I started dating this year. Recently I took stock of some of the phenomenons of my experience over the past eight months.
There are forgotten names, no names, an incredibly high percentage of J names.
Cheap beers, craft beers, cocktails made with ginger beer.
Top-shelf cocktails, living room whiskeys, new wines and fine dining.
Trifecta drink nights, tea dates, coffees in the park.
Meeting strangers with ADD, anxiety and a whole host of angry.
Accidental foraging (got an incredible nettle harvest on that one!), server hunting, lots of one and done.
Hospital chauffeuring, chance encounters, breakfasts at noon.
Games in crowds, games on tables, game for dinner.
Walks in the park, walks on the river, walks at midnight with the moon.
Rides in the rain, rides to avoid, rides to make it easy.
Flirty texts, confusing texts, mistaken texts, so many texts!
Tabs whisked away, bills shared, a tab with a dicker over a $2 beer.
Dinners for hours, dinner on the river - and just one first date invitation to dinner (apparently eating an essential meal isn't a common form of meeting a stranger).
I've encountered lost condoms, double condoms, fellas anti-condoms of any kind.
Hot tubs, hot dates, hot summer escapes to air conditioning.
Cool bars, cool men, plenty of cool like high school juvenile drama!
Gentlemen, teen-like boys, the curious and monogamous and poly charades galore!
Propositions, portentous suggestions, plenty of petty problems.
Divorce stories, divorce cover-ups, and a lot of divorces in the wings.....
I'm a 41 year old single woman, so it's not so surprising I've met a lot of divorced men of similar age.
More surprisingly, I'm a 41 year old single mom of teen girls and I've come to recognize that divorced men I know fit into a few common categories - only one of which makes them good candidates for dating!
The first divorced men I knew well were friends - at least one whose wedding I attended, one who became a dear friend by virtue of having friend daughters, and one whose emotional depth ran so deep we tangled in an intensely cathartic (but doomed) relationship. So my context for divorce was that I knew people experiencing it. I myself was never married, so my separation wasn't mangled with the legalities of Divorce. I've learned most of what I know about the horrors of divorce from men significantly wounded in the process.
My second phase of knowing divorced men was meeting them on occasion at the behest of mutual friends, as blind dates. By and large, those were men with emotional intelligence and decent remove from vitriol. In a sense, though, this also made them players - people who had no intention of cultivating relationship of any depth. Fine, but frustrating when if you actually like the fellas.
But dating - intentional dating - opened a whole new view on the stage of divorcee a man might be.
Here is where I regularly encountered the Activists and the Boxers, the ones actively awaiting their dates of legal freedom, and the ones who still regularly refer to their former wives, and often as wives vs. ex-wives.
I have failed to understand why men want to make their ex-wives characters in our budding/dating relations.
While it is helpful to have context about a man's divorce history, constantly renewing it with me with it is highly unattractive.
Thankfully, there are a few divorced, acclimated men out there who don their dating personas with decency. I find these are the men who extend invitations to dinner, stall on their text messaging, avoid neediness and all-around successfully balance all the facets of their lives.
It would be nice if online dating apps could find a way to incorporate those filters into their algorithms.
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Comparison is the Thief of Happiness
It happens to me throughout the day, every day - unconsciously comparing what I don't have to what I do.
In a formal context, it started with new furniture, years ago.
At the time I had acquired every piece of furniture in my possession for free or fewer than twenty dollars. That made me proud.
It evolved to yard-envy.
For the bulk of my children's lives, we haven't had one. I often wonder if it has contributed negatively to their personal senses of well-being and relaxation, but it has remained out of reach and we survive.
More recently, it reared when a friend asked me to sign as witness to his will.
I don't have a will, nor can I manage the legal fees that would make a smart one. It doesn't really matter if it's a one-time fee until my assets, uh, materialize - I just can't make myself pay for definitions of me.
I've never particularly cared about having a car younger than my children....
.....though I do fantasize that a newer car would need less service.
The real thief of my contending daily happiness, however, is something much more mundane, something that seemingly constantly changes on the faces of people I see.
That thief is glasses. Mostly, getting new glasses.
I've been wearing the same glasses for at least seven years (that's as far back as my Facebook goes, where photos of me are conveniently archived and reveal as such). Yes, my prescription has changed, and yes I have had it checked twice in that time. Glasses are expensive, like plane ticket expensive, or half a year of car insurance expensive, or two months of groceries expensive. I've opted for the lower-cost of contacts a couple of times, but then there's the more regular expense of those and the annual eye exams to keep them in stock.
When I acquired private pay health insurance a year ago, having a vision exam benefit was one of my most important criteria. Having needed glasses since the age of 7 informed that choice. Having children blessed with perfect vision made routine eye maintenance less visible. When it comes down to it, it's fairly easy to wear old glasses and not buy plane tickets. It's less easy to function without car insurance and groceries. Making do with the glasses one has perpetuates itself easily.
This is where the thief of happiness plot thickens. When you've spent hours navigating and comparing health insurance benefits, there's an additional thief of happiness on the horizon - it's the thief that makes you choose one aspect of wellness over another. It's the thief that reasons that less expensive specialist co-pays are an asset when you need to see a specialist on a regular basis.
And when health insurance premiums rise, it's the thief that comes back for more when it doesn't feel like there's more to be taken, just when you were happy you were affording health insurance at all.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
J Stats
When I entered online dating purposefully about six months ago, I had an open mind to what I would encounter. More than anything, I sought to increase the amount of positive feedback in my personal life. Parenting teenagers doesn't always afford that sweetness, and since my free time had recently doubled to two whole nights a week, I thought I could manage an influx of socialization.
I had been on a handful of truly blind dates in the prior four years, strictly relying on the acquaintances of people I knew. As might be predicted, that turned into a second date just once.
Mathematically speaking, 20% of the time.
His name started with J.
With the first six months of intentional online date dabbling coming to a close, there's a new round of statistics oddly interesting to me:
Two of my first four dates had names that started with the letter J.
To date (and to the best of my memory), 36% of the men I have agreed to meet have J names.
(There are other multiples too; 2 had M names. 2 had A names.)
(Given my family naming practices, this is also slightly fascinating).)
100% of my J dates I saw three or more times.
Typical span of other dates: 1
Number of dates without J names I went out with more than twice: 1.
Number of men I was on the fence about meeting and then didn't because I learned his name also started with a J: 1.
The J thing is what, a coincidence? A generational likelihood?
A similar phenomenon happened at my birthday event this year, a congregation of K names. At one point, 14 people were in attendance and 50% of them had names that started with the letter K. (Mostly female, one of them was male). Weird, right?
To qualify for the math olympiad of my dating stats, how many men have I met?
;)
(Yes, I do know there's not enough information provided to answer that).
I had been on a handful of truly blind dates in the prior four years, strictly relying on the acquaintances of people I knew. As might be predicted, that turned into a second date just once.
Mathematically speaking, 20% of the time.
His name started with J.
With the first six months of intentional online date dabbling coming to a close, there's a new round of statistics oddly interesting to me:
Two of my first four dates had names that started with the letter J.
To date (and to the best of my memory), 36% of the men I have agreed to meet have J names.
(There are other multiples too; 2 had M names. 2 had A names.)
(Given my family naming practices, this is also slightly fascinating).)
100% of my J dates I saw three or more times.
Typical span of other dates: 1
Number of dates without J names I went out with more than twice: 1.
Number of men I was on the fence about meeting and then didn't because I learned his name also started with a J: 1.
The J thing is what, a coincidence? A generational likelihood?
A similar phenomenon happened at my birthday event this year, a congregation of K names. At one point, 14 people were in attendance and 50% of them had names that started with the letter K. (Mostly female, one of them was male). Weird, right?
To qualify for the math olympiad of my dating stats, how many men have I met?
;)
(Yes, I do know there's not enough information provided to answer that).
Monday, August 15, 2016
From the Dating Files of..... a Unicorn of the Pacific Northwest
As a guy I barely know once said, dating is a great reflecting pool for yourself.
That's true, most often, but it's also great because collecting the stories is much, much more gratifying than whatever it was we collected as kids in the '80s (what comes to mind are those plastic charm necklaces, Garbage Pail Kids cards, cute stationery and what I called 'special' pens and pencils. I also had a thing for unicorns, now that I think about it).
It's not the reason I got in the water in the first place, but it seems to be the reason I keep treading it.
I've learned a few things about myself, some unexpected, and I've learned a few more about the grievances I have with recurring factors of online dating. Loosely, they have informed what you might call my Rules.
1) I can't do tall. I'm 5'2". Why are most of the men filtering through to me 6' and 6'2"?
I tried, I went ahead and met someone a whole foot taller than me, and it was odd and rapidly awkward. Really nice guy. Really too tall. Really not for me.
2) You can have my phone number if I've met you and I want you to have it.
You can't have my phone number just because you ask for it online and don't even offer your own.
3) Re-branding is a fair marketing strategy. I see men periodically reinvent themselves with new profile names, new written profile information, but the SAME photos.
As if this makes them unrecognizable. Re-branding is probably a pretty good idea after some amount of time, but it doesn't really change the first impressions that have been made, especially when you come lurking at my profile all over again.
4) "Instead of trying to talk on here, can I have your number?"
Almost always, no. Because I don't really want you to send me photos of your body parts.
Pro-tip: offer yours first and you might dupe me.
5) The jury is still out on Space Camp. This shows up in a lot of men's profiles. I really wanted to go to NASA Space Camp when I was a kid. As I understand it, there's the Space Camp we all wanted to go to when we were kids that cost a fortune, and there's a contemporary version for adults. I don't know anything about that one. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems really surprising that all these guys in Portland, Oregon are characterized by having been to NASA Space Camp. Right?
6) Lying on your profile and then admitting you've lied on a first or second date is ... off-putting.
Sure, lying to get a different kind of attention works. But don't most people value honesty pretty highly, or is that just my unique adult behavior? Why lie about your age, smoking and drinking? Most of it belies itself.
7) Dating profiles have provided me with new vocabulary. I'm still not convinced sapiosexual is a thing.
I probably won't be interested in meeting you on the merit of you claiming this, because let's face it, I like to like what I see.
8) I'm sad for the people that use or respond to any version of this: "You're too beautiful to be single."
It's probably supposed to be a compliment, I know. This kind of sentence makes me want to shake my head violently and cry all at the same time. Please give me something better to work with than some kind of a comment suggesting something is wrong with single.
9) "Native Portlanders Rock. We're the unicorns of the Pacific Northwest."
It's hard to say the right thing. It really is.
That's true, most often, but it's also great because collecting the stories is much, much more gratifying than whatever it was we collected as kids in the '80s (what comes to mind are those plastic charm necklaces, Garbage Pail Kids cards, cute stationery and what I called 'special' pens and pencils. I also had a thing for unicorns, now that I think about it).
It's not the reason I got in the water in the first place, but it seems to be the reason I keep treading it.
I've learned a few things about myself, some unexpected, and I've learned a few more about the grievances I have with recurring factors of online dating. Loosely, they have informed what you might call my Rules.
1) I can't do tall. I'm 5'2". Why are most of the men filtering through to me 6' and 6'2"?
I tried, I went ahead and met someone a whole foot taller than me, and it was odd and rapidly awkward. Really nice guy. Really too tall. Really not for me.
2) You can have my phone number if I've met you and I want you to have it.
You can't have my phone number just because you ask for it online and don't even offer your own.
3) Re-branding is a fair marketing strategy. I see men periodically reinvent themselves with new profile names, new written profile information, but the SAME photos.
As if this makes them unrecognizable. Re-branding is probably a pretty good idea after some amount of time, but it doesn't really change the first impressions that have been made, especially when you come lurking at my profile all over again.
4) "Instead of trying to talk on here, can I have your number?"
Almost always, no. Because I don't really want you to send me photos of your body parts.
Pro-tip: offer yours first and you might dupe me.
5) The jury is still out on Space Camp. This shows up in a lot of men's profiles. I really wanted to go to NASA Space Camp when I was a kid. As I understand it, there's the Space Camp we all wanted to go to when we were kids that cost a fortune, and there's a contemporary version for adults. I don't know anything about that one. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems really surprising that all these guys in Portland, Oregon are characterized by having been to NASA Space Camp. Right?
6) Lying on your profile and then admitting you've lied on a first or second date is ... off-putting.
Sure, lying to get a different kind of attention works. But don't most people value honesty pretty highly, or is that just my unique adult behavior? Why lie about your age, smoking and drinking? Most of it belies itself.
7) Dating profiles have provided me with new vocabulary. I'm still not convinced sapiosexual is a thing.
I probably won't be interested in meeting you on the merit of you claiming this, because let's face it, I like to like what I see.
8) I'm sad for the people that use or respond to any version of this: "You're too beautiful to be single."
It's probably supposed to be a compliment, I know. This kind of sentence makes me want to shake my head violently and cry all at the same time. Please give me something better to work with than some kind of a comment suggesting something is wrong with single.
9) "Native Portlanders Rock. We're the unicorns of the Pacific Northwest."
It's hard to say the right thing. It really is.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Mass on Dementia, Dementia on Mass
I couldn't have guessed at 40 that I'd return to Mass with my dad. Until this year, my adult Mass aerobics have been primarily reserved to weddings and funerals, places that have the merit of feeling familiar from childhood but foreign by virtue of absence. I say aerobics because the mechanics of a Mass - all that standing up, sitting down, kneeling, turning one's torso for peace and greetings - en masse - is a phenomenal testament to the power of ritual and practice.
Writing this I'm even thinking about the aerobics of what Mass would look like without sound in a time-lapse video. The more estranged I was from the experience, the more powerful the oddity. Since going more regularly, it feels less strange, but lately my dad has had a harder time with all the ups and downs. I imagine it's a little like what I feel if I get off track with yoga - the unfamiliarity of intentionally working my muscles makes me grimace too.
To make it to my late Sunday morning yoga class, that means we go to the 8 a.m. Mass, which also means I am out of the house early on Sundays to get to North Portland on time, earlier than any other day of the week. I dreaded going as a kid. It was boring, and of course there was the unforgettable day as a young teenager that I saw a grown woman's white skirt flush with her monthly blood over the course of a Mass a few pews ahead of me that scarred me into thinking I could suffer something similar. I enjoy going to Mass because it's so clear how my great affinity for group singing and the power of ritual have shaped me, and because my dad lights up. Even if we walk away from the house and he's grumbling or upset, it dissolves once we've walked to the church. He sings everything - although rarely does he know the words. I try to make it easier by finding the hymns in the missal (because the task of finding a chronological number in a book is a task rendering defeat with dementia), though only sometimes can he follow along the words as I track them with my finger.
My dad grew up in a large Catholic family. A non-negotiable tenet of my parents' marriage was to raise us five kids Catholic, yet it was my Lutheran mom who escorted us to Catholic Mass on Sundays and traipsed some of us to Catholic grade school. I really don't remember attending Mass with my dad as a kid, but in his childhood he was an altar boy and even considered priesthood. (Side note: I am fascinated how many men I meet who have considered this as well.) I realized he was missing Mass about a year ago and going was one of the best ways I could integrate my rare free time into spending time with him on a schedule.
I have to admit, I rather enjoy going to Mass with my dad now. There's the Mechanics of Mass, but there's also the Songs. I'm pretty sure it's my dad's favorite part of going. Catholic hymns are a conundrum to me. Half the time, the words are absurd to me but the melodies are so catchy or so familiar from my youth that I can't help singing them. It doesn't really matter if my dad isn't singing the right words, because he also sings that special brand of sing that makes mumble words sound appropriate. I believe he sings because it fires up something in his brain that gives him peace and clarity. I've made an effort to really listen to the readings as well, and to think critically about how clever the priest is or isn't about his homily (today is still a toss up, as he was comparing the natural conservation management of forest fire to Jesus' division in families to prune out what won't survive). But I also try to hear what my dad may or may not be hearing. On Father's Day this year, I caught sight of my dad's face during the homily and saw that tears were streaming down his face. I won't ever know if something he heard is what made my dad cry that day, but I do know that the space of the Mass made it more comfortable. The clarity of the familiar ritual and place, the Mass on dementia, the dementia on Mass.
Writing this I'm even thinking about the aerobics of what Mass would look like without sound in a time-lapse video. The more estranged I was from the experience, the more powerful the oddity. Since going more regularly, it feels less strange, but lately my dad has had a harder time with all the ups and downs. I imagine it's a little like what I feel if I get off track with yoga - the unfamiliarity of intentionally working my muscles makes me grimace too.
To make it to my late Sunday morning yoga class, that means we go to the 8 a.m. Mass, which also means I am out of the house early on Sundays to get to North Portland on time, earlier than any other day of the week. I dreaded going as a kid. It was boring, and of course there was the unforgettable day as a young teenager that I saw a grown woman's white skirt flush with her monthly blood over the course of a Mass a few pews ahead of me that scarred me into thinking I could suffer something similar. I enjoy going to Mass because it's so clear how my great affinity for group singing and the power of ritual have shaped me, and because my dad lights up. Even if we walk away from the house and he's grumbling or upset, it dissolves once we've walked to the church. He sings everything - although rarely does he know the words. I try to make it easier by finding the hymns in the missal (because the task of finding a chronological number in a book is a task rendering defeat with dementia), though only sometimes can he follow along the words as I track them with my finger.
My dad grew up in a large Catholic family. A non-negotiable tenet of my parents' marriage was to raise us five kids Catholic, yet it was my Lutheran mom who escorted us to Catholic Mass on Sundays and traipsed some of us to Catholic grade school. I really don't remember attending Mass with my dad as a kid, but in his childhood he was an altar boy and even considered priesthood. (Side note: I am fascinated how many men I meet who have considered this as well.) I realized he was missing Mass about a year ago and going was one of the best ways I could integrate my rare free time into spending time with him on a schedule.
I have to admit, I rather enjoy going to Mass with my dad now. There's the Mechanics of Mass, but there's also the Songs. I'm pretty sure it's my dad's favorite part of going. Catholic hymns are a conundrum to me. Half the time, the words are absurd to me but the melodies are so catchy or so familiar from my youth that I can't help singing them. It doesn't really matter if my dad isn't singing the right words, because he also sings that special brand of sing that makes mumble words sound appropriate. I believe he sings because it fires up something in his brain that gives him peace and clarity. I've made an effort to really listen to the readings as well, and to think critically about how clever the priest is or isn't about his homily (today is still a toss up, as he was comparing the natural conservation management of forest fire to Jesus' division in families to prune out what won't survive). But I also try to hear what my dad may or may not be hearing. On Father's Day this year, I caught sight of my dad's face during the homily and saw that tears were streaming down his face. I won't ever know if something he heard is what made my dad cry that day, but I do know that the space of the Mass made it more comfortable. The clarity of the familiar ritual and place, the Mass on dementia, the dementia on Mass.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
My Kingdom For That Deeper Version of Herself
Last night in Quito, a 5.1 earthquake shook the airport and put waves in the windows 5 minutes prior to my daughter boarding her flight for home after 6 weeks living in third world community. We got 4 straight hours of story and conversation upon her return, I'm sure the tiniest sample of the experiences that reshaped and returned this incredibly calm, even more independent, present 17 year old being.
A deeper version of herself. The one I've been ready to know.
I'm 100% satisfied with that!
She lived at 12,000 feet with no running water in a community of 250 that had no prior program experience and perhaps doubted the purpose of the program, without major illness (just one episode of food poisoning from eating guinea pig intestines), scabies, peril or tough temptation, unlike most of her fellow volunteers.
There were days she hated it, I am sure. Her initial partner left almost immediately, her replacement partner resented being reassigned where she had to bed in a cheese-making closet.
I can probably never tell this story, her story, in a way that would be agreeable to her. But this I know - mama pride is a given, and I give my kingdom for this and the deeper versions my daughters grow in themselves.
A deeper version of herself. The one I've been ready to know.
I'm 100% satisfied with that!
She lived at 12,000 feet with no running water in a community of 250 that had no prior program experience and perhaps doubted the purpose of the program, without major illness (just one episode of food poisoning from eating guinea pig intestines), scabies, peril or tough temptation, unlike most of her fellow volunteers.
There were days she hated it, I am sure. Her initial partner left almost immediately, her replacement partner resented being reassigned where she had to bed in a cheese-making closet.
I can probably never tell this story, her story, in a way that would be agreeable to her. But this I know - mama pride is a given, and I give my kingdom for this and the deeper versions my daughters grow in themselves.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Dating Makes Me Boy Crazy and Man Discouraged
At age 40 I could still count the number of blind dates I had endured on one hand. I know I'm not the only one that had to convince myself mightily that entering the moxie and mystery of online dating was going to be a productive method to the madness. My online profile went live before I really understood what and how the process worked, and sure enough it only took hours to get roped into an online chat with someone who proceeded to invite me to coffee - after his kids went to bed. Not being a regular coffee drinker and not one who drinks it after noon (not to mention thinking more about who was going to be at home with those sleeping kids), I felt my sense of flexibility immediately hanging in the balance, and asked where he had in mind. He said Shari's.
In Portland, Shari's might have passed muster in high school. Not now.
I got out of that conversation right then.
Several months later, dozens of conversational misfires, many solid first dates, a few wacky experiences and (thankfully) some pleasantly memorable companionship, my experience reveals some commonalities among eligible men:
1) Emotional intelligence isn't a given in men over 40.
2) Most men bring an ex (or two) into the conversation on a first date. And I don't mean in the explaining their history way, I mean in the I'm-going-to-talk-about-my-ex way.
3) Seeing where and how men live sooner than later is a darn good idea.
4) The inner teenager of men (and their exes) is alarmingly vital. And vitally alarming.
(This last is the revelation of being texted by an ex-girlfriend who stole my number out of my (really darn lovely) date's phone).
And in my experience (by which I mean men I've met more than once), men largely fall into one of three basic categories:
1) Nice but uninspiring
2) Inspiring but arrogant
3) Hot
Sadly, they rarely fall into positive multiples.
Lately, third dates seem to be the hangup.
Accepting or offering a third date with someone means there is some kind of clear connection, chemistry or just plain good fun. You know, worth the time, or at least reverencing a plan made a week in advance. I have a little courtesy reminder for the folk who find themselves at this stage in the game.
1) When you send the text that cancels the plans made with advance consideration, take care you're not immediately after also sending me the "I cleared my schedule!" text meant for someone else.
2) When you spend a weekend waffling between me and the ex that suddenly wants you back, just figure out what you want without expecting I'm going to get involved. I'm not.
3) Keep your phone to yourself - so my number doesn't get stolen by that ex who actually acts on her own insecurities to text me late at night!
I don't think I could make up this stuff unless I tried.....or was writing bad young adult fiction.
Yes, I am still dating.
In Portland, Shari's might have passed muster in high school. Not now.
I got out of that conversation right then.
Several months later, dozens of conversational misfires, many solid first dates, a few wacky experiences and (thankfully) some pleasantly memorable companionship, my experience reveals some commonalities among eligible men:
1) Emotional intelligence isn't a given in men over 40.
2) Most men bring an ex (or two) into the conversation on a first date. And I don't mean in the explaining their history way, I mean in the I'm-going-to-talk-about-my-ex way.
3) Seeing where and how men live sooner than later is a darn good idea.
4) The inner teenager of men (and their exes) is alarmingly vital. And vitally alarming.
(This last is the revelation of being texted by an ex-girlfriend who stole my number out of my (really darn lovely) date's phone).
And in my experience (by which I mean men I've met more than once), men largely fall into one of three basic categories:
1) Nice but uninspiring
2) Inspiring but arrogant
3) Hot
Sadly, they rarely fall into positive multiples.
Lately, third dates seem to be the hangup.
Accepting or offering a third date with someone means there is some kind of clear connection, chemistry or just plain good fun. You know, worth the time, or at least reverencing a plan made a week in advance. I have a little courtesy reminder for the folk who find themselves at this stage in the game.
1) When you send the text that cancels the plans made with advance consideration, take care you're not immediately after also sending me the "I cleared my schedule!" text meant for someone else.
2) When you spend a weekend waffling between me and the ex that suddenly wants you back, just figure out what you want without expecting I'm going to get involved. I'm not.
3) Keep your phone to yourself - so my number doesn't get stolen by that ex who actually acts on her own insecurities to text me late at night!
I don't think I could make up this stuff unless I tried.....or was writing bad young adult fiction.
Yes, I am still dating.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Death Becomes Us
Death has been exceptionally visible this new year.
Death is nothing new. Death itself isn't a surprise, yet it interrupts life and what we're comfortable dreaming, wishing and knowing. When death takes stunning talent, like so many of those lately in the public eye, our comfort upends publicly, along with our dreams for the far reach of 80 with the best of them.
Death outpaces us uncomfortably sometimes. My young students love to dwell in the play of death, and it's hard to know what the depth of their interest is in this jarring reality. I'm attending as many funerals each year as weddings lately. Weddings don't take a lot of practice to manage one's emotions, but funerals, funerals pack so much remembering into one event that the circles of consciousness exhaust me for days. Nobody escapes death. Everyone can stand the practice of meeting it.
My 2016 started with a funeral, and a second one is ahead. My kids haven't had a lot of practice with human death, so even as their teenage selves expressed dismay at attending a family funeral I wondered how important it was to make them join. I think I was really responding to their fear and discomfort, which in turn made me respond to mine: what if we didn't get to practice death with people we didn't dearly love? How in the world would we manage when our truest loves demand departure?
Reading a picture book about the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. with my young students this week, I loved the story's easy assessment that he taught people how to solve problems and get along without hurting each other. What an easy sentiment for my students to understand. When I said that sounded like our school and asked the kids if they thought Martin Luther King would like our school, one immediately asked if he would visit. That's how I got to say he wasn't alive any more, long before we got to that chronology in the story. "He died? How did he die? Elvis died because he took too much medicine."
I had to explain he was shot, "Somebody shooted him to die? Why?"
Me: Sometimes people try to solve their problems by hurting each other. It's not the best way to solve problems.
It took us three days to corral the questions and energy to read this one book, but all three of those days we practiced death just a little bit. I'd like to think we are reaching toward 80 with a better comfort of how death ultimately becomes us.
Death is nothing new. Death itself isn't a surprise, yet it interrupts life and what we're comfortable dreaming, wishing and knowing. When death takes stunning talent, like so many of those lately in the public eye, our comfort upends publicly, along with our dreams for the far reach of 80 with the best of them.
Death outpaces us uncomfortably sometimes. My young students love to dwell in the play of death, and it's hard to know what the depth of their interest is in this jarring reality. I'm attending as many funerals each year as weddings lately. Weddings don't take a lot of practice to manage one's emotions, but funerals, funerals pack so much remembering into one event that the circles of consciousness exhaust me for days. Nobody escapes death. Everyone can stand the practice of meeting it.
My 2016 started with a funeral, and a second one is ahead. My kids haven't had a lot of practice with human death, so even as their teenage selves expressed dismay at attending a family funeral I wondered how important it was to make them join. I think I was really responding to their fear and discomfort, which in turn made me respond to mine: what if we didn't get to practice death with people we didn't dearly love? How in the world would we manage when our truest loves demand departure?
Reading a picture book about the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. with my young students this week, I loved the story's easy assessment that he taught people how to solve problems and get along without hurting each other. What an easy sentiment for my students to understand. When I said that sounded like our school and asked the kids if they thought Martin Luther King would like our school, one immediately asked if he would visit. That's how I got to say he wasn't alive any more, long before we got to that chronology in the story. "He died? How did he die? Elvis died because he took too much medicine."
I had to explain he was shot, "Somebody shooted him to die? Why?"
Me: Sometimes people try to solve their problems by hurting each other. It's not the best way to solve problems.
It took us three days to corral the questions and energy to read this one book, but all three of those days we practiced death just a little bit. I'd like to think we are reaching toward 80 with a better comfort of how death ultimately becomes us.
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