the bubble.

When I was about five years old, I contracted a rare, severe case of the chicken pox — a neurotropic strain that entered my central nervous system and caused me to lose my eyesight for a week or so. At the time, they had no idea that I would ever regain my eyesight, so it was a particularly stressful event for my parents. Just prior to the chicken pox outbreak, I had seen the movie version of the rock opera, "Tommy" (yep, don't judge my parents too much...the soundtrack was by The Who after all). I suffered horrible nightmares while blind, including thinking that the itchy pox were spiders crawling on me, and the nightmares were scored by a running loop of the movie soundtrack. In the movie, the main character, Tommy, goes into shock after a traumatic event rendering him blind, deaf and mute — all of it self-induced. 

Also in the mid-1970's, Aaron Spelling gave us a made-for-tv movie starring John Travolta called "The Boy in the Bubble." A story based on the real-life experience of David Vetter, a young Texas boy with a rare and deadly immune-deficient disorder. He spends his entire life living in a sterile bubble with zero flesh-on-flesh contact with another human being. In the movie, he falls in love with his neighbor and then takes the risk to move out of the bubble and they ride off on a horse. In real life, David underwent an unsuccessful bone marrow transplant and died at the age of 12. 

Depressed yet? Where am I going with all of this?

I've had a lot of instances recently to think about the concept of intimacy. How we crave it and need it and when do we shut it out. And what does real intimacy look like? I think we often mistake it for concepts like 'unconditional love' or even just love in general. You don't even have to be in love to know someone intimately or exist in an intimate relationship. Intimacy is loosely defined as 'a close personal connection that is developed through knowledge and experience with another person.' And this level of knowledge and experience is achieved through dialogue, transparency, vulnerability and reciprocity. Thus I think back to the bubble and to "Tommy" - both of which had barriers to intimacy in their story lines. Can we really live, or should I say, thrive, without intimate relationships? 

I read an article recently (although it was from January of this year) about punk guitarist (slash) actor (slash) co-creator and writer of the IFC series, "Portlandia," Carrie Brownstein and her co-creator and co-star on the show, SNL regular, Fred Armisen. 

 - - - I have to diverge here a bit and say that I am more than a little fascinated by Carrie. For starters, she is listed in Rolling Stone as one of the "25 Most Underrated Guitarists of All-Time," - yep...of all-time. Further, she specifically was named as their highest-rated female guitarist of all-time. She's also a writer and an actor, and in the various roles she co-authored on "Portlandia," I believe she's as good as any sketch actor I've ever seen. I am so interested in women who are creative in a gritty, outside-of-the-box way (i.e.: punk guitarist) but even more so, I am interested and inspired by Carrie's ability to feed all of the different sides of her personality - and well. She claims she doesn't see the contradictions that maybe we see, i.e.: sexy, roiling presence onstage vs. the wry social portraits created for "Portlandia" vs. the more cerebral, modest personal side (as described by the New Yorker article). She doesn't see these things as contradictions because she understands exactly how each thing relates to who she is, i.e.: when she's performing, she is very aware that it's a performance. She is ultimately feeding her passions through utilizing her talents. I honestly believe this dichotomic problem exists for most women, and maybe even people in general, and I applaud anyone who can so elegantly develop all sides of who they are. It is something I am working on for myself. I'm sure there is a blog entry in my future on this one. - - - 

Back to Carrie and Fred. Here's the article if you want to gander at it sometime:

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2012/01/02/120102fa_fact_talbot

The part that relates to this big idea of intimacy is that Fred and Carrie seem to have an off-screen plutonic relationship that I think many of us would want in our romantic relationships, minus the no sex (insert smirky emoticon). A 'like-family' feel that, even after nearly ten years, still gives them, in Fred's words, "that sense of anticipation about seeing the other person, the secret bond...I'm not thinking, I'm doing this because you are my girlfriend, I'm just thinking, I love Carrie." And Carrie, "I told Fred he could stay in the car. But he insisted on joining me out on the wet, muddy grass, tolerating not only the elements but a typical dog-park lady who overshared about her pair of jacket-clad whippets. When I saw Fred bundled up in his parka, wearing his brand-new REI hiking boots, I felt so happy and lucky; there are few people for whom Fred —a classic New Yorker, not a nature guy at all—would brave the outdoors"..."Sometimes I think it's the most successful love affair either of us will ever have."

Doesn't that feel all fuzzy and good? So then what is it that challenges us from creating bonds like this, plutonic or romantic? What are our barriers to intimacy?

Tying back into my illustrative examples above, is it some trauma, like in the case of the Tommy character? Or is it a barrier that is self-constructed that leaves us isolated like the bubble? A barrier created because of some dysfunction in ourselves? Like an intimacy auto-immune disorder?

I am very lucky in that I do have some successful intimate relationships. And they are successful precisely due to the definition above: dialogue, transparency, vulnerability and reciprocity. And for me, vulnerability was, and still is, the most difficult. When I was younger I suppose the barriers were self-created: I am an only-child who is very self-reliant and independent. I was raised to be self-accountable first and foremost, tapping into my own well of strength or motivation as the first line of defense. Solid traits, but they don't leave much room for an outside helping hand. As an adult, some 'traumas' were added to the mix—life-changing professional, personal and financial stresses and divorce. Initially these traumas forced me to pull deeper into my self-reliant self, but as the stresses overwhelmed me, those closest to me initiated the kinds of transparent dialogue needed to open up my vulnerability and 'break the mirror.'*

*In "Tommy," his mother, out of frustration, smashes the mirror that he had always looked into without registering what he was seeing and he then was cured of his sensorial afflictions. 

Somewhere along the way, even as I was struggling with my own ability to be vulnerable, I was able to be transparent and present with others on things related to their lives. We have shared an extraordinary amount of dialogue and experience and it's that reciprocity that makes it all work. I reached out of the bubble and they reached in just enough to make the kinds of connections that would eventually lead to greater bonds. And I think this takes courage. Courage to reach out and courage to reciprocate. The times in my life when I have had the greatest amount of faith in myself and others, I have found the courage to be vulnerable. I am keenly aware of the delicate balance of it all. The vulnerability in the quest for vulnerability—it's an axis that is hard to always rotate smoothly around. 

So now I think back to Carrie and Fred, and Tommy, and the Boy in the Bubble, and I see all the ways in which we struggle with but need intimate relationships in our lives. I understand what it feels like to see someone you love standing in the rain in new REI boots just to be with you. Friend or love. What it feels like to smash the mirror and see your life in front of you. To touch someone through the bubble and simultaneously crave the real touch but fear the life-altering result of doing so. It took me a very long time to understand that being vulnerable would give me the courage to be in that cycle of intimacy that I so crave and need. 

I think it's ok that in the movie version of the "Boy in the Bubble" he falls in love and rides off on a horse. I like that version. Tommy ends up singing in front of an enormous crowd— a song with the apropos title of, "Listening to You." My sight was restored and I suffered no long-term affects of that trauma. My love has symbolically stood in the rain for me, wearing uncomfortable new boots, over and over again. And just last week, on my 40th birthday, my best friends gave me an artist engraved silver bracelet with the quote, "Courage, strength and hope possess my soul...I will stand firmly and without fear." ~ Goethe. I cannot think of a more appropriate gift from these people who know me so well. 

lyrical counseling.

I was busy in 2010. I separated from my husband, got divorced and started two blogs. This one, well...if you are here, you know about it...the other one was a music blog and I think only my neighbor might have read it. I stumbled across an entry recently and I remembered why I wanted an outlet just to talk about music—sometimes when I cannot find the words, I find them there.  

I have a laundry list of song lyrics, sometimes just one liners, that help shape my voice. As a result, sharing my list is such a window into my soul. It helps me explain my passions, my frailties, how I want to live my life, how I see myself, what I value, what I fear. I have found over the years that I need music. It helps clear my head, fosters some clarity, gives me a chance to just feel and emote, strengthens resolve, and often gives me a new perspective, and sometimes even permission to feel what I need to feel—a lyrical counseling session. I am open to these messages, I'm not threatened by them, I am totally open to what they might be trying to say and then I find my own voice lying somewhere in there. When I listen to music, often I find a synergy with what my heart and mind are trying to say to me and when it hits, it sticks. I don't think this is a unique user experience, I think we find what we are looking for and sometimes it's not even close to maybe what the songwriter intended, but I think most of us absorb it like we do poetry. Letting the words tumble over us and we hear what we need.

I just returned home from our first 'whole clan' vacation with my boyfriend ('C'), his children, my daughter and her two friends. One evening, as our clan drove back from dinner, we snaked through the sunset-lit hills of my favorite mountain town and all eight of us sang along to a James Morrison version of Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror." Two adults, three teens, an eight year old and a six year old (the 3-1/2 year old currently sticks to the lyrics in "Jigsaw" by Radiohead and doesn't seem game to learn a new tune :) all singing in unison with the sunroof and windows open and feeling whatever we each individually let come over us in that little moment of time. For me, it was joy, contentment and a very grounded realization of how different my life is...and a sense of peace about that. This sense of peace doesn't come as easily as maybe one might think and in that moment, I let the music, the lyrics, the voices of the people I love, the mountains and the air wash through me and let me exhale. Music can do that.

Later on we got to talking, the teens and I, about how we always assign a song or two to every trip. For example, the soundtrack for a fortunate trip to Hawaii in 2011 was "Pricetag" by Jessie J (no worries, I get the irony). A summer road trip through Montana, pre-C with just me, my daughter and her friend, was scored by "American Pie," and this summer's ten days in an Idaho mountain town was "Ho Hey" by the Lumineers. We also played Bon Iver, Hey Marseilles, old Tracy Chapman, The Allman Brothers, Radiohead (a 3-1/2 year old is very convincing), Airborne Toxic Event and many one-hit-wonder songs. The latter leading to an unforgettable dance party on the back of a pontoon boat with the teens and a six year old girl beaming in the center. We discussed new music, Shazam'd some more, played a full Madonna playlist to get ready for the fall concert, and snuck some N.W.A. onto the golf course. Of course Justin Bieber was also a regular guest at our party, and we unabashedly joined voices with Katy Perry and Jay-Z. It was a blast.

Back at home, I took a walk and put my iPod on full shuffle. Obviously I only got through a few songs, but the exercise reminded me that there are some lyrics that hit me through the eyeballs every single time I hear them. Many will always remind me of a specific place and time, like the 'vacation' songs, but some also ground me to a feeling, a part of my story, a way I have lived and a way I want to live in the future.  So in that spirit, I thought I would list a few of these lyrics, like lines of poetry that I could recite over and over again, and see how they looked in black and white:

After all of the dreaming, I come home again. (Counting Crows | Rain King)

Walking in the wild west end, walking with your wild best friend. (Dire Straits | Wild West End)

You've been waiting for some magic to come. You should know by know that you and I are the one. I keep on wondering why a woman like you keeps on resisting this. Can't you see that I am in love with you, it's not just that I know the right things to say.  (Renegade Saints | Know by Now)

One foot in, one foot back. It don't pay to live like that. So I cut the ties and I jumped the track. Are you aware the shape I'm in? My hands they shake, my head it spins. (The Avett Brothers | I and Love and You)

Home. Where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there. If someone asks, this is where I will be. (Talking Heads | This Must be the Place)

Did you say, 'no this cannot happen to me?' (Jeff Buckley | Last Goodbye)

One wing will never ever fly dear, neither yours nor mine. (Wilco | One Wing)

Somebody remembers the rose while the other forgets how it grows. (Whiskeytown | Somebody Remembers the Rose)

So show me family, all the blood that I would bleed...I belong with you, you belong with me (The Lumineers | Ho Hey)

Happiness, it come like a train on a track. Coming towards her, stuck still no turning back. (Florence and the Machine | Dog Days are Over)

Put your trust in me. Give me a chance, I will try. You see it's been a hard road. Just sayin' so you understand that right now, right now, I'm doing the best I can. (Tracy Chapman | At this Point in My Life)

You think I want to run and hide. I just want you to find me. I'm not lost, just undiscovered. (James Morrison | Undiscovered)

For fear of living in regret, I've changed since from when we first met. (The Ting Tings | Shut Up and Let Me Go)

All of these places have their moments, with lovers and friends I can recall, and in my life, I've loved them all. And in my life, I love you more. (The Beatles | In My Life)

Nothing panned out as I planned. Standing at the fork in the road, you can stand there and agonize until you agony is your heaviest load. When you are learning to face the path at your pace, every choice is worth your while. (Indigo Girls | Watershed)

Stay with me until time turns over. I want to feel my feet leave the ground. If I could I would and I'd take you now. (Phish | If I Could)

Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers turn around and say 'good morning to the night' for unless they see the sky, they can't and that is why, they know not if it's dark outside or light. (Elton John | Mona Lisa and Mad Hatters)

Momma once told me, you are already home where you feel loved.
      Is that bridge gettin' built, are your hands gettin' filled, won't you tell me my brother? 
     ...We can start moving forward. (The Head and the Heart | Lost in My Mind)

Wow. That was helpful. A lyrical counseling session made possible with $1 deposits into my iTunes account. 

upswing.

I have this visual in my brain about my divorce: Upside down bell curve with reasonably steep slopes on both sides. At the top of the left side of the curve is the pre-separation frenetic 'high' aka 'denial'. The fall and sharp slope downward is probably fairly obvious (exhilaration, fear, confusion and resolve). And in that low basin at the very bottom is the debris field where everything collected after sliding down the slope. Loads of paper, some ash, some rocks, some stumbling blocks, fragments of lost momentum, pools of pride and tears, relationships and memories swirling around, some heavier than others, and a dusting of shaved ego. Standing in it was almost more difficult than the slide. That was a little over a year ago. Today, I'm solidly on the upswing side. It smells better, feels better, looks better, IS better...AND (not 'but') it's a new slope. My life is very, very different. I am happier than I've ever been in my life and that is a solid, maybe over-anlyazed (insert smiley emoticon), but hard-fought statement.

When I decided to take a step off of that ledge, I made a decision that caused me to lose nearly everything that I had worked for up to that point - my marriage, my financial stability, my desire for a specific type of family life for my daughter and myself, my work momentum, parts of my well-being and health, my money. But I am still standing, and now thriving, and I have no regrets. This is an incredible thing to say out loud.

I tried to go through the process, that initially was a separation, then a divorce, with respect and generosity. I was forced to make decisions during a time of deep pain, stress, confusion and fear and I made some mistakes, but I have to say that the mistakes were often more informative than the catalysts that required the reactions. The lessons I have learned are not just fuel for this upswing journey, but the inspiration. A friend reminded me, just today, of a Grateful Dead quote that I love, "Sometimes you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right."

So in homage, here's some of the 'light' I have been shown:

I have learned that I don't have to respect my ex for "who he is" (as some would suggest), I only have to respect him as my daughter's father. This is a solid, healthy distinction.

I have learned that I don't have to regret those 16 years for the decision to be sound. I invested in that life whole-heartedly. I just have to appreciate that I was present in those years.

I have learned that time and timing matters.

I have learned that being loyal is more about giving love than taking it away.

I have learned to expand my lens. Question more, but maybe judge less.

I have learned that I don't always need to explain, but I do need to listen.

I have learned that it's ok to fail.

I have learned that I am not broken, that marriage is not broken, that my family life and commitments are not broken.

I have learned that those that know you well, love you well. That the vulnerability required to be known well is sometimes exceedingly painful, but turns out, vital.

I have learned that I am highly capable, but I need help.

I have learned that what kids need most are visible efforts on the micro level —their value on the micro becomes the macro. Let's face it, probably adults too.

I have learned that what Newton said is right - there is no new energy in the world. When you suck up all of the energy, you have to put some back.

I have learned that the biggest failure of my life was the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I am still working very hard to make peace with the experience — for me, for my daughter, for what's next. It has been a hard, but ultimately amazing journey. My life spilled out, down a hill and settled in a big mess at the bottom. I am taking all of that good, worthy stuff and heading back up the next hill. That is what an upswing is...a climb.

I have a companion now, a love, an incredibly bright light. So when I think about my visual of the bell curve, I can't resist the idea of another Grateful Dead quote, "One man gathers what another man spills." I'm most certainly being gathered and I am grateful for his love and the love of my family and friends. I know that this is the undeniable fuel required to foster a new climb, this place I'm in — the upswing. Thank you.