I'm over at Segullah again today, talking about the kind of powerful sisterly love that can exist between good friends. The post originally started out as a critique of romantic love--can you tell I'm just a little sour by Valentine's Day?--but it shifted to a more positive direction.
But I still have some thoughts on romantic love that I wanted to get out there before I lose them. And I don't need to be as articulate here as I do on Segullah (not nearly as many readers; although I daresay those readers are just as discerning!).
I spent most of high school and college hating Valentine's Day--it seemed like just one more day when I was reminded of my romantic inadequacies. I don't think I had a boyfriend for Valentine's day until the month before Dan and I got engaged. When we were dating, of course, Valentine's suddenly seemed like a fun idea--an excuse to get out and do something special for one another. It didn't hurt that I suddenly had a passport to inclusion in the romantic ideal.
I should note before I get much farther that my issue isn't with romance itself--after all, I enjoyed being courted, and I still enjoy a good chick flick or romantic novel. My problem is with our tendency in society to glamorize romance as an end in and of itself. To do so, I think, overlooks the fact that true love between couples entails much more than romance. C. S. Lewis talks somewhere (I tried and failed to find the quote) about how romantic love is a powerful emotion, but it's impossible to sustain--and those who enter marriage believing that this romantic high characterizes real love are bound to disappointment. Slowly, something deeper and more enduring replaces those initial exalted feelings. And honestly? I'm glad they do. When I look back on the year and a half that my husband and I were dating, most of what I remember are the discomforts of the drama, the uncertainty (and of course, uncertainty is a key part of the romantic tension that draws us to the romantic story), and the roller coaster highs and lows. To be honest, I'm often surprised that Dan still wanted to marry me when I remember the emotional basketcase that I was for much of our courtship.
Romance overlooks the idea that love is work. In the article by Patricia Holland that I quote in the Segullah post, she quotes author Eric Fromm: “Because one does not see that love is an activity, a power of the soul, one believes that all that is necessary to find is the right object—and that everything goes by itself afterward. This attitude can be compared to that of a man who wants to paint but who, instead of learning the art, claims that he has just to wait for the right object, and that he will paint beautifully when he finds it.” This, I think is one of the dangers inherent in romantic love--first, the idea that you only have to find the right object (I'm not a believer in soul mates--although obviously I think some people are more compatible than others); second, the idea that real love shouldn't entail work. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
One of the most eloquent passages I know on the idea of deep, committed marital love comes in George Eliot's Middlemarch (which in many ways reads like a primer on marital love, showing the spectrum from relationships founded on the illusion of romantic love, to the more enduring relationships between flawed human beings). Towards the end of the novel, one of the characters finds himself socially disgraced when some misdeed in his past comes to light. His wife, according to the social dictates of the time, has to share in his disgrace. But movingly, when she finds out, she comes home and, rather than reproaching her husband, she goes quietly upstairs and removes the frivolous bonnet she'd been wearing out visiting, and replaces it with a quieter, simpler one, symbolic of her acceptance of the situation. She'd married her husband in prosperity, but she'd married the man and not the position, and when he lost his position, she was still willing to stand by him. That, I've always thought, is what real love should look like.
The final issue I have with romantic love is that it sets most of us up for disappointment, somehow conveying the idea that if your relationship doesn't look like this, then there must be something wrong. But truth be told, neither Dan nor I are much for romantic gestures; I'd rather he didn't spend the money on the flowers (I don't mind them other times of the year, but I'd rather save the $30 at V-day); and I can't imagine Dan reciting a poem to me to save his life (well, maybe to save his life). Instead, our "romantic" gestures are much more mundane and domestic: he gets up with the kids in the morning to buy me an extra forty minutes of sleep; I try to keep things somewhat organized around the house so that our domestic routines are smoother. Not the stuff that romantic songs are made of, but they do make our lives richer.
Now, I'm not trying to dissuade anyone from celebrating Valentine's Day (if they so choose--our few experiences with over-priced meals on the day itself have kind of turned us off it), only saying that there's more to life than romantic love. And more to love (I suppose I should have clarified in the beginning that I mean eros when I talk of love--not philia, storge or even agape--none of these have quite the same issues of commercial distortion) than just romance.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Friday, December 17, 2010
The only thing to fear . . .
. . . is fear itself? Sometimes I wonder about that.
Last night I had what I can only call a "fear" attack--it felt a little like a panic attack: this cold, unreasoning feeling (in the back of my mind, it really did seem irrational) that I couldn't shake off. My husband finally talked me through it, but for about half an hour I felt like I wanted to curl into a tight ball and just disappear.
What was I so afraid of? Well, it almost sounds silly in black and white (and in daylight): I'd been reading predictions about the future of the university (some, like Bill Gates, maintain that in 5-10 years most of university work will be done online) and I had this terrible vision of a future where my husband and I were out of work (with no hope of employment) because we lived in this futuristic society with technology that was beyond us. Today, of course, this seems laughable: while I do think universities are going to rely increasingly on online courses, I don't know that there will be such a drastic shift so quickly--I think that the "university experience" of sitting in classes and sharing apartments with other like minded souls is such a powerful part of going to college that it will persist to some degree. Also, it's unlikely that both of us (we're smart, hard-working people) would suddenly become so inept that we couldn't learn a new trade if we had to.
Still, the feeling of fear was very real and very intense. And telling myself that it was irrational--or that it was a failure of faith on my part--didn't seem to help.
Am I the only one who ever feels like this? What do you (that is, if anyone is reading this with similar experience) do to snap out of it?
Last night I had what I can only call a "fear" attack--it felt a little like a panic attack: this cold, unreasoning feeling (in the back of my mind, it really did seem irrational) that I couldn't shake off. My husband finally talked me through it, but for about half an hour I felt like I wanted to curl into a tight ball and just disappear.
What was I so afraid of? Well, it almost sounds silly in black and white (and in daylight): I'd been reading predictions about the future of the university (some, like Bill Gates, maintain that in 5-10 years most of university work will be done online) and I had this terrible vision of a future where my husband and I were out of work (with no hope of employment) because we lived in this futuristic society with technology that was beyond us. Today, of course, this seems laughable: while I do think universities are going to rely increasingly on online courses, I don't know that there will be such a drastic shift so quickly--I think that the "university experience" of sitting in classes and sharing apartments with other like minded souls is such a powerful part of going to college that it will persist to some degree. Also, it's unlikely that both of us (we're smart, hard-working people) would suddenly become so inept that we couldn't learn a new trade if we had to.
Still, the feeling of fear was very real and very intense. And telling myself that it was irrational--or that it was a failure of faith on my part--didn't seem to help.
Am I the only one who ever feels like this? What do you (that is, if anyone is reading this with similar experience) do to snap out of it?
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Post-Party slump
Last night, about quarter after nine, I decided officially that I must be crazy.
Why, you might ask? Well, at that point I was in the throes of frosting a cake for my soon-to-be five-year-old's birthday party. The cake was constructed, the sides and top were frosted, and all that remained was the construction and frosting of a nightfury (the main dragon from How to Train Your Dragon, for the uninitiated). That's all.
I have this little problem with over-ambitious cakes. I blame it on taking a series of cake-decorating classes several years ago (and a current fondness for Food Network's Cake Challenges, among other things): I now have delusions of grandeur. And, since I only ever make these cakes twice a year (once for each kid's birthday), I have plenty of time in between to forget that maybe I'm not quite as talented at making cakes as I'd like to believe.
But I digress. The cake was eventually finished (at close to 10 p.m.), and this morning, almost as soon as I was coherent, I was back into the swing of things, getting ready for the party this morning. I roped my husband into helping, and by 9:30 (the party was at 10 a.m.), the house was clean, the floors mopped, the activities staged, the cake ready for display.
All this preparation: and within less than an hour four little boys had swept through all of it: the snacks, the activities, the cake . . . And I find myself wondering, why do I do this? Why do we, as a culture, do this? (I'm pretty certain I wouldn't go to all this effort if there weren't a certain amount of cultural expectation attendant on birthday parties). Of course, I have my own reasons: I'm not always the most fun, or spontaneous of mothers, and I want my kids to have some memories of me from childhood as the fun mom who put on good birthday parties; I want my son to know that I love him, and some of that is reflected in the amount of effort I put into his party (and the cake); and (if I'm really honest), I want to impress people with my cake-making abilities. (Which are by no means professional, but are--if I say so myself--at least a little above par). So, a mix of selfish and altruistic motives.
Something funny happens after a party--after all the rush and enthusiasm you're left with, what? An empty house and a mess to clean up: crumpled wrapping paper on the floor, half-eaten bits of cake on plates (and on the floor), scattered party favors. Personally, I always find the aftermath a little depressing. I don't have enough perspective on the event to savor the memory (which is usually overshadowed by the effort to pull it off); the introvert in me is exhausted; and the emptiness (and the mess) are somehow daunting.
Wouldn't it, then, be easier simply to not have birthday celebrations? Or holidays? (With Christmas looming over me--and presents purchased but not yet wrapped--I can't escape the comparison). Wouldn't it be easier to simply let the days slide past in an undifferentiated, mildly pleasant haze?
I'm not so sure. Personally, most of the time I *like* the anticipation of change. I even like the challenge (if I'm not overburdened with other tasks) of pulling together a smallish event. On the whole, I think I'd rather have a life punctuated with both highs--and lows--than one that hums along monotonously (even if that might be more comfortable most of the time). Just remind me I said this next time I find myself in a post-party slump.
Why, you might ask? Well, at that point I was in the throes of frosting a cake for my soon-to-be five-year-old's birthday party. The cake was constructed, the sides and top were frosted, and all that remained was the construction and frosting of a nightfury (the main dragon from How to Train Your Dragon, for the uninitiated). That's all.
I have this little problem with over-ambitious cakes. I blame it on taking a series of cake-decorating classes several years ago (and a current fondness for Food Network's Cake Challenges, among other things): I now have delusions of grandeur. And, since I only ever make these cakes twice a year (once for each kid's birthday), I have plenty of time in between to forget that maybe I'm not quite as talented at making cakes as I'd like to believe.
But I digress. The cake was eventually finished (at close to 10 p.m.), and this morning, almost as soon as I was coherent, I was back into the swing of things, getting ready for the party this morning. I roped my husband into helping, and by 9:30 (the party was at 10 a.m.), the house was clean, the floors mopped, the activities staged, the cake ready for display.
All this preparation: and within less than an hour four little boys had swept through all of it: the snacks, the activities, the cake . . . And I find myself wondering, why do I do this? Why do we, as a culture, do this? (I'm pretty certain I wouldn't go to all this effort if there weren't a certain amount of cultural expectation attendant on birthday parties). Of course, I have my own reasons: I'm not always the most fun, or spontaneous of mothers, and I want my kids to have some memories of me from childhood as the fun mom who put on good birthday parties; I want my son to know that I love him, and some of that is reflected in the amount of effort I put into his party (and the cake); and (if I'm really honest), I want to impress people with my cake-making abilities. (Which are by no means professional, but are--if I say so myself--at least a little above par). So, a mix of selfish and altruistic motives.
Something funny happens after a party--after all the rush and enthusiasm you're left with, what? An empty house and a mess to clean up: crumpled wrapping paper on the floor, half-eaten bits of cake on plates (and on the floor), scattered party favors. Personally, I always find the aftermath a little depressing. I don't have enough perspective on the event to savor the memory (which is usually overshadowed by the effort to pull it off); the introvert in me is exhausted; and the emptiness (and the mess) are somehow daunting.
Wouldn't it, then, be easier simply to not have birthday celebrations? Or holidays? (With Christmas looming over me--and presents purchased but not yet wrapped--I can't escape the comparison). Wouldn't it be easier to simply let the days slide past in an undifferentiated, mildly pleasant haze?
I'm not so sure. Personally, most of the time I *like* the anticipation of change. I even like the challenge (if I'm not overburdened with other tasks) of pulling together a smallish event. On the whole, I think I'd rather have a life punctuated with both highs--and lows--than one that hums along monotonously (even if that might be more comfortable most of the time). Just remind me I said this next time I find myself in a post-party slump.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Reflections on Christmas and Memory
It's that time of the month again (and no, I don't know what you're thinking): I've posted over at Segullah. Please come visit!
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Truth hurts--so does rejection
Last night, as I was winding down an intense class-prep session (yes, I do live the high life! But with little kids, evening is really my only work time) when I checked my school email and found a message waiting for me that I'd been anticipating for some time.
See, I promised myself this summer that I'd finally send off parts of my dissertation to see if I could get them published. I didn't quite make it this summer; instead, the first weekend of the semester, I spent an evening cutting down one of my chapters, changing the introduction, and blithely sending it off. I suppose I should have seen the writing on the wall then: arrogance (in my experience) almost always begs for a set-down.
Anyway, I opened the email. Instead of the expected congratulatory line, I found a flat-out rejection. There were reasons given (in retrospect, pretty good reasons), but all I really read was: "you're not good enough for this kind of research. What made you think you could be a scholar?"
I was pretty upset about it. (Okay, I admit it: I cried. I'd like to think that had as much to do with it being late at the end of a long week with not enough sleep--on top of piles of paper, my two-year-old spent a restless night on Thursday with the croup--but it could have been largely hurt vanity).
When I tried to talk it out with my husband later, I came to the realization that part of the reason it hurt is that I still have so much of my identity--and self-value--tied up in the idea of my being a scholar. You know, that little bit of pride that lets me say, I'm not just a mom and a house-wife--I do research too! In high school, as an anxious and not very self-confident teenager, I found a lot of self-respect in being known as the smart one. I thought--wrongly, it appears--that I'd largely outgrown the need for outside validation.
My husband said, "You know, they say that the people who depend on things for their importance probably weren't very important to begin with." I know he meant to cheer me up, but this bit of wisdom actually depressed me more than it helped. Not because it meant that I wasn't important (I'm trying to come to grips with my mediocrity), but because it signaled so clearly how far I haven't come.
In our religious doctrine, we promote the idea that all individuals have inherent worth as children of God. While I know this--and teach my children and my teenage Sunday school students this--apparently I haven't internalized it. While I know my sense of self worth shouldn't depend on anyone's opinion but God's, apparently I don't really believe that. Apparently, there's a part of my teenage self that still exists inside of me, desperate for affirmation that yes, I am smart; that yes, I'm worthwhile because I'm smart. Or scholarly. (Or whatever the coveted virtue of the day is. Mostly it's being smart, because, see, I was raised in a family that privileged intelligence.)
A little bit of reflection put the rejection letter in perspective: the criticisms were valid--I'd cut down my chapter without thinking about the effects of taking a particular case study out of the context of the dissertation as a whole. And I can't be completely worthless at this scholarship thing: I did just get another paper accepted (granted, in a conference proceedings, so not nearly as competitive), and I even won an award for my dissertation. And just like that, I'm off, basing my validity as a person on external markers.
My question is, how can you take knowledge of a principle (like the idea that we are children of God) and turn that knowledge into actual heart-felt belief? Also, is it possible to ever entirely outgrown the need for outside affirmation? If any of my 3 readers has outgrown this need (or knows someone who has), do you want to tell me your secret?
See, I promised myself this summer that I'd finally send off parts of my dissertation to see if I could get them published. I didn't quite make it this summer; instead, the first weekend of the semester, I spent an evening cutting down one of my chapters, changing the introduction, and blithely sending it off. I suppose I should have seen the writing on the wall then: arrogance (in my experience) almost always begs for a set-down.
Anyway, I opened the email. Instead of the expected congratulatory line, I found a flat-out rejection. There were reasons given (in retrospect, pretty good reasons), but all I really read was: "you're not good enough for this kind of research. What made you think you could be a scholar?"
I was pretty upset about it. (Okay, I admit it: I cried. I'd like to think that had as much to do with it being late at the end of a long week with not enough sleep--on top of piles of paper, my two-year-old spent a restless night on Thursday with the croup--but it could have been largely hurt vanity).
When I tried to talk it out with my husband later, I came to the realization that part of the reason it hurt is that I still have so much of my identity--and self-value--tied up in the idea of my being a scholar. You know, that little bit of pride that lets me say, I'm not just a mom and a house-wife--I do research too! In high school, as an anxious and not very self-confident teenager, I found a lot of self-respect in being known as the smart one. I thought--wrongly, it appears--that I'd largely outgrown the need for outside validation.
My husband said, "You know, they say that the people who depend on things for their importance probably weren't very important to begin with." I know he meant to cheer me up, but this bit of wisdom actually depressed me more than it helped. Not because it meant that I wasn't important (I'm trying to come to grips with my mediocrity), but because it signaled so clearly how far I haven't come.
In our religious doctrine, we promote the idea that all individuals have inherent worth as children of God. While I know this--and teach my children and my teenage Sunday school students this--apparently I haven't internalized it. While I know my sense of self worth shouldn't depend on anyone's opinion but God's, apparently I don't really believe that. Apparently, there's a part of my teenage self that still exists inside of me, desperate for affirmation that yes, I am smart; that yes, I'm worthwhile because I'm smart. Or scholarly. (Or whatever the coveted virtue of the day is. Mostly it's being smart, because, see, I was raised in a family that privileged intelligence.)
A little bit of reflection put the rejection letter in perspective: the criticisms were valid--I'd cut down my chapter without thinking about the effects of taking a particular case study out of the context of the dissertation as a whole. And I can't be completely worthless at this scholarship thing: I did just get another paper accepted (granted, in a conference proceedings, so not nearly as competitive), and I even won an award for my dissertation. And just like that, I'm off, basing my validity as a person on external markers.
My question is, how can you take knowledge of a principle (like the idea that we are children of God) and turn that knowledge into actual heart-felt belief? Also, is it possible to ever entirely outgrown the need for outside affirmation? If any of my 3 readers has outgrown this need (or knows someone who has), do you want to tell me your secret?
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