love
The Beauty in a Lump of Coal
When asked what I would do if I hit the lottery, my answer has always been the same: I would be a perpetual student. I would enroll in school and thoroughly study every area that interests me; not because I want a list of degrees nor out of a desire to make money with those degrees, but because I find knowledge empowering and intoxicating.
Lately, however, I’ve been learning that knowledge can be dangerous. It can cause personal conflict and complicate situations that, on the surface, are simple or easy or fun. As I’ve thought about it, I’ve come to realize that knowing the whole truth can be a real bummer. And so, I wrote this statement on my Facebook page about two weeks ago and have been thinking about it ever since:
Don’t look for what you don’t want to find.
I suppose my statement is similar to the notion that ignorance is bliss, a concept I’ve always had a hard time embracing. Ignorance, to me, has always been the mechanism for producing fools. But on a personal level, I’m beginning to believe that there’s something to be said for the face value. It’s simple. If you like what you see, great! If you don’t, move on. There’s no misunderstanding, no complexity, no need to prove worth or value. A situation or relationship is always just as it appears.
Here’s the problem with all of that: I can’t do it.
So, what to do? I went back and reread my statement. Suddenly, an answer came…right in the actual words. The statement doesn’t say “don’t look.” It says not to look for what we don’t want to find. So, instead of looking for negative things, maybe the answer is to look for the good things in other people; those qualities that draw us closer and help to build a relationship based on true admiration. Remember that on the surface, a block of coal is just a dirty, dark lump of rock. But if we break open the coal looking to find something worthwhile, a diamond might be revealed. Instead of focusing on the way people fall short, maybe the happiness in a relationship comes from honoring the talents and assets of a person and celebrating those. There’s nothing foolish about that.
Inspired by The Mermaid
Today I find myself staring at a print that’s been framed and hanging in my office for many years. It is a reproduction of American artist Howard Pyle’s The Mermaid. The work depicts two figures – a mermaid and a man – in a deep embrace at the edge of the sea. The two are folded so tightly into each other that it is almost hard to determine where one body begins and the other ends.
I first discovered Pyle’s painting years ago – so long ago, in fact, that it is hard for me to recall how or when exactly. I do know that I liked it enough to order a large print from the art museum. That print is now framed and has followed me from work space to work space over the years. Sometimes it stood neatly in the back of a closet (as I reconsidered my decorating options), but for the better part of 20 years, that painting has been present – neatly hung on otherwise plain walls – in the spaces where I’ve spent most of my time. Over the years, I found many reasons to love this work of art. I have actually surprised myself with the number of observations I’ve been able to make about the painting.
Today as I sit looking at the print, I am imagining a story behind the painting. The figures in the painting are obviously in love with each other (or so I think because of their embrace). But a relationship between a mermaid and a land-lover is obviously challenged by a variety of things (yes, for just a moment,you have to give into the idea that mermaids exist). They live in completely opposite worlds. One could argue, in fact, that the man on land lives a more rigid life, bound to the elements of his universe and forced to navigate a rocky terrain. The mermaid on the other hand, lives in the sea where she has learned to swim with the current. To me, she is the more flexible rider of waves. She has learned to hold her breath and dive deep beneath the surface in hopes of finding treasure not always obvious at the surface. She, to me, is the more carefree and adventurous of the two. He is grounded (literally) and unable to explore the depths she knows.
And yet they are here together in Pyle’s painting, each having come half-way to the other. He is knee-deep in the ocean. She is waist-high in the air. And they are sharing an embrace in which their longing for each other is palpable.
Is it because they can’t be together that they want each other so much? Or do they simply want each other despite the challenges they face? I guess Pyle leaves that up to the viewer to decide. But when I look at the painting, here’s the story I see:
One day a man went out for a walk. Attracted to the cool ocean breeze and the twinkle of sunlight on waves, he chose a path along the shore. As he walked, he caught glimpse of something unique and interesting in the surf. When the man moved closer to the water’s edge, he realized that the thing he observed was a woman diving up and down in the waves. She sparkled, unlike anything he ever knew before. Again, he moved closer, putting just toes in the water. When the woman saw him, she retreated deeper into the ocean. Alarmed, the man called out to her, reassuring her that he meant no harm. The woman swam closer. The man moved to a rock at the water’s edge and sat. Curious, the woman swam closer. Soon, he began talking and she listened. She had never heard a voice so soothing, words so sweet. But then, reminded of her tie to the ocean, the woman turned and swam away. The man sat for hours on the rock waiting for her to return. Finally, he went home and tried to forget what he convinced himself was a dream. The next day, the man returned to the same spot along the ocean’s shore. He perched on the warm rock and began to read a book. Soon, he heard a splashing in the ocean that once again revealed the woman he knew from the prior day. This time, the man invited her closer, asking if she’d like to hear part of his book’s story. She moved closer. The man read chapter after chapter, each turn of the page brought her closer and closer to him. After several hours, she was positioned on the rock next to him, her upper body folded before him, her tail still emerged in water. The man repeated his visit day after day and readings from the book soon turned to conversation. She did not see his legs; he did not see her fins. Instead, the two found a connection. Love. Days turned into weeks and weeks into years and today each of them knows that their situation is not practical. He can never live in the sea and she cannot survive on land. But their passion for each other continues to drive them back to this rock. And in moments of compromise, he moves into the water and she reaches back into air. They find each other. And in their embrace, each believes – for just a moment – that if he were to jump fully into the water, her love would help him float.
But that’s just my imagination. What does the painting say to you?
(Howard Pyle’s original painting of The Mermaid is housed in the Delaware Art Museum in Wilmington, DE. It was painted in 1910 as oil on canvas. For more information, including the museum’s story about the painting, visit http://www.delart.org/collections/american-illustration/the-mermaid/)
Gloves Off
When it comes to the topic of relationships, I don’t pretend to be an expert. I’m not sure such a thing as a “relationship expert” even exists. I have certainly made my share of mistakes (and will continue to do so). But recently, I’ve been thinking about the dynamics of a relationship – the push and pull, if you will, of two people who either keep a relationship going or cause it to stop dead in its tracks. In friendship, love, or somewhere in between, relationships are complicated.
I was watching an episode of my favorite TV show recently and a line between the two main characters struck me – so much so that I wrote it down. The man, talking to his lover in a very metaphorical conversation about the sport of boxing, said to her, “Sometimes the biggest winner isn’t the one who throws the hardest punch; it’s the one who absorbs it.”
In life and in love, we’ve all taken our fair share (and in some cases, more than our fair share) of punches. They’ve come from bosses, from co-workers, from strangers, from friends, from lovers, even from family members. Some punches we’ve seen coming (and maybe ignored the signs) and some were a complete surprise. But all punches sting. Some even knock us off our feet.
I suppose there is something wise to be said about how heartbreak and challenge build character. Certainly, the ability to get back on our feet after a stunning blow to the face (or heart) builds our resiliency. And resiliency is an admirable quality; I’d stretch to say it is a requirement for survival. But there is another perspective worth considering. In response to my leading man’s comments, his lover replied to him by saying: “There’s no shame in saying you’ve had enough, and when you’re hurt, there’s no shame in saying so.” Maybe not a good strategy in boxing, but maybe a smart tactic in life.
Perhaps the first step in building the resiliency we need to survive is first admitting that we are hurt and understanding why. So often, we absorb the pain, blame ourselves in some way for it, and even sweep it under the rug like it never happened. In the process, we run the risk of allowing that pain to change us in ways that are detrimental to our long-term well-being. Out of a need to maintain our pride, we sacrifice our right to step up and truly defend ourselves. Why do we allow the one hurting us to feel like that’s ok?
I write this knowing that I am sometimes guilty of getting in the ring with people who continually throw punches at me. And I don’t always express my anguish or disappointment; sometimes I absorb it. But if I’m willing to get in the metaphorical ring of life and go 12 rounds with someone, shouldn’t that person care at least a little bit about my well-being? Perhaps the answer is to make sure I’m in that ring with someone who can let down his guard, who doesn’t hit below the belt, and who – at the end of the day – was in my corner all along.
Breaking the Surface to Net a Catch
We’ve all heard the saying, “There are plenty of fish in the sea.” However, as I sat watching sea birds this summer, I began to wonder if instead of stressing the plenitude of fish, we shouldn’t be focusing more on the technique of the fisherman. For the purpose of this consideration, I will call upon the behavior of three birds I watched carefully from the shore.
The first bird is one most often associated with the sea shore: the gull. A bird of substantial size, he makes his presence known on the beach. Most often seen in the sky above lunching beach-goers, the gull has a loud, repetitive call and a persistence that is difficult to ignore. Interestingly enough, though, the sea gull is not spoken of by most people with deep admiration. Perhaps it is because he is a nag. Whether stalking from the sand or the sky, the gull is almost too eager for acknowledgment. Once the sympathetic beach beauty does offer a scrap of her lunch to the gull, he screams out loudly, announcing her generosity to every other lurking gull. Before she knows it, she is surrounded by scavengers, all looking for a piece of what she’s offered the one. And once the goodies are gone, so are the birds, leaving behind only their messy droppings. It’s no wonder they have the reputation that they do. Despite the fact they evolved with sharp beaks, impressive wingspans, and keen eyesight – all qualities that make them skilled fishermen – the gulls are perceived as a lazy menace. They are often shooed away from the beach with bellies empty, left to fly across the horizon unsatisfied.
The sandpiper on the other hand never makes direct contact with beach-goers in its hunt for food. Instead, it shows up as the tide begins to retreat and fishes joyfully at the water’s edge. When the ocean breaks on land, the sandpiper retreats quickly on tiny legs that are amusing to observe. And as the water retreats, he follows in the tide to take advantage of the baby clams that were once hidden by sand. Partnered with the sea in its quest for food, the sandpiper penetrates only the shallow, soft sand to dine on the once burrowed clams that are now within easy reach. While it is willing to get its feet wet in the quest for satisfaction, it’s never seen floating in the sea and certainly doesn’t take great risk. It is a shallow fisherman. And, while it seems satisfied with what it finds, the tiny sandpiper returns throughout the day to work terribly hard for tiny clams.
Finally, my favorite of the sea birds is the tern. Resembling a small gull, these birds appear in small flocks over the ocean, not far from the shore. Skilled aviators, they move in the wind like graceful dancers, eyeing crabs and small fish that swim just beneath the ocean’s surface. The tern navigates the wind like a kite, unaltered in its mission and not discouraged by a shift in direction. It is a brave and determined fisherman that navigates with agility. It floats on the breeze and scours the waters below for the perfect catch. It seems particular and patient; almost confident that its persistence will offer reward. Then, like a World War II divebomber, the tern plunges into the sea bravely and swiftly, adding strategy to its dance. It is not afraid to penetrate the surface, knowing that the substance often found below the superficial current will be worth the time and risk invested. More often than not, the term reemerges into the sky with a beak full of fish. Then it soars to greater heights and ventures off to (I’m assuming) a nest to enjoy its catch.
Whle it may be true that “there are plenty of fish in the sea,” I have also learned from the sea birds that fishing strategy plays an important role in securing a “catch.” We can be like the gull who is persistent and noisy, satisfied with scraps of whatever is offered to us and never willing to take real risk . We could also be like sandpipers who work very hard for very little reward. But it is the tern, I think, that offers the greatest lessons for us about netting a catch worth holding. If we can be patient in our search, learn to be resilient in our effort, and be brave enough to penetrate the surface, I think the fish we end up with will be worth all our effort in the end.
A Crab Worth Cracking
I had dinner the other night with a friend who is … well … guarded. We’ve been friends for more than two decades and I still run into his self-imposed walls every once in a while. I don’t think it is that he is shy. In fact, he’s a pretty outgoing guy. But with most people, his friendly demeanor is pretty superficial. Rarely do people get past the tough outer shell with him. I don’t think it’s because he is afraid to venture out; instead, I think he’s hesitant to let people in.
On another night last week I was having dinner with a different friend (my life is blessed). As we weighed our options, I considered ordering snow crabs. My friend wrinkled her nose and replied, “They are just too much work.” She opted for a cheeseburger and during the course of our conversation told me about an argument with her boss, revealed details about her sex life, and even cried about the recent loss of her mother. She is an open book. We are very much alike in that way. In fact, I could probably benefit from being a little more guarded with my feelings or intentions.
This week I’ve been thinking about my friend’s criticism of the crabs: “They are just too much work.” What she meant is that she doesn’t want to be bothered with cracking the hard shell. She doesn’t want to have to carefully pick to find the meat. She doesn’t want to get her hands dirty. But what she’s missing with all of those hesitations is a chance to savor the sweetness of the crab that is only known once the shell is cracked open.
My two dinner outings this week also have me thinking about the variety of people with whom I share relationships. My two dinner companions don’t know each other. If they did, I doubt they’d be friends. She is too busy splashing openly in the water while he is nested in mud, protected by a shell she has no interest in cracking. They are very different creatures in the same great, big ocean.
But let’s go back to the snow crab. There is more to the crab than his stubborn shell. For example, did you know that before mating begins, a male snow crab will hold onto a female for up to three weeks? He becomes her companion and protector, fending off other males and predators. That’s some serious cuddle time! He also then helps her molt (or undress) before mating begins. It’s all kind of chivalrous and romantic, don’t ya think? But this extended time frame could also imply the crab’s need to trust its mate; a need to build a connection and shared understanding before real intimacy happens. And since the female crab carries fertilized eggs for up to two years before they are hatched into the sea, I’m pretty sure she wants to know that the guy who put all those babies in there was worth her time!
Some people are like crabs. To say that a relationship with a “crab” is always easy would be a lie. There have admittedly been times when my frustration level with a “crab” – my inability to break through his shell – almost prompted me to walk away, to abandon the relationship for something easier. But what I’ve come to realize is that everyone operates at their own pace. We all come to trust and to love at different times. The trick, I think, is to respect each others’ boundaries and to honor each others’ needs. And like the snow crab, our eyes need to be open to the parasites and barnacles who will attach themselves to us for their own benefit.
I am reminded of the old saying: “There are plenty of fish in the sea.” That is certainly true. Each of them has their own beauty and makes their own contributions to our ecosystem. But each also has their own vulnerabilities and weaknesses. Some are just easier to catch than others. While the crab may be the trickiest to net, I’d argue this: inside that hard outer shell is often a sweet, delicious meat worth discovering. It takes patience and persistence. We may even sometimes get a little scratched up trying to find it. But when we do, the tender inside often makes all the effort worthwhile.
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Characteristically Speaking 