Being a Man: One Dance Step at a Time

In the past year I have delved deeper and deeper into the world of swing dancing, and as I've advanced in skill, I've begun to take short jaunts over the gender line and begun to lead instead of follow.

Last weekend in a swing class I decided to take on my greatest opponent yet and attempt to learn the male part of the lindy hop. As it took six months of regularly making a fool of myself to learn the girl part in this step, I assumed this would be an arduous and painful process. However, the boredom that would be induced by going through my umpteenth beginner’s lindy lesson as a follow was not to be tolerated. I had no choice; I must bury my pride and be a man.

When I first walked across and joined the "man's" side of the lesson I received some incredulous looks. As the instructor told us to pair up his eyes paused on me for a second and he said slowly "So.... you are a man?" "Yes I am" I said with confidence. I was not confident, but I was not about to let this MAN go thinking I was afraid of being a man. "I know plenty of men," I thought "this can't be that hard."

But it was. There is so much to think about when you are leading; especially when you are leading a girl who has no idea what she is doing (and is, not to mention, much taller than you). And there is all this pressure. With every hiccup in the process I could almost hear the girl thinking "You're the lead, you fix it." I became tense. I could feel my face contort into the strained expression I see on so many of the men I dance with. This was very hard, but I was determined to be a good man. I focused in. I will lead well. I can be a man.

First I was told I wasn't being clear enough in my leading. So, I tightened up. Next thing I know, I am being told that I am "man-handling" my follow. Despite the fact that this was a criticism I couldn't help being a little pleased at the thought of my getting in trouble for being overly masculine.

After much trial and error I am pleased to report to you that by the end of the night I had the lead's side of the lindy hop down pat. The last girl I danced with told me I was better than most men she knew at being a man.

No offense to any of you who have spent long years learning to be men, but I can't say I'm surprised. I always had a sneaking suspicion that I could be a man if I just put my mind to it.

Two Men in a Nursing Home

[Preface: Goodness gracious, am I feeling prolific lately or what?!?]

I just left a nursing home where I visit a friend of mine every couple of weeks. My friend has been through countless hardships since he entered the home 4 years ago after a stroke, but most recently he had both of his feet amputated. Today as we caught up with each other, he confessed to me that he had been in very bad spirits. He admitted apologetically that he'd been very sad and angry lately, and that he had decided he would ask his doctor if he could up the dosage on some meds that he takes to get out of his "bad mood." Because, you see, he knows full well (from the uneasy looks from nurses and friends like me) that it is inappropriate that he be sad and angry. The kind thing to do would be to not bother himself (or the rest of us) with his grief and outrage over his life circumstances. It's embarrassing really, and if he doesn't medicate it away pretty quickly, people will get tired of him.

I left wondering about this shame with which we often carry our sadness. I get the impression that we expect ourselves on the whole to be basically happy and content (unless someone has died, and even that excuse runs out pretty quickly). I often feel extremely ridiculous for my pain. I apologize to people who see it. "Sorry I'm hurting, I'll do better next time." The pain somehow seems indulgent and burdensome to others. "What right" I think to myself, "do I have to hurt??" Typing this thought so overtly now sounds absurd, but it is most certainly a mantra that plays in my mind regularly. For some odd reason, we feel embarrassed for our pain.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I find myself most embarrassed about pain that is connected to romantic love, or one of the avenues to get there (namely: dating). It is not uncommon for me to bemoan the whole exercise as a terrific waste of my energy and resources. Why on earth should anyone expose themselves to a type of relationship so riddled with hidden possible injuries? But today after visiting my friend - my friend who even now has begun to mourn the loss of my presence which will not happen for a year - I realized that wherever two people genuinely care for each other, pain is an inevitable bi-product. Even the most stable friendships and family relationships have no hope of avoiding pain. In the course of love you hurt each other; you get sick and are fearful for each other; you miss each other; you face painful aspects of yourself in each other's eyes. These relationships carry pain with them. Though I certainly think it is prudent to be careful with one's intimacies, it occurs to me just now that no one can "careful" themselves out of grief.

It's been years now since I cognitively rejected the American dream, but I cannot help but think that this rejection of sorrow as a normal response to everyday life is a symptom of my continued allegiance to it. Am I working for real goodness and love, or am I surreptitiously continuing on with my "rightful" pursuit of happiness?

I think my natural ideal is that I would deal with life, perhaps not always with a smile, but at least with gritted determination. Serious determination is acceptable, but not sadness and lament. But would it not be just as noble (or dare I say, more so?) for me to join Jesus as a "[wo]man of sorrows"? The truth is, I'd rather not be confined to either title. I don't want to be known as a cheerleader, or a prophetess of death and destruction (the way I've begun sometimes thinking of myself post-Bangladesh). "Would it be alright" I ponder seriously, "if I could express both joy and sadness as often as it seems I need them?... but how often is that?" Recently, reading a chapter on "self-love" in a textbook, I was told that people should make time to mourn. Alright then, I'll do that. What sounds appropriate for a mourning to happiness ratio? Say... mmmm... one day a week for mourning and the rest go to happiness?

I ended therapy with a long term client the other day who'd been struggling with depression. We talked for a while about how much progress she had made and how she was dealing with things differently, and feeling differently about herself. At one point I asked her about her sadness and she said it had not gone away. With some deliberation she admitted to me honestly, "I am still sad, but this past week I realized... well, maybe the sadness isn't a problem." To this incredibly brave soul, I say, "Amen."

---

I saw another man at the nursing home when I was first coming in. He was being wheeled toward a van as I approached the door. As I neared him he looked at me and cried loudly, "Do you know where I'm going?" "No, I'm sorry I don't" I said, assuming he had dementia. "I am going to see my wife of ONE hour. Can you believe that?!" He laughed. "Wow" I said, "you've been married one hour? Congratulations." "Yes" he pronounced joyfully, "52 years and 1 hour."

Life. Who would have guessed?

[Afterward: After composing this entry I decided to make chocolate chip cookies, and I have decided that this is a most superb post-pondering activity... in case you're looking for one :-) ]

Autumn.

[Preface: Before I get complaints, I want you to know that I recognize the fragmented nature of my blog entries. This entry you are about to encounter, for example, does not connect or build upon the last in the slightest. This is somewhat disconcerting to me as I like being organized and succinct about things, but I’ve decided that my experience of life is, only when standing far from it and analyzing after the fact, organized and succinct. If, however, you follow me more closely you’ll see that I seem to have multiple layers of experience all happening at the same time, and I move between them like themed floors on a tall building (i.e. today I’m on the 6^th floor: “Bangladesh,” but now I’m on the 13^th floor: “middle school boy drama,” etc.). Since the primary objective of this blog is my personal satisfaction (in fantastic contrast to my classes, research papers, and therapy sessions) I shall just do as I fancy. So, with no further ado, I present you: Autumn.]

The weather has taken its first serious turn to autumn just yesterday with a distinctive chill in the air. There is also this particular scent that assures you this is no misleading summer “cold front,” but without a doubt the beginning of a new season.

There will doubtless still be many warm days (as Christmas day often likes to enjoy a good laugh at us all in our red sweaters by suddenly upping the atmospheric thermostat to 85 degrees), but summer, in all its radiant glory, is most definitely done. It is time for the leaves to fall in earnest, for the smell of firewood, and the daily struggle to get out of my now delisciously warm and comfortable bed in the morning.

All of these thoughts seem so brilliantly cheerful, and yet, even before I cognitively registered the seasonal transformation taking hold, a sadness crept over me which seems so out of place that I can’t help but wonder at it. It is like I am remembering something painful, but no memories come to mind. Did something sad happen to me in the fall once that a psychodynamic therapist could pull from my subconscious? Or is my sun-addicted physiology starting a preemptive strike with the foreknowledge of the waning sunlight?

Neither seem to fit.

To be honest, it feels more like missing someone, but I don’t know who. Do you know what I mean? Something about the chill and the deep scent – the penetrating goodness of it – draw me toward… home. Yes. Home. A home it seems I do not know. Or perhaps it is all those beautiful moments when I’ve felt the most “home;” the joy, the deep rightness it, unwilling to be possessed, but only accepted as it chooses to come in soft waves.

Yes. That feels right.

I miss home.

The Emptiness.

[Preface: There is nothing new under the sun, and this blog entry is certainly no exception to the rule.]

I've been staring at the emptiness all afternoon. It started creeping in a couple of weeks ago. I could see it out of the corner of my vision as I went about my business. I found myself walking faster, barricading myself with work and friends to avoid it getting too near. I did a superb job of it, if I don't say so myself.

Until this afternoon.

This afternoon I came home to my silent house after visiting friends this weekend, and even before I opened the door I knew, I knew I would walk into it if I didn't take quick action to avoid it.

I pondered this for a moment on my doorstep before giving up the chase. You can't run forever, Emily. I walked in, and there it was, as expected. I allowed myself to be engulfed by the questions and the pain... the pain was there just like I had never left it. It feels like a large empty room with no exit, and no direction. An emptiness. And in this emptiness the questions spin and rack my spirit, there is nothing between them and me in the emptiness; no protective layer of preoccupation or busy-ness. Then just as suddenly as the questions started, they came to a halting stop. Does any of it matter, Emily?

I stopped crying and leaned into this question. It expanded in the emptiness. This question which has so many answers; so many solid answers I have experienced and given others... but suddenly it is new, urgent, and unresolved again. Ihave to know.

I've realized the pain isn't the problem, as I thought it would be. I can handle the pain. I've surely given myself much too much credit for being able to handle the pain. And I've been so sure that it matters. Something about sitting in this darkness at times feels keenly purposeful; it seems to change me. But then what do I have to show for the supposed "change." I wonder now, is all just wishful thinking?

So that is my question. Are the questions and pain and fighting through it all... does it matter? Does it make any difference? Will it make any difference? As I recognize the "predestination" philosophy behind these approaches, I shake it off and look squarely at myself: "Emily, are you going to make it purposeful or not?" Then, hot indignation rising within me, I turn back on myself "ME? How can I know? Can I infuse purpose?" Then I stop. I turn to God.

You tell me. I wait.

Please, I need you to tell me again. And I'm still waiting.

Co-Therapy

A second year student (a male) and I have some couples that we see as a team. We call this "co-therapy." Co-therapy is cool for many reasons, but can be problematic when the therapists have very different theoretical approaches. Like say one therapist is a "solution-focused" therapist, while the other is an "emotionally-focused" therapist.

Guess which one of us is which (if you are feeling unsure, remember, my co-therapist is of the male gender).

Though we have a great deal of respect for each other and each other's styles, sometimes (like a few hours ago when we stepped out in the middle of a session) we have conversations like this:
Co: "Emily, you really make people aware of their emotional vulnerabilities."
Me: "Thank you."
Co: "No, I mean, really fast, really early in the process."
Me: "Thank you so much."
Co: "Emily, this is not a compliment."
Me: "Oh, I think it is. You know, I'm sensing some anxiety from you right now, are you feeling hurt?"
Co: "No, I'm not feeling hurt, I'm feeling pissed off."
Me: "You know, anger is a secondary emotion, it is always covering up something... like hurt."
Co: "Shut up."
Me: "Just let it all out, don't be afraid."

the weakness

I've heard this snippit of a verse a lot lately that I had never noticed before “You desire truth in the inner parts..." (psalm 51). I've been thinking about it. And perhaps it is only part the power of the verse, and more so how it has interacted with my particular moment in life that speaks to me. I have learned this theoretical approach to counseling which (put simply) posits that we all have disparate parts of our minds, personalities if you will, and that in loving and integrating these we find health and wholeness.

So with this theory in my repertoire and this verse to spur me on I've been consciously trying to do this lately. Consciously try to see, hear, respect, and integrate all the parts of me. At first it was easy. I mean, I have some pretty fun parts. I have a dramatic part, an adventurous part, an intellectual philosopher. I have a deeply empathetic part who can take on the pain of the world. All these I embrace with open arms. “Yes please come and stay with me! Speak to me from your wisdom and I will venture forth!” I love these parts. But in this process I discover others hanging out in my inner homestead. Scared and vulnerable parts, hopeless parts, helpless, whiny, and – the most loathed – a needy part. I have a needy part who speaks to me of my inability to function on my own, my inability to overcome circumstances, and of the uncertainty of my future.

What can I do with these?? I don't want them living with me! I don't want to hear their incompetent voices crying for help. I want them out. Or, at least locked away in the basement so I don't have to listen to them. But, says my theory, therein lies the problem. The more I attempt to silence these parts, the more desperate they become. The more my inner world begins to show the tension that comes of “keeping up appearances.”

So, I've been trying to invite them back in. Trying to show them a place at the table. Trying to give them space to tell me what it is they need so badly. But still I can not contain my disgust. I am like a child whose mother forces her to invite the unpopular kid to her birthday party. It's written all over my face even as I show them to their seats, “You aren't really welcome here, I'm too good for you.” So they sit with their heads down, afraid to speak lest they be exiled again. And pity begins to grow in me. Shadows of other teachings come to my mind about God using the weak things to shame the wise.... of God loving our weakness.

Yet I am afraid. I am afraid if I embrace them that they will overwhelm and control me. But evidently, from what I know of this psychological theory, and from spiritual teachings, as long as I cannot accept the weakness in myself, as long as I despise it and only offer it a seat out of forced politeness; I also can not truly love and accept the weak ones of this world. In the measure that I disown myself, hate myself, I also hate them. I must love my brother, even as I love myself, or truly, I do not love either.

And as of this moment this is where I sit. I have called them out of the basement and made a place for them, but I cannot yet look in their eyes and call them mine... I cannot yet love my weakness, because I am afraid of who I will be if I do. If I love weakness will I be weak and incompetent? And isn't this what so many treacherous leaders have done? Didn't Hitler say, “You must get rid of the weak and the lame or we will be weak”? But Jesus said, “bring them to me.” Jesus said he wanted them in his Kingdom first. “But Jesus,” I argue “you can't mean the kind of weakness I'm talking about, you could never love my needy part, she is so ridiculous, no one could stand to be in her presence for long.”

And I want to hear him answer - yes, I long to know he says, “Oh how I love her Emily, oh how I love all of you.” But I can't yet. I can't.

A Confession.

Something has happened to me. I did not mean for this to happen. I did not choose this… it seems to have taken place below my line of vision, and I admit, I don’t know what to do with it. Something has intruded upon my life that was just beginning to feel stable again.

Against my better judgment and all expectation, a new faith is growing in me. My only explanation is that the seed must have been planted in my sleep for had I been awake I would never have allowed it. My breath was taken when I noticed the tiny green leaves pushing through the soil. I crouched close to the earth and stared, mouth agape. A sapling of trust. I did not make it, I did not build it, I did not toil or fight for it… and to my complete surprise the anger that would grab my hoe and rip it from the ground is no where to be found. I stand in silent, terrified joy. What does this mean?

I don’t know it’s future, but I have a shadowy vision of an ancient redwood; one whose roots reach deep, deep into the earth; whose leaves see all, catch the rain and take in all the sun has to offer, transforming it into life.

So, I know this is a bit awkward, but, hello Faith. I wasn’t expecting you, but you are welcome to stay.