Mom sat at the breakfast table signing her name with a birthday wish on cards for about a dozen sisters in her ward. She is the newly called Relief Society President, and as a way of reaching out to the women, she and her counselors send out a birthday card to each person who has a birthday in the respective month. This was January’s batch.
I stood at the kitchen bar stretching as I waited for my youngest brother who was changing. We were going running, and I had on my shorts and running shirt. My mom looked up from her writing and whispered, “Do you still wear your garments?”
“Why?” I figured she could tell I wasn’t wearing them since I only had on my running clothes, but I was running, so I wouldn’t be wearing them anyway. Maybe she had noticed before and felt like now was a good time to ask. Whatever her motivation, I was a little annoyed, mainly because of the tone of her voice. Like me, she me has difficulty in talking in a straight tone to camouflage her emotion when conversing on a topic that means something to her. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you?”
What’s the point in belaboring this, I thought. Keep it simple. “No.”
“Why don’t you?” Again, she tried to remain calm, but I could tell my disclosure displeased her. I paused, trying to figure out what would be an appropriate and succinct response. She dropped her head and continued signing cards, a probable distraction and emotional guard for my anticipated response.
I stammered. How do I quickly explain what took me months and even years to decide?
She looked up again. “Do you not feel worthy? Are you doing things that make you feel you shouldn’t?” Her questions were direct, but that’s not what caused my heart to sink. It was the way in which her head nodded in disprovement and the tone of her voice that communicated a bit a of anger and condemnation.
“It’s complicated.”
My brother bounded into the kitchen. Mom and I both quickly changed our demeanor and conversation so that it appeared we were only casually talking about nothing.
I wish I could have said more, even if I wasn’t able to tell her everything right then. Even a simple, “Mom this is a really important matter that took me a long time to decide. I’d be happy to share with you why I decided not to wear my garments anymore, but we’ll have to talk about it later when we have more time.” But the way the conversation unfolded, I felt like a four year old caught disobeying mommy.
It was an awful feeling. Most of all, it brought back my feelings of being a failure to my parents. It brought back feelings that I am not approved or validated as an individual or a person. These feelings were particularly sharp before I came out to myself and to my parents. Obviously they still linger. While this Christmas has offered me a much needed break from work, Cody, and life back home, I still feel this invisible barrier between me and my family. I don’t think it will dissipate until I feel like I can be myself and be accepted as myself by my family.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Pure Essentials
What’s so scary about labels?
Labels embody the nature of objects so that we can communicate with each other. What’s so scary about that? I have a carton of orange juice in my fridge. I call it orange juice. Tropicana calls it “Tropicana Pure Essentials Not from Concentrate Low Acid Smooth Great Taste” all in big letters and three fonts with the subtitle “100% Pure Squeezed Reduced Acid Pasteurized Orange Juice with Vitamin A, C and Calcium.” I’m glad I don’t have to ask, “Can you please pass the Tropicana Pure Essentials...?” at the breakfast table. “Orange juice” is fine with me.
We humans are a bit like Tropicana. We shroud labels we give ourselves with a slew of caveats and exceptions, “I’m gay, but not like that...”
I’m sitting at home. My flight was cancelled to go to my parents' home for Christmas, and I was told that I wouldn’t be able to catch another flight until the 27th. After 2 hours worth of, “Excuse me, Mr. Iasme, can I put you on hold,” I somehow ended up with a flight leaving on the 24th. I’m just glad I’m not at the airport waiting on hold as I lay on a cot or take refuge in a cardboard box.
It’s raining outside. I have a leak in my bathroom. Ironically, the two are unrelated. I live in a 10 story building, and I’m not on the 10th floor. The unit above is undergoing renovations, and whatever they did in the bathroom is manifesting itself through my light fixture. Luckily, I see no visible damage. I’m hoping the hole from the fixture will be enough to draw the water out, and since I am here tomorrow, we can get things resolved with the workers upstairs when they return. I suppose blessings do come disguised.
So with the rain pouring, a bucket in my bathroom collecting water and making an incessant dribble, and all the while trying to gather enough energy to go to the gym, I eased over to my piano and started playing. Last night I discovered the beginning of I song I wrote years ago. There’s something to it that resonates. I wrote a few more measures yesterday. I sat down tonight and played it through and thought about labels.
As of late, my insecurities have erupted in me to the point of becoming debilitating. I shy away from labels of which I feel I am not worthy. This is not a new tendency, but I’ve noticed that it’s become increasingly difficult to label myself. We realize a person is too complex to be labeled as succinctly as orange juice, and as Tropicana points out, orange juice just aint that simple either. I think we often feel restricted by a label because we are so much more than that. But a label is only a part of the larger definition of ourselves.
I wonder how the label Mormon applies to me. It’s still a big part of my life because religion has always been important to me. But I don’t feel like I’m very Mormon these latter days. It’s a rather singular sensation to realize I identify less as Mormon because I’m gay, when I don’t feel I can fully take on the homosexual title either. I will always have the label Son and Brother. But I don’t feel like I’m all that great of a son or a brother.
About a year and a half ago I went to a local music store to buy some music. The head of the choral music department stood behind the counter and was overly eager to help me. I didn’t realize at the time that he was hitting on me.
I remember he asked me pointedly, “Are you a musician?” I fumbled. I was put on the spot of assuming a label.
Musician? “No, I don’t consider myself a musician. I just like to sing.”
Sure, I played the saxophone for 6 years, was first chair in the marching and symphonic bands throughout junior high and high school. Sure, my mom taught me to play the piano when I was 5 and I’ve played ever since. Sure I’ve sung in church choirs since I was 12. Sure I sing in a local city choir that travels to major venues in the area. But me a musician? I wouldn’t dare call myself that.
And therein lies the issue. I wouldn’t dare. I just don’t feel good enough or deserving enough of the label. I feel like those people who truly are experts at their craft have earned the right to hold such a lofty title. But not me.
It hit me while playing the piano. I don’t feel much good at anything right now. How do I pull myself out of this mental handicap? To begin with, perhaps I need to start owning my labels. In narrative psychology, are we not what we say we are? Isn’t our very existence based on verbal birth? I remember when first coming out to myself, I couldn’t vocalize that I am gay. I was afraid that if I said it, it would really be true. I didn’t want to accept that truth. Of course, it was true, and by avoiding it, I was changing nothing.
I wonder if the reverse application of this principle can affect my attitude and lift me out of this awful self-absorbed state. Can I take on the label musician? Homosexual? Mormon? Brother? Son? And in the act of embracing those labels find the motivation to truly become what I say I am? If I say I am nothing, am I not really nothing?
Usually thought of as restrictive, labels can be immensely plastic according to our own self awareness. Our labels our what we make them. We define them. Just like Tropicana’s 26 words describing orange juice, I can describe my labels to be who I am and who I want to be.
Labels embody the nature of objects so that we can communicate with each other. What’s so scary about that? I have a carton of orange juice in my fridge. I call it orange juice. Tropicana calls it “Tropicana Pure Essentials Not from Concentrate Low Acid Smooth Great Taste” all in big letters and three fonts with the subtitle “100% Pure Squeezed Reduced Acid Pasteurized Orange Juice with Vitamin A, C and Calcium.” I’m glad I don’t have to ask, “Can you please pass the Tropicana Pure Essentials...?” at the breakfast table. “Orange juice” is fine with me.
We humans are a bit like Tropicana. We shroud labels we give ourselves with a slew of caveats and exceptions, “I’m gay, but not like that...”
I’m sitting at home. My flight was cancelled to go to my parents' home for Christmas, and I was told that I wouldn’t be able to catch another flight until the 27th. After 2 hours worth of, “Excuse me, Mr. Iasme, can I put you on hold,” I somehow ended up with a flight leaving on the 24th. I’m just glad I’m not at the airport waiting on hold as I lay on a cot or take refuge in a cardboard box.
It’s raining outside. I have a leak in my bathroom. Ironically, the two are unrelated. I live in a 10 story building, and I’m not on the 10th floor. The unit above is undergoing renovations, and whatever they did in the bathroom is manifesting itself through my light fixture. Luckily, I see no visible damage. I’m hoping the hole from the fixture will be enough to draw the water out, and since I am here tomorrow, we can get things resolved with the workers upstairs when they return. I suppose blessings do come disguised.
So with the rain pouring, a bucket in my bathroom collecting water and making an incessant dribble, and all the while trying to gather enough energy to go to the gym, I eased over to my piano and started playing. Last night I discovered the beginning of I song I wrote years ago. There’s something to it that resonates. I wrote a few more measures yesterday. I sat down tonight and played it through and thought about labels.
As of late, my insecurities have erupted in me to the point of becoming debilitating. I shy away from labels of which I feel I am not worthy. This is not a new tendency, but I’ve noticed that it’s become increasingly difficult to label myself. We realize a person is too complex to be labeled as succinctly as orange juice, and as Tropicana points out, orange juice just aint that simple either. I think we often feel restricted by a label because we are so much more than that. But a label is only a part of the larger definition of ourselves.
I wonder how the label Mormon applies to me. It’s still a big part of my life because religion has always been important to me. But I don’t feel like I’m very Mormon these latter days. It’s a rather singular sensation to realize I identify less as Mormon because I’m gay, when I don’t feel I can fully take on the homosexual title either. I will always have the label Son and Brother. But I don’t feel like I’m all that great of a son or a brother.
About a year and a half ago I went to a local music store to buy some music. The head of the choral music department stood behind the counter and was overly eager to help me. I didn’t realize at the time that he was hitting on me.
I remember he asked me pointedly, “Are you a musician?” I fumbled. I was put on the spot of assuming a label.
Musician? “No, I don’t consider myself a musician. I just like to sing.”
Sure, I played the saxophone for 6 years, was first chair in the marching and symphonic bands throughout junior high and high school. Sure, my mom taught me to play the piano when I was 5 and I’ve played ever since. Sure I’ve sung in church choirs since I was 12. Sure I sing in a local city choir that travels to major venues in the area. But me a musician? I wouldn’t dare call myself that.
And therein lies the issue. I wouldn’t dare. I just don’t feel good enough or deserving enough of the label. I feel like those people who truly are experts at their craft have earned the right to hold such a lofty title. But not me.
It hit me while playing the piano. I don’t feel much good at anything right now. How do I pull myself out of this mental handicap? To begin with, perhaps I need to start owning my labels. In narrative psychology, are we not what we say we are? Isn’t our very existence based on verbal birth? I remember when first coming out to myself, I couldn’t vocalize that I am gay. I was afraid that if I said it, it would really be true. I didn’t want to accept that truth. Of course, it was true, and by avoiding it, I was changing nothing.
I wonder if the reverse application of this principle can affect my attitude and lift me out of this awful self-absorbed state. Can I take on the label musician? Homosexual? Mormon? Brother? Son? And in the act of embracing those labels find the motivation to truly become what I say I am? If I say I am nothing, am I not really nothing?
Usually thought of as restrictive, labels can be immensely plastic according to our own self awareness. Our labels our what we make them. We define them. Just like Tropicana’s 26 words describing orange juice, I can describe my labels to be who I am and who I want to be.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Present Anxiety
I’ve been anxious the past few days. Perhaps it is the Christmas present. Months ago I had an idea for a gift for Cody. I didn’t realize back then that we wouldn’t be seeing each other. I’m finding I walk a peculiar line. I don’t want to be taken advantage of, but at the same time, I don’t want to feel like someone else’s actions dictates mine. Those may not seem like opposites, but they tend to work that way internally. I’ll try to explain.
During the final months of our friendship, I increasingly catered to Cody’s needs, his schedule, his agenda. I would be the one to postpone commitments for Friday night, in hopes that we would do something together. We most likely did, except for the occasional times when Cody would ignore me so that he could go do something with other friends or go on a date. Usually he wouldn’t tell me about these things until after the fact. His excuse for not telling me was always the same.
“But I can’t remember what I haven’t told you. I tell you everything. I thought I had told you.”
Nope. Conveniently, or so it appears, you didn’t.
I just wanted to always be around him. We are so similar. I love his energy and intellect. He is always doing or saying something, and usually the two in tandem.
When we did hang out together, I’m the one who had to drive to his place because he’s reluctant to drive in the city, though he is mostly concerned that he will lose his parking spot. It didn’t matter if I lost mine. If he needed to go shopping, then of course I went with him. He wanted a second, affirming opinion, and I was happy to offer. But if I needed to go, then he was less than enthusiastic. He only wanted to go if he also needed to. I was the one he called when nobody else was calling him.
“Hi, Cody!” I would answer my cell excited to see his name appear on the screen.
“I’m bored,” was his hello. Sometimes we would just talk. He would ask me questions about what he should do with his home. He had just purchased his condo and wanted to draw out any expertise in me to help him fix it up. He did just fine without my help, but it was always the second, affirming opinion he wanted. Sometimes we would go do something, go to the gym, or just hang out...at his place.
So while it feels like he made minimal effort, and while I feel like I was just being taken advantage of (yes, I know, it was my own choosing), I feel like I shouldn’t change the way I am just because of his inaction. It’s Christmas time, and I put together a present to give him. We were best friends, why can’t I do something for him in the spirit of giving?
I was going to call him to see if I could drop it off. That was Monday, and here it is Wednesday. I couldn’t do it. I was too anxious. My best friend, Ann, decided to visit him. Her remarks about their conversation only confirmed my suspicions. He’s doing great, dating, and most likely not thinking much about me at all. It still hurts to realize how little he cares about me, when I still care so much about him. How do I stop caring?
I’ve decided I’m not ready to see him. I’ll send him the present through the mail, in the spirit of giving.
During the final months of our friendship, I increasingly catered to Cody’s needs, his schedule, his agenda. I would be the one to postpone commitments for Friday night, in hopes that we would do something together. We most likely did, except for the occasional times when Cody would ignore me so that he could go do something with other friends or go on a date. Usually he wouldn’t tell me about these things until after the fact. His excuse for not telling me was always the same.
“But I can’t remember what I haven’t told you. I tell you everything. I thought I had told you.”
Nope. Conveniently, or so it appears, you didn’t.
I just wanted to always be around him. We are so similar. I love his energy and intellect. He is always doing or saying something, and usually the two in tandem.
When we did hang out together, I’m the one who had to drive to his place because he’s reluctant to drive in the city, though he is mostly concerned that he will lose his parking spot. It didn’t matter if I lost mine. If he needed to go shopping, then of course I went with him. He wanted a second, affirming opinion, and I was happy to offer. But if I needed to go, then he was less than enthusiastic. He only wanted to go if he also needed to. I was the one he called when nobody else was calling him.
“Hi, Cody!” I would answer my cell excited to see his name appear on the screen.
“I’m bored,” was his hello. Sometimes we would just talk. He would ask me questions about what he should do with his home. He had just purchased his condo and wanted to draw out any expertise in me to help him fix it up. He did just fine without my help, but it was always the second, affirming opinion he wanted. Sometimes we would go do something, go to the gym, or just hang out...at his place.
So while it feels like he made minimal effort, and while I feel like I was just being taken advantage of (yes, I know, it was my own choosing), I feel like I shouldn’t change the way I am just because of his inaction. It’s Christmas time, and I put together a present to give him. We were best friends, why can’t I do something for him in the spirit of giving?
I was going to call him to see if I could drop it off. That was Monday, and here it is Wednesday. I couldn’t do it. I was too anxious. My best friend, Ann, decided to visit him. Her remarks about their conversation only confirmed my suspicions. He’s doing great, dating, and most likely not thinking much about me at all. It still hurts to realize how little he cares about me, when I still care so much about him. How do I stop caring?
I’ve decided I’m not ready to see him. I’ll send him the present through the mail, in the spirit of giving.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
The Essence of Friendship
After spending a day sick at home I was getting stir crazy. I decided I needed movement, and so I walked to the nearest Barnes and Noble, thirty minutes away. Winter is finally taking over, and it was a particularly cold night. I was trying to walk away from my broken heart, leave it home and get relief from the out of doors. But it followed me all the way to the third floor.
I didn’t really have a purpose at the bookstore, but I thought it would be a great place to take my mind off him. Yes, him. Cody. I can’t seem to stop thinking about him. The questions cycle through my thoughts like an impatient visitor pounding on a door. No matter how I try to subvert them, they keep surfacing in never ending supply. And they usually start with one word.
Why?
Why did I have to fall in love with him? Why did he get so close to me, in a personal, intimate, though non-sexual way? He knew all along what was happening - so why did he allow it? How can I love him and be so mad at him? Why am allowing this one person to have such an effect on me? Why do I feel so worthless because of the way he treats me, or rather, the way he doesn’t treat me?
And perhaps most crushing, why doesn’t he love me? Why can he meet someone, go on a couple of dates (and perhaps not even that long) and then have sex with him? What does he see in these other guys who he doesn’t even know that he doesn’t see in me? Why would he share something so personal with them and not me? Why does he want to be close to them in such an intimate way, and yet awkwardly hugs me goodnight as I leave his home? Am I that undesirable of a person? Is it simply that he isn’t attracted to me?
I realize he has his agency. I knew that before I told him I love him. But back then, I felt so full of love that I could have handled any response, whether affirmative or negative. I felt myself an independent agent, anchored unto itself, unaffected by outside influences. I knew that there was a chance that he would not reciprocate, but wasn’t he the one that was always so flirtatious with me? If I were fabricating it, then why did so many strangers and friends who saw us interact think we were a couple, or should be, or even, as we were told by a guy we both just met, should get married? I was crushed when he told me he couldn’t love me.
I thought I could handle any response, and so we decided to keep things cool and be friends, just like usual. But things weren’t like usual. It ripped me apart to be around him. I began to feel compartmentalized. I was relegated to the role of the reliable one. I was the friend that would always be there for him. But only when he needed me. And when he didn’t, well, then he would just sort of forget me. It was destroying me to be such an integral part of his life while watching him date, kiss and sleep around with other men - all a reminder that somehow I am deficient, sub-par, and undesirable. His capricious behavior is so unattractive in this regard. I certainly want more than that in a future spouse, but even though I understand that mentally, my heart still longs for his affection.
And so, not knowing where I was going but just glad to be going, I stepped off the escalator on the third floor of Barnes and Noble. A bookshelf of their Classical Books greeted me. I picked up an anthology of works by Ralph Waldo Emerson and opened it. This is what I read:
“It has seemed to me lately more possible than I knew, to carry a friendship greatly, on one side, without due correspondence on the other. Why should I cumber myself with regrets that the receiver is not capacious? It never troubles the sun that some of his rays fall wide and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the reflecting planet. Let your greatness educate the crude and cold companion. If he is unequal, he will presently pass away; but thou art enlarged by thy own shining, and, no longer a mate for frogs and worms, dost soar and burn with the gods of the empyrean. It is thought a disgrace to love unrequited. But the great will see that true love cannot be unrequited. True love transcends the unworthy object, and dwells and broods on the eternal, and when the poor interposed mask crumbles, it is not sad, but feels rid of so much earth, and feels its independency the surer. Yet these things may hardly be said without a sort of treachery to the relation. The essence of friendship is entireness, a total magnanimity and trust. It must not surmise or provide for infirmity. It treats its object as a god, that it may deify both.”
I realize that while it is painful to separate myself from Cody, it is more destructive to me and our friendship to be around him. I’m not sure what it will take before I can be the friend that Ralph is talking about. I certainly don’t think it a disgrace to love unrequited, simply extremely painful to do so.
And what exactly is he trying to say in the last three sentences? Is that the key? “The essence of friendship is entireness...” I need to be more sure of myself in order for this friendship to ever have a chance to be renewed. Does “it” in the last line refer to friendship? Does friendship treat its object as a god? What is the object?
The last line reminds me of the scripture in D&C 50:17-25 about truth and the Spirit: “...he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another, and both are edified and rejoice together. That which is of God is light; and he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter...”
Sigh. I was in the bookstore to distract myself. I put the book down and headed to the web programming section where I found a book on blogging...
I didn’t really have a purpose at the bookstore, but I thought it would be a great place to take my mind off him. Yes, him. Cody. I can’t seem to stop thinking about him. The questions cycle through my thoughts like an impatient visitor pounding on a door. No matter how I try to subvert them, they keep surfacing in never ending supply. And they usually start with one word.
Why?
Why did I have to fall in love with him? Why did he get so close to me, in a personal, intimate, though non-sexual way? He knew all along what was happening - so why did he allow it? How can I love him and be so mad at him? Why am allowing this one person to have such an effect on me? Why do I feel so worthless because of the way he treats me, or rather, the way he doesn’t treat me?
And perhaps most crushing, why doesn’t he love me? Why can he meet someone, go on a couple of dates (and perhaps not even that long) and then have sex with him? What does he see in these other guys who he doesn’t even know that he doesn’t see in me? Why would he share something so personal with them and not me? Why does he want to be close to them in such an intimate way, and yet awkwardly hugs me goodnight as I leave his home? Am I that undesirable of a person? Is it simply that he isn’t attracted to me?
I realize he has his agency. I knew that before I told him I love him. But back then, I felt so full of love that I could have handled any response, whether affirmative or negative. I felt myself an independent agent, anchored unto itself, unaffected by outside influences. I knew that there was a chance that he would not reciprocate, but wasn’t he the one that was always so flirtatious with me? If I were fabricating it, then why did so many strangers and friends who saw us interact think we were a couple, or should be, or even, as we were told by a guy we both just met, should get married? I was crushed when he told me he couldn’t love me.
I thought I could handle any response, and so we decided to keep things cool and be friends, just like usual. But things weren’t like usual. It ripped me apart to be around him. I began to feel compartmentalized. I was relegated to the role of the reliable one. I was the friend that would always be there for him. But only when he needed me. And when he didn’t, well, then he would just sort of forget me. It was destroying me to be such an integral part of his life while watching him date, kiss and sleep around with other men - all a reminder that somehow I am deficient, sub-par, and undesirable. His capricious behavior is so unattractive in this regard. I certainly want more than that in a future spouse, but even though I understand that mentally, my heart still longs for his affection.
And so, not knowing where I was going but just glad to be going, I stepped off the escalator on the third floor of Barnes and Noble. A bookshelf of their Classical Books greeted me. I picked up an anthology of works by Ralph Waldo Emerson and opened it. This is what I read:
“It has seemed to me lately more possible than I knew, to carry a friendship greatly, on one side, without due correspondence on the other. Why should I cumber myself with regrets that the receiver is not capacious? It never troubles the sun that some of his rays fall wide and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the reflecting planet. Let your greatness educate the crude and cold companion. If he is unequal, he will presently pass away; but thou art enlarged by thy own shining, and, no longer a mate for frogs and worms, dost soar and burn with the gods of the empyrean. It is thought a disgrace to love unrequited. But the great will see that true love cannot be unrequited. True love transcends the unworthy object, and dwells and broods on the eternal, and when the poor interposed mask crumbles, it is not sad, but feels rid of so much earth, and feels its independency the surer. Yet these things may hardly be said without a sort of treachery to the relation. The essence of friendship is entireness, a total magnanimity and trust. It must not surmise or provide for infirmity. It treats its object as a god, that it may deify both.”
I realize that while it is painful to separate myself from Cody, it is more destructive to me and our friendship to be around him. I’m not sure what it will take before I can be the friend that Ralph is talking about. I certainly don’t think it a disgrace to love unrequited, simply extremely painful to do so.
And what exactly is he trying to say in the last three sentences? Is that the key? “The essence of friendship is entireness...” I need to be more sure of myself in order for this friendship to ever have a chance to be renewed. Does “it” in the last line refer to friendship? Does friendship treat its object as a god? What is the object?
The last line reminds me of the scripture in D&C 50:17-25 about truth and the Spirit: “...he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another, and both are edified and rejoice together. That which is of God is light; and he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter...”
Sigh. I was in the bookstore to distract myself. I put the book down and headed to the web programming section where I found a book on blogging...
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Beautiful Dawn
Her hair could have be mistaken for a home perm over baked. Its naturally tight curls clamped around her apple face, giving her a sort of Shirley Temple look without the bounce. "Do you feel that once you have emerged from phases of depression, that you are left with nuggets?"
"Nuggets?" I knew what she meant, but I was stalling for time.
"Yeah, something that pulled you through, a new understanding, wisdom, something that you wouldn't have learned otherwise."
I already knew my answer. But just in case I was being too rash, I paused to think. What has pulled me through? Am I even through? Am I simply being irrational? "No, no nuggets. Not really. I feel so empty right now. The thing that pulls me through is time. Sometimes that's all I have to cling to. I convince myself that what I am feeling will eventually go away. And I wait."
I know life functions in opposites. Without dark, we do not appreciate light. Without heartache, there is no heart joy. And something about finding nuggets through the low times in our lives seems right.
Just the day before we were at the Museum of Natural History looking at an exhibit on pearls and their divers. The odds of finding pearls are 10,000 to 1. Diving puts enormous stress on the body because the depth at which these little white spheres lay, and if that wasn't enough to discourage divers, there are sharks and other dangers deep in the water. But people still dive because the pearl is esteemed as precious. Depression is like diving for pearls. It is perilous, and the odds of discovery are slim, but only through ascending the depths can we emerge with wisdom. At least this is my new outlook, inspired by a lovely lady with golden curls.
"Nuggets?" I knew what she meant, but I was stalling for time.
"Yeah, something that pulled you through, a new understanding, wisdom, something that you wouldn't have learned otherwise."
I already knew my answer. But just in case I was being too rash, I paused to think. What has pulled me through? Am I even through? Am I simply being irrational? "No, no nuggets. Not really. I feel so empty right now. The thing that pulls me through is time. Sometimes that's all I have to cling to. I convince myself that what I am feeling will eventually go away. And I wait."
I know life functions in opposites. Without dark, we do not appreciate light. Without heartache, there is no heart joy. And something about finding nuggets through the low times in our lives seems right.
Just the day before we were at the Museum of Natural History looking at an exhibit on pearls and their divers. The odds of finding pearls are 10,000 to 1. Diving puts enormous stress on the body because the depth at which these little white spheres lay, and if that wasn't enough to discourage divers, there are sharks and other dangers deep in the water. But people still dive because the pearl is esteemed as precious. Depression is like diving for pearls. It is perilous, and the odds of discovery are slim, but only through ascending the depths can we emerge with wisdom. At least this is my new outlook, inspired by a lovely lady with golden curls.
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