The official statement from conference leadership was that they had decided to show us grace. I know otherwise.

We lost everything. I lost everything. I lost my home, most of my friends, my church, my denomination, my happy marriage, my sense of safety, my faith in people. I was suddenly more alone than I had ever imagined a person could be. I prayed. I cried. I worked my ass off to keep my children fed and housed. I sank in my soul-hollowing despair. I retreated from all relationships. I developed anxiety about answering the phone, checking the mail, or logging into the bank accounts.

In the years following our traumatic exit from the church, I sought answers to my questions about religion, God, the Bible, faith. How could a loving church, built on an act of grace, be so cruel and condemning? So quick to discard us?

Initially, I craved the familiar comfort of church. I found a grace-oriented non-denominational church to attend for a while. It was great. The people were so friendly, the praise music was inspiring, the women's fellowship group was very active, and they even had a cafe! The pastor knew of our history (thanks to a letter he had received) and accepted us anyway. I thought maybe I was safe. But, it was there, the spiritual comparisons and judgements being made. The homeschooling moms looking down on the traditional schoolers. The frequent attendees questioning the spirituality of the sporadic visitors. The awkward alter calls. It was subtle but I could still feel it, the sense that these people were just as likely to be in the crowd at the next heretic burning as those that were at ours.

Then there was the day at a women's breakfast event when the ladies passed around a petition to sign  for the preservation of the sanctity of marriage (i.e., the opposition of gay marriage). That little twinge of discomfort I had been feeling rushed to the surface. It was wrong. I knew this action was wrong. It wasn't what a loving God would want. But it was what the God of the Bible required; at least as I understood it. The conflict was so blaring and obvious that it could not be ignored. Not by me. Not anymore. That could not be my religion. If it meant my eternal damnation, then so be it. I could not turn my back on real, raw humans, who needed love, just because an ancient book seemed to tell me to.

I followed my questions. I read. I studied. I read, 'If Grace is True: Why God Will Save Every Person,' by Philip Gulley and James Mulholland, and 'End of Faith, Letter to a Christian Nation,' by Sam Harris. I read parenting books like, 'Kids are Worth It,' by Barbara Coloroso. I researched homosexuality. I researched the origins of the Bible, how it came together at the hands of both religious and political powers-that-be, motivated by agendas of manipulating the masses. I considered the findings of modern science and its inability to support biblical accounts. The more I read, the more I let go of the belief. The more I learned, the more I understood how little I knew; that there was no religion, no human, that had the whole truth. No perfect book. I let go of my understanding of God and faith. I concluded that if a truly loving God did exist, he would not punish and condemn; rather, he would love and restore. I decided that, as a human, I was gifted with life, and with that gift I was given the ability to choose how I wanted to live among the rest of humanity. I concluded that, if my actions or beliefs failed to reflect love, they should be questioned. I realized that the only way to grow and learn was to be open to new information and willing to adjust my beliefs accordingly.

And I concluded that the only thing I truly believed in was love. True, blazingly honest, empathetic, selfless, restorative LOVE.

She's How Old??

My 40th birthday is dangerously close.  Despite my attempts at evasion, it appears that I will indeed be 40 years old one week from today.  So far, I'm only reluctantly OK with this.  I've resigned to the reality that bad things happen to good people.

But I don't want this to be a bad thing.  I want to embrace this milestone.  I want to be 40 and Fabulous!

It isn't really that I'm sad to say goodbye to my thirties.  I remember how excited I was to turn 30.  It was going to be my best decade ever!  Life was good.  I was on the right track.  I was a mother to three gorgeous children and the wife to a very talented pastor.  But my thirties began to bitch-slap me no more than a month after my 30th birthday, and (with a few years of happy reprieve) continued the beat-down for the better portion of that decade.  So, in many ways, I am happy to turn this page.

The fact that my father died at the age of 43 looms over me a lot.  It makes the forties a scary decade for my superstitious mind.  I am not superstitious by choice; it just nags at me on a subconscious level, causing regular conversations between my rational self and my other self.  Don't look at me like that... I know you do it too.

After some persistent contemplation, I've concluded that, outside of the obvious link between aging and death, my angst about getting older is due to my inability to reconcile where I thought I would be in my life by this age, and where I actually am.  At 20, I dreamed of marrying the love of my life and raising babies together in the home we would buy to grow old in. Clearly, I have made valiant attempts at realizing this dream. What is it they say? "Try, try again?"  "Never, Ever give up?"  Yet, three husbands, four babies, and too many homes later, it seems my progress has taken the two steps forward, four steps back approach.  I somehow feel like I'm still just trying to get started; only, not with a virginesque blank slate, clean credit, or youth.  Where I am isn't bad, it is just vastly different from the picture of success that I spent years training my brain to believe in.  And, my current reality is quite different from what society has taught me it should be by now.

** Ok.  Stop right there.  I know you already have half your speech prepared on why I shouldn't care what society says; why I need to be true to myself; how life is a journey of experiences and learning...  Of course, I know all of this is true.  Again, what I know to be true and what my other self interjects are frequently at odds with each other.**

This is why I write; to spill out the clutter of thoughts that paralyze me from forward motion.  And, as I'm writing this, bits of happiness and hope are seeping in.  I'm realizing that, with the surreal losses of my thirties, I have gained priceless perspectives about life and humanity, and have found beautiful pieces of myself.  And, I know this is not unique to me.  Many of you are reading my words and nodding your heads in understanding.  This is the gift age brings.  Wealth provided by experiences of both joy and pain.

So, I guess I'm not starting again empty-handed.  Of course I'm not! I have four spectacular human beings that call me mother, a rugged and poetic man that calls me wife, and the wisdom that these first 40 years have afforded me.  (Just, maybe, can we slow down a little bit on the wisdom-imparted-through-pain part??)

I have sort of been looking at this birthday as an opportunity for resolutions.  So, phrases such as, "five year plan," and "bucket list," have been uttered.  My imagination has been swimming with visions of physical fitness, moving closer to the ocean, sustainable gardening, owning a home again, developing community, growing our shop, medical insurance...

But, first things first... I'm turning 40... LET'S PARTY!

MoonStruck

I think the feeling that surprised us the most was the sense of calm which followed our vows. As you might remember, I have debated the necessity of marriage quite a bit in the past. And still, I do not believe everyone needs a ceremony of public commitment to feel bound by love. But I cannot deny the transformation of thought that took place for me, personally, when we said, "I do". It was as if we took each other's hand and stepped in, out of the storm.

For this reason alone; to experience this belonging; to publicly choose and be chosen; I question how anyone could deny another the basic civil right of marriage.

Our wedding was perfect for us. Very intimate, just family.

We knew we wanted to dress up in honor of such a significant event, but neither of us could really buy into the whole church/tux/white dress thing. I mean white? Really? Four (4!) kids. We just wanted honest. He picked his snazzy gray suite and I chose an orange dress (and a significant amount of flair).

I added some puff and bling to my shoes and created a birdcage veil out of a black vintage pillbox hat. I bought the hat at a thrift store in Santa Cruz when I was 17. My mother made my teal bolero and the glass and pearl necklace belonged to my grandmother, Thelma Hughes...

And, of course, it had to be by the ocean...

We chose to say our vows, with our loved ones gathered around us, on a scenic platform overlooking Moonstone beach.

We even had our mothers officiate the ceremony

Our precious mothers

Everyone collected small jars of rocks from moonstone beach prior to the wedding. During our ceremony, each person poured a portion of their rocks into our jar while sharing their thoughts on love.

Now we have a jar of colorful moonstone beach pebbles found on the day we got married.

We celebrated with a fabulous dinner at Robin's restaurant in Cambria.

It was colorful and beautiful and surrounded by a garden. Klee's mom, Julie, created all our flower arrangements for the tables.

My kids looked so great!

Elliott loved all the flowers

 

Klee picked out our pretty teal cake...

...complete with an orange sugared dahlia topper.

It was a wonderful day.

One which I love to replay in my memory... over and over.

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Two Roads Diverged In A Yellow Wood...

Next weekend, my husband of 11 years is getting remarried.  I learned of this two weeks ago in a conversation regarding the kid's schedules.  It went something like, "the boys don't have camp next week; will Kinsey be around on Thursday? Oh, B and I are getting married next month; do you know where Bailey's phone charger is?".

Three weeks is not a lot of time to process it all, but I think I'm doing... OK.  It's very surreal. From what I can tell, she's a nice person.  The kids love her.  I want him to be happy (except when I don't).  I hope they won't have to fight the same dragon that burned down our fairy tale.

Of course I've been playing all the memories over; usually when everyone else is sleeping.  We had a lot of good.  In fact, outside of that one beast, we were pretty great.  I held on to that greatness whenever it got dark.  I kept thinking if I just hung in there, kept fighting... loving...

I held on until I couldn't anymore.  I lost my grip.  I lost myself.  Lost hope.

So here I am, completely disillusioned about love and the institution of marriage. Wondering why I've been so unsuccessful in it.  Sometimes it feels I've got my nose pushed up against the glass of the 'Love and Marriage' shop with my pet, Bitterness, sitting at my feet.

If I hear another well-meaning, "You, know, marriage takes work...", I'll... well, I don't know what I'll do.  I know what I'd like to do, but I'll probably just nod and say, "yes, it does."

I think, however, that sometimes, deciding to let it go is the brave thing to do.  I assure you, it is not the easy way out.  It is not immediately rewarded with acceptance and understanding from others.  It required me to trust myself.  That inner voice that I hid from for such a long time.  The one that blurred away when he shined.  I had to listen to her, and do still.

So, as he takes that proverbial stroll down the aisle, away from me, I'm forced to ask myself, "Do I feel at peace, as he goes? Do I accept this road I chose?"  I have to say...

I do.

Kids, Poop, Love

I love my children.  I love watching them unfold into their unique and interesting selves.

My first-born, Kinsey, has completely amazed me with her self-motivation.  I never have to remind her to study, she just does.  She has decided she wants to be a 4.0 student so she can get a scholarship and choose her collage.  I have loved witnessing this drive in her.  Hanging her towel up?  We're still working on that.



My boys haven't tapped into their scholastic genius just yet, but they have their own spectacular qualities.

Noah is happy.  He loves everyone and expects that they should love him too.  Noah makes friends with total unabashed ballsiness.  It takes him a millisecond to make a new friend in any public forum.  Meet them, invite himself into their home, borrow their toys...

Bailey is loaded with cleverness and wit.  He's fast on his intellectual feet.  His humor is often beyond his years, as is his reflection.  He's my chess-player when it comes to life.  He understands how one move will effect the next ten.  EXCEPT when he has an impulse.  Then it's all out the window (including himself, unfortunately).  

They are beautiful, miracles, undeserved gifts.  They are good... except when they're not.

When a baby (Elliott in this example) is born, he is an unmarred, innocent little creature.  Totally helpless, dependent on my mercies and foresight.  I knew that, along with his undeniable baby cuteness, he would also cry, drool, wake at unpleasant hours, and poop.  That's what babies do.  They poop.  We prepare ourselves for it.  We set up elaborate changing tables, buy diaper genies, wipe warmers, and monkey butt ointments... It grosses us out, but, something about them being 'ours', makes their poop tolerable.  And, we know that, eventually, they will potty-train, and these poopy days will just be one of our parental badges of honor.

What we may not have prepared ourselves for is the kid-poops (both literal and figurative).  There's the unflushed toilets, missed all-together toilets, t.p. mishaps, clogged toilets, and, of course, the frantic, "mom! my lego man fell in the toilet!!".  And that's all the pre-puberty crap.  (eh he.. see what I did there?)

But, I think it may be the figurative poops which catch us the most off-guard.  Wet towels on the floor, crayons in the laundry, the half-eaten yogurt stashed behind the lava lamp, poorly planned bug collections, open-mouthed chewing, complete disregard of privacy needs, ungratefulness, selective hearing impairment, door slamming, the crumbs scattered in my bed, the lack of "my" anything...  Please feel free to add to this list (it would be good to hear that it's not just my kids).

And, for some reason, other baby's poops seem to stink even more.  Here-in lies a primary obstacle for blended families... particularly of the Cherklee genre.  Klee described it well once.  He said it's like waking up with amnesia and being told, "here, this is your family, now love it."  Poop and all...

But I guess that's a core characteristic of love; knowing we all poop, it all stinks; loving anyway.  Being loved anyway...

The Latest Dish

So, one of the things I love about Klee is his creative spark.  It's fun to be with someone who appreciates a good project like I do.  He embraces my eclectic flair, and contributes a great deal of his own.

As a chef, Klee has completely altered my relationship with food.  The man is an artist.  I mean, he needs his own spot on the Food Network, complete with cult following.  And, frankly, I deserve a cajones medal for even attempting to cook for him.  Fortunately, he still appreciates a good "kick ass" cottage cheese loaf, tater tot casserole, or stone soup.  (I mean, really, who doesn't?)

The kitchen here at Belmont Cottage is not chef-worthy by any means, and is lacking in certain basics for meal prep... like dishes.  When Klee came to join us, this dish deficit became more apparent.  Being financially challenged, buying a new dish set was not an option.  Hence, we decided to start our dish project, and it has been fabulous!

We have been piecing our collection together slowly.  Every piece, unique.  It has added a great deal of sentiment to, otherwise completely ordinary, objects.  In fact, we love our growing menagerie so much that we've chosen to display it on our kitchen bookshelf.

Of course, I have my favorites...

Like, I really love this little turquoise bowl because it says biscuit on the bottom

And, this little coffee mug has become my little cup of comfort in the mornings.

These tumblers and bobble glasses are so very much better than the foggy plastic Walmart cups we've been using for the past 12 months.

They remind me of the green vintage glasses I used to have in college.  Don't know what happened to those...

And, I sort of have a thing for birds.  We even found a fun Elliott's Owl plate.  Hopefully it lasts long enough for him to use it when he's older.

Our dish collection has become so special to us.  A bonding endeavor.  Pieces will break over time, which will be sad, but the collection won't be lost.  We'll just have to set out to find new additions to keep the project alive.

First Comes Love, Then Comes....

I'm sitting here (again in my chair) snuggling my most beautiful Elliott Ocean.  He has deep ocean-blue eyes (appropriately), a fuzzy blondish head, and gulps his milk so sweetly in his animal footed pj's.  I want to give him the universe.

Growing up, I always knew I wanted a family.  I wanted at least three children.  I hoped for a modest home to love, with a garden, near the ocean, in a great town that I could live in forever.  I dreamed I would share all of this with my love, my husband.  And... we would live happily ever after...

What defines "family"?  Is it blood?  Marriage?  Cohabitation?  If marriage, then what is left when a marriage dissolves?  What about babies born out of wedlock?  Aren't they still family?  I'm obviously asking rhetorical questions.  With a 50% divorce rate, enough of us come from "creative" families to understand that the societal ideals rarely frame the real family portrait.  But should we be any less proud of the family that is, when it is not the ideal?  (Ok, before you start preparing your arguments, I'm not condoning mistreatment or a laissez faire approach to commitment here.  I'm just saying, life doesn't usually work according to plan; and if it seems to, watch out.)

50%... I know I've mentioned this several times but, c'mon... fifty percent!  And that's just on first marriages.  It goes up consecutively with second , third and so on.  So, if I've failed once shouldn't I just throw in the towel?  Christianity doesn't appear to help either.  In 1999, the Barna Research Group studied 3,854 adults from the 48 contiguous states and found that divorce rates among conservative Christians were significantly higher than for other faith groups, and much higher than Atheists and Agnostics.  So, if people are supporting marriage because of their faith, they might want to think twice.


Why doesn't it work?  I can't believe that it's because half of those getting divorced are just bad people and therefore are to blame.  Maybe it has to do with unrealistic expectations; looking for the fairytale.  Or, it could be the business of it all; it is largely a business relationship.  Getting married because, "that's what we do," is also clearly flawed.  I know we've all watched friends walk down that aisle because they didn't want to 'miss the boat'.  I remember feeling that twinge of stress when I graduated college single.  


Are we just a hopelessly optimistic people? Why does anyone get married?  I've read the arguments for marriage.  Men appear to live longer if they're married.  Married people are better off financially.  The government clearly rewards the marital union with tax breaks, health benefits, etc..  There's a reduced risk of STD's.  Maybe less loneliness as well?  Probably the most obvious benefit of marriage is the team approach to parenting; good for the parents as well as the children.  


Of course, several of the above justifications could be accomplished in a monogamous, committed relationship as well, right?  Not necessarily marriage.  Yes, I've also read the statistics of cohabitation.  Women who cohabitate are 80% more likely to divorce when they marry than women who don't.  Hmmm... Well, clearly, those women were cohabitating with the ultimate goal of marriage.  And might I stretch that further to suspect that said women were living with their partners because their partners were, maybe, not as committed to the idea of marriage as the women were? Or, not as committed to the women themselves? I've also read that cohabitation is highly successful when both partners are committed to non-marriage as well as to each other.  


Then you might ask, why not get married?  If two people are committed to such a union, what's stopping them from the ultimate plunge?  I think it might have something to do with the government's involvement.  You know, sticking it to the man?  Also, with the realistic possibility of breaking up at some point, maybe they're hoping to avoid the hassle of a divorce.  There are also those who refuse to marry until gay marriage is made legal; more of an admiral humanitarian stand.   

I think some have a deeper, more romantic motivation for non-marriage.  There is something to be said for loving your partner enough to always grant them the freedom to leave.  The idea that they stay because of love, choice, not legality. And knowing that you too have the same freedom.  It's empowering to know that you have the freedom to leave, or stay and choose the relationship every day.  Maybe it's the idea of a more spiritual commitment between just the two, without the dictation from society in general.  (If only there were better identifications than: "significant other"- other? Really? "Boy/girlfriend" - seems kind of trivial, right?  And don't even get me started on "partner".  Hmmm... does "spouse" work?)

But...

When marriage does work, it's a good thing.  There's a sense of belonging, of comfort, in the bond of marriage.  I guess it feels more like family when forever is promised.  It fosters a real, "we're in this ship together," mentality.  

AND, it comes with a pretty ring and a wedding!  Beautiful flowers, long white dress with customary veil, tuxedo, friends and family... Or, maybe, like me, you prefer something a little less traditional, a little more intimate.  However you go about it, you stand with another and publicly vow, "From hence forth, wherever you go, I go.  Our home is together.  Our families are each other's.  Your joy is mine, your pain, mine."  Outside of parenthood, marriage is (or should be) the boldest and most profound commitment one can make to another.  

Perhaps that's why it is so very devastating when it fails.  And why it is so scary for those of us who have felt its sting.  

I guess, ultimately, no matter what form of union you choose, LOVE itself is a risk.  And it's what we want so much.  Even when we attempt to guard ourselves from falling, we eventually gravitate back to it.  And then we are left, facing another vulnerable soul, hoping. 

If you made it through this little dissertation of mine, I hope you will do me this favor.  Share your thoughts with me.  What do you think/feel about the value of marriage?  Why did you choose to marry or not?  What have you learned?  Were you certain beyond question when you walked down the aisle, or were you afraid?  

I leave you with this...

"A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; 

it is the prerogative of the brave." 

~ Mahatma Gandhi

The CherKlee Chronicles

I guess my previous post regarding men might lead one to wonder "what's up?" with my current relationship.  I have sat down several times to attempt to post on that subject and always end up in a blog coma.  Where to begin?  Words??  

Klee and I met at a boarding academy 20 odd years ago.  He was a cute skater kid with smoldering eyes and an intriguing edge.  He was also dating one of my dearest friends.  So, we hung in the same circle but our interactions were limited.  In fact, I remember thinking he didn't like me all that well.  He claims otherwise.  


I think our paths crossed once after high school until about a year ago.  Timing is a clever and mysterious creature.


Our reacquaintance threw us both off balance.  We connected through our writing which allowed a sense of anonymity and honesty.   It was at a time when I was struggling heavily and privately with my own heartache.  My life felt drowned in pretense.  Like I couldn't trust the ground beneath me.  My friendship with Klee had a raw quality about it.  I needed that.  I clung to it.  


Klee and I are very similar souls and yet have lived very different lives.  He ventured a little farther off of the straight and narrow than I did.  He was bold in his experimenting and bares the bruises from it.  He is a born poet but can conjure up his inner thug at will.  Where I spent my years nurturing my dream of family and home, he opted for bachelorhood and honed his skills as a chef.  


Our relationship has never been conventional.  Certainly not well thought out.  But we offered something to each other that both our hearts were lacking.

And then came Biscuit.

Obviously, the timing of this pregnancy was a little earth shattering.  Klee and I both had so many personal demons still to battle.  My heart was in chaos over my divorce.  I was living in a hotel, grasping at any shreds of normalcy left in my life.  My identity as mother was being redefined (which terrified me) and now we were adding a fourth (??!!?).  The weight of all of this, along with the confusion it created in me, left CherKlee in a state of paralysis.  So, we took a break.  Time.  


I want to be clear that at no point was Klee running away.  He was in love with his Biscuit and wanted to do right by all of us.  But time apart was necessary.  It was good for me.  I found Belmont cottage and set up home for my kids.  I started writing again.  I cried... A LOT.  I found comfort in friends which was something I had not done in many years.  I baked... A LOT.  


Klee was busy too.  The work he was doing on himself was profound and was his to conquer, alone.  But we wrote.  We spoke a few times on the phone; saw each other a few times; but, mostly, we wrote.


As productive as the time apart was, I think we both thought nine months would take a lot longer than it did.  I had hoped I would have it all together by my due date.  He had hoped to be relocated to this area.  By September, Biscuit was threatening eminent arrival and neither of us felt "ready".  It was unsettling.  With the distance between us, we were both afraid that I would go into labor and he wouldn't make it for the birth.  That was unacceptable.  So, despite our apprehensions, the decision was made that he would come stay with me while we waited to meet our son and that we would evaluate our situation as it evolved.  

***

Eh Hemm, me and my three dogs, and my three kids, in my two bedroom, one bath "cottage".  

***

There is no way I can possibly overstate the challenge we face in inventing our life together.  But, we're creative.  And we're learning a lot...  A LOT.  

Those Beautiful Scary Boys

I have few theories as to why I have been "gifted" three boys (other than the obvious laws of random selection).  First let me state that, despite my hesitation on birthing another boy, from the moment that my sweet Elliott was placed on my tummy I have been deeply in love and can't imagine him as anything other than a perfect little boy.  


Ok, so if there is another force at play in the selection of my babies' genders, other than 'this sperm swam with more determination than that one', why would I be chosen to mother three boys?  


Men are foreign and scary to me.  A few have betrayed me in BIG, devastating ways.  This is just a statement of fact.  I don't think these men evil.  I try not to dwell (well, sometimes I dwell).  I know we are all flawed and those flaws lead us to wound those closest to us.  **Damn.  That is the hardest truth to swallow as a mother.**  Anyway, to date, I have yet to experience a traditionally successful relationship with a man.  They remain a mystery to me.  It is a noticeable handicap of mine.  Despite being born a profound optimist, I have managed to develop a magnificent forcefield around my heart.  


I wanted the dream like most everyone else.  I pursued it intensely.  I've seen others find their spouses and have their babies in the accepted order and with the proper outcome.  My own grandparents were married 50 and 70 years.  Not all happy years but the good outweighed the bad.  


I have believed in marriage.  Have even been a major advocate for the right to marry.  I have to admit though, my belief wavers now.  I mean, I support marriage if people so choose.  It is a beautiful and romantic notion.   I'm just not sure it's always a positive or constructive institution.  The 50% success/failure rate is a bit discouraging and, so far, I'm two for two in the darker half.  It hurts to embrace something so completely and face disillusionment.  It hurts to lose the faith. 


My therapist says these are normal thoughts for someone with my experiences.  He says there's a good chance I'll change my opinion and feel safety in love again... some day.  I don't know.  I hope so.  I still love the idea of building a life in union with another.  I don't know if marriage is the key to that or not.  I have so many clouded questions about human nature, love, men, and accepted social norms.    In fact, if you have insight to share on the topic of marriage, please do.  

So, three boys in my care.  Such a huge responsibility for someone so ill equipped in the category of love and men.  And yet, if ever I've fallen in true, uninhibited, lay myself down on the tracks, LOVE; it has been when my babies were placed in my arms.  I so want to do them justice.  I want them to feel loved and to love well. I want them to successfully bond with another and build beautiful lives.  

Can this be one of those "do as I say, not as I do" things?    

Ahh, but I love them so...