Recently, a friend and I were comparing dating stories.  We agreed that my description of My Worst Date Ever is hard to top.  She laughed so hard that she cried, and urged me to write about it to share with others.  So, here goes.  Names have been changed to protect the [not so] innocent.

               I met my most recent ex-husband in a New Age bookstore in mid-1996.  Several months later, we began to date.  Well, he never actually called it "dating."  He preferred to think of it as "spending time together."  I should have known then that any long-term involvement was doomed.

               Fairly early in our "spending time together" phase, Keith asked me whether I'd like to accompany him to a healing circle and pot luck.  He told me that he'd spent a fair amount of time with this particular group of healers, massage therapists, and other similarly-minded spiritual people.  He described their energy as "sweet," and was certain that I'd enjoy the evening. 

               As someone who had recently discovered her affinity for energy work and healing, I was very interested in meeting others who did the same kind of work.  I'd participated in several healing circles by that time, and was eager to get plugged in to the community of healers in San Diego's East County.  I eagerly accepted his invitation.  Additionally, introduction to friends is a key moment in a newly developing relationship and I was delighted that Keith wanted me to meet other people who were important in his life.

               As the evening drew near, Keith filled me in on a few more details.   Our hostess's home was a "cute little pad straight out of the 1960s," according to my former hippie boyfriend-type person.  He mentioned that the interior was a shoes-off establishment, and that I'd have to leave my tennies at the door.   Not a problem, I assured him.  My mom also disliked having dirt tracked into her home, so I understood.  He also advised me that Lisa (our hostess) would offer me a sarong to wear during the healing circle.  Healing energy always heats me up and I can sweat buckets in just a short period of time.  It seemed to me to be a thoughtful and intelligent choice of attire, and I was glad that I wouldn't have to go out to buy one.  Besides, I didn't even know where one would purchase a sarong.

               On the Night In Question, we drove to a neighborhood in the unincorporated area of San Diego's East County.  Keith parked the car on the street, and we toted our pot luck dishes up to the gate of a ten-foot-high redwood fence that encircled the yard.  This particular part of the county was quite a mish-mash of older dwellings and some garage-type businesses.  Some properties were better kept than others, and the area could be noisy.  I understood the need for such a fence -- or so I thought at the time.

               Upon approaching the front door, I discovered that Keith's description was apt.  There was a definite "organic" feel to the place.  A little unkempt, with a pile of wood heaped in the front yard.  Gene, Lisa's partner and the evening's co-host, stood in the middle of the pile, splitting logs.  Keith informed me that they had a wood-burning hot-tub.  Lisa met us at the door, embraced Keith in a warm, long-lost buddy type of hug, and then she hugged me.  We removed our shoes and stepped into the living room.

               I was a mere child during the 1960s and my blue collar Upstate New York upbringing didn't include crystals, bongs, bean bag chairs, incense, and sitar music in the background.  But I've seen documentaries and photos, so I had a general idea about the hippie era.  I just didn't know that it was still alive and well in eastern San Diego county!  It was as if I had been transported into another world!  Yup.  This definitely was a cute little pad straight out of the 1960s. 

               We deposited our pot luck offerings on the counter in the cramped little kitchen, and Lisa escorted us down a short hallway.  She directed Keith to one room and showed me into another - evidently, the master bedroom.  The bed was strewn with a colorful array of sarongs.  Lisa invited me to select one, which I did.  It was a lovely blue-green tropical print.  Within a few minutes, it became clear to me that she planned to wait for me while I donned my unique frock.  I was new to "alternative" attire, and wasn't quite certain about how to ensure that I would keep the thing up.  I was nervous and didn't want to appear to be the sarong virgin that I was, so I pretended that I knew what I was doing and changed from the mundane into the exotic - or so it felt to me.  I prayed that it would stay put.  Lisa then pointed to the dresser, which was decked with a variety of bottles and beaded necklaces.  "Feel free to adorn your body," she invited.  I mumbled my thanks and dabbed a bit of patchouli on my wrists.  "Toto, we are not in Rochester anymore," I thought.

               I timidly followed her back into the living room, where Keith stood wearing a skirt-like sarong while chatting amiably with a small group of newer arrivals.   I edged up to his elbow, a little unsure about what I had gotten myself into.  I smiled and nodded whenever anyone looked my way, but I was completely out of my element!  Still, I figured it was an adventure, and that at 40 years old I should be far more open about different lifestyles, for goodness sake!  So, this is what it was like to hang out with healers, I thought.  I made a note to brush up on my pre-1970s history.

               Eventually, we all filed in and out of the kitchen to fill our plates.  Why is it that healers are always vegetarians?  Good Lord!  There really is only so much one can do with tofu, brown rice, broccoli, and teriyaki sauce!  We noshed and chatted.  Then, plates went into the sink and we started to gather in the living room. 

I turned toward the kitchen entrance and noticed that Gene's sarong had fallen down around his ankles!  Poor guy, I thought.  How embarrassing!  I discreetly turned my head to give Gene time to repair his wardrobe malfunction.   I was very surprised to notice that several people behind Keith were also having wardrobe malfunctions!  Everyone's sarong appeared to be falling down around their ankles at the same time!  It occurred to me that this wasn't mere happenstance.

I closed the gap between Keith and me and energetically beckoned for his ear.  "Keith!  Everyone is naked!" I exclaimed in a horrified voice that I hoped only he would hear.

"They are not naked; they are nude," he informed me.  "Naked is crass."

Oh.  Pardon me.  I didn't realize that public nakedness - er - nudity was ruled by etiquette. 

Evidently, there really are rules.  When hanging out with those who are hanging out, the group dines first and sheds attire afterward.  It certainly gives coffee and cupcakes a whole new meaning.  And the group doesn't disrobe until the host indicates that it's time to do so.  Gene dropped trou (or sarong) to indicate that it was now time for the great undoing.

I was horrified!  I pulled Keith into a corner and demanded to know what in Hell was going on???  What kind of person did he think I was???  I thought we were going to participate in a healing circle, and instead he invites me into an orgy???

He was nonplussed by my dismay.  "These people practice a clothing optional lifestyle," he informed me.  "I told you that."

Really?  When?  Seems to me that I'd have remembered that somewhere between the initial invitation and appearing on the hosts' front doorstep.

"Remember - I told you that you'd be offered a sarong," he insisted.

I didn't know it was code!  To me, being offered a sarong means that I will be offered a length of fabric to wrap around my body.  It did NOT mean that I knew that it was assumed that I'd remove that length of fabric from around my body later in the evening!

"You're overreacting," Keith said calmly.  "There's nothing wrong with nudity.  It's perfectly healthy. This really is a just a healing circle.  Nothing more."

I wasn't entirely convinced, but considered that I was an adult and needed to get over it.  If I was going to dabble in the mystical realms I needed to be open-minded and just wait to see how the evening unfolded.  But, I was definitely going to leave if anything "weird" started to take place.  I also informed him that, in no uncertain terms would I remove my sarong!

"That's okay," he assured me.  "It's clothing optional.  You have the option to wear as few or as many clothes as you'd like.  No one will judge you if you'd prefer to keep your clothes on."

Oh.  Gee.  How thoughtful.  Do you know that it feels just as weird to be the only person wearing clothes as it would feel to be the only nude person in a room full of people?  Or so I'd assume.  I've had those dreams - you know - the ones where you forget to put your clothes on before going to school or to work?  He offered to keep on his sarong to help me to feel better.  That's what I like in my men.  Gallantry. 

As we turned toward the rest of the group an exceptionally handsome man approached us, arms outstretched to embrace Keith in a bear hug.  This guy was hung!  I mean, I really tried not to notice.   Really.  I tried.  But - well, my God!  How could you miss it?  But still, I was being adult about this.  It's not polite to notice.  Is it?

I stood back while the two men greeted each other.  Here I am, on a date, I thought.  My date is wearing a skirt and is embracing an incredibly gorgeous nude man, surrounded by a bunch of similarly nude people.  Now - why did I think our relationship was going to be normal?

Dave stepped out of his embrace with Keith and turned toward me while Keith introduced us.  Dave grinned and opened his arms and approached for a big bear hug.  I kept my eyes glued to his eyes and stretched my right hand out as far as it would go.  He took my hand to shake it and looked confused. 

He inclined his head toward Keith and asked, "What?  She doesn't hug?"

Keith shrugged.  "She's from Rochester."  They nodded together in silent understanding. 

What in the world was THAT supposed to mean?  She's from Rochester.  As if that explained everything!  Well, okay, it DID explain everything.  I really was out of my element.  I grew up in Rochester, and then spent twenty years in the conservative part of San Diego.  All of the parties that I went to tended to be a little more, well, clothed. 

I really didn't know how to respond.  What does one say to a nude stranger?  I attended Miss Fiske's seventh grade Home Economics class - I knew how to behave at parties.  I knew how to set a table and how to lay out a perfect buffet.  But making polite conversation with nude guests?  I must have been out the day she covered that topic.

Dave wandered away and Keith asked me whether I wanted to leave.  But, he hoped I'd give the evening a chance.  These were really nice people, he assured me.  I didn't want to be unpleasant, so I agreed to stay.  In retrospect, I suspect that there was a slight deliciousness at the idea of breaking family taboos about being in such a "racy" situation.  I was immensely curious, after all.  Why not see how the evening unwinds?  Cautiously, that is.

Lisa approached me - the perfect hostess, noticing that one of her guests was uncomfortable.  "Are you okay?" she asked.  I nodded.  "Is this the first time you've been in a clothing optional group?"  I nodded again.  "Keith didn't tell you?"  I shook my head.  "Don't worry.  We don't allow any sexual contact.  It really is just a healing group.  We practice a clothing optional lifestyle.  We believe in being free of the falsehood of outward appearance.  This allows us to drop our judgments and to be real with one another."

I appreciated her assurances.  Still - it was tough not to notice that everyone in the room was fit, toned, and Yoga perfect.  No need to judge.  Everyone still measured up to each other.  Clothing or not.

People then broke up into small groups and massage tables were set up.  Various forms of massage and energy work were practiced.  I stuck to feet and shoulders. 

A little later, I wandered in to the next room, where a couple of additional tables were set up.  I was astonished to see Keith on one of the tables - without his sarong - being massaged by a small group of women.  We were fairly new in our "spending time together" phase, so I hadn't seen him nude prior to that moment.  It wasn't exactly the way I had envisioned sharing that event - in a room full of nude strangers!  I backed out of the room and found a place to perch for the rest of the evening.

Some people made their way out to the wood-fired hot tub.  We were invited to join in, but I mumbled some excuse about being allergic to wet redwood.  All of those bobbing breasts and bare bottoms bumping up against each other was a little more than I could handle at that point.

Keith and I dressed in our street clothes and made ready to go.  We went out to the tub to bid good night to our hosts.  

Lisa told me that she was glad I was there.  "You have such a sweet energy," she gushed.  "We're having a Hallowe'en party.  We'd love to have you join us!"  I thanked her, bade everyone good night, and we left.

I didn't attend the Hallowe'en party.  I wish I had gone, though.  Bobbing for apples sure would have been interesting.  And, I am still wondering what nudists wear to a costume party?

Note:  That evening occurred about eleven years ago.  I have since overcome my hang-ups over group nudity and wood-fired hot tubs.  Keith and I married about three years later and the marriage ended after six years.  We are still good friends today.  And no, the relationship never was "normal."  But it was a lot of fun!  I'm glad Toto and I got out of Rochester.  I meet a lot of nice people in wood-fired hot tubs!

All rights reserved - copyright 2008 by Karen E. Kelsay

The early autumn morning makes its way into my awareness as I am urged into wakefulness by my sweetheart. 

I open one eye and peek at the clock.  6 a.m.!

"It's too early!" I protest into my pillow.

The sunlight peeks weakly through the shutters, paler each day as the hemisphere draws closer to winter.

It's chilly in the room; I left the heater off last night. 

The covers are warm, along with my Beloved's embrace.

He spoons me, stroking my hair and kissing my neck.

"It's Sunday," he croons, "We can sleep later."

"Mmph!" I counter.

"'Love you," he whispers, teeth gently tugging my earlobe, his warm breath playing across my ear.

I smile, knowing that I'm loved.

I turn into his embrace, arms, legs, and tongues entwining.

We revel in the glory of morning and begin to doze lightly, cocooned in each other's arms.

"'Love you," he murmurs, his warm words settling gently into my heart.

I snuggle more deeply under his chin.

Morning glories bloom in my garden, regardless of season.

Karen E. Kelsay 
November 10, 2008  All Rights Reserved.

I'd prefer to awaken without the aid of an alarm clock!  One is required during the week, however.  So, I have one of those Zen alarms that gently chimes until I awaken.  No cold, hard dawn for me!

I'm a slow waker-upper.  I luxuriate in the early morning warmth of my favorite blanket; stretching, yawning, half in and half out of the dream world.  I hear the best information that way. 

If I tarry too long, the Orange One (cat number one) lets me know that her empty tummy awaits my tender ministrations -- although on some mornings I pad my way, barefoot, down the hall and to the kitty corner, dump the food unceremoniously into the bowls, and pad my way back to my nice, warm bed while I summon the oomph to get up and shower before driving the misty country roads on my way to work.

On weekends I have the added joy of being cuddled and smooched awake by my sweetie.  He's an early riser (so to speak ;-)  ).  Those early mornings are the best!  Then a little doze time, followed by freshly ground, steaming coffee and one of my famous breakfasts and chat time. 

We've had an amazing Indian Summer up here.  The vineyards have changed color already -- a little early.  Gorgeous to view miles and miles of colorful vineyards.  As I drive around the Sonoma and Napa vallies, I can smell the rain-soaked leaves and pomace (remnants of crush -- skins and seeds -- that are spread out in the vineyards after the juice is extracted).  It's a heady scent -- fermenting wine and the end of autumn all wrapped together.  

Over the course of the season that fragrance will change to one of earthy decomposition.  Toward the end of winter, the tang of burning grapevine canes will permeate the air following vine trimming.  Many of the vineyards burn the canes while others mulch them.  The distant sound of the mulching machines chewing up the canes typically precedes the aircraft-like sound of the wind turbines, which help to head off frost damage as the tender shoots begin to emerge on the trimmed vines.   

I've had my first few fires in the fireplace, accompanied by jazz on the Bose and cups of steaming hot chocolate.  I use the rich drinking chocolate these days -- melted chocolate shavings mixed with rich WHOLE milk.  Why waste the calories and carbs on the cheap stuff? 

Fall and winter are times for turning inward, sharing my cozy warmth with my two purr machines -- one on my shoulder with the other on my lap.  What bliss!  The wind whipped at the window and rain pummeled my patio this weekend.  I smiled; my sweetie was next to me -- he reading his book while I read mine.  Winter is coming.  I purr, too.  

              I have been married three times, and I've had one long-term, live-in relationship.  In total I've spent twenty-one of my fifty years in committed relationships.  With the exception of my second marriage, in which my spouse was abusive, I chose good, decent, caring, thoughtful, intelligent, hard-working men with whom to share my life.  But each of those relationships lasted for just a few years.  At this point, one could conclude that I'm a total failure at relationship, but in actuality, I've learned and grown through the challenges and triumphs that occurred in each situation.  I'm not an expert about relationships, but I'm getting better at participating in them.

            I'm currently involved in a relationship that began in fall 2006.  It is more loving, fulfilling, and intimate than any of my previous relationships were.  There are several reasons for this change in my relationship fortune.  The primary reason for this success is that Dan and I talk about our feelings, fears, worries, and perceptions.  We don't hide from our hurt, and we don't blame each other for the occasional stings and bruises that we experience along the way.  We both realize that when hurtful feelings arise, the primary trigger is a hurtful memory rather than the actual experience we're having in the moment.  We agreed early in our relationship to talk about our fears rather than to run from them.  Respectful, open, and compassionate communication is the key to the success of our relationship.
            I wish I had had the same communication skills and understanding on the eve of my first marriage in July, 1977, that I have now.  Looking back over my relationship history, I realize that the most significant problems stemmed from unclear communication and, at times, a complete lack of it.

            After my last marriage, which began on August 7, 1999, and ended in June, 2005, I decided to sit back and take stock of my attitudes and beliefs about being in a committed relationship with a man.  I asked myself many questions, meditated, contemplated, wrote in my journal, read countless books, sought help from a therapist and a hypnotherapist, and finally understood that I had approached every relationship from a wound or need, rather than from wholeness and a desire to be intimate.  I reacted to perceived wrongs or from the fear of future wrongs that didn't even exist!  I approached relationship from pain mitigation, always on the defensive, guarding myself against the next disappointment or disagreement.

            I learned early in life that disagreement with my parents generally left me sitting alone in my room with a sore behind.  Or, as punishment, the object of my desire was denied.  When I brought a problem to my parents, it was minimized as being unimportant in the grand scheme of things.  I was often told to figure it out for myself, or it was dismissed entirely.  Mom and Dad were happy when I kept my feelings to myself.  They withheld love and attention when I expressed myself.  Mom got what she wanted from us when she had temper tantrums and threw things, or when she gave the "silent treatment" to the rest of the family.  Dad got what he wanted from us simply by being a potential source of yelling, spanking, or backhands across the face. 

            I learned that acceptance and approval depended on my behavior.  I had to be "a good girl" as defined by them, or I'd be shunned and/or punished until I came back into line with the ideal that had been set.

            This is not uncommon in families, according to John Welwood .  Parents are "...imperfect vessels for perfect love..." because of their own fears, disappointments, and wounds.  For our parents, "...we become ‘their child,' an object of their hopes and fears."  He wrote that, as children, we are dependent on our parents and others.  As a result, we believe that love and acceptance come from outside of ourselves.  Our parents' "...acceptance and support become conditional on our meeting their expectations.  And this undermines our trust..." (p. 46).

            He noted that when love is "...conditional or unreliable or manipulative...," children conclude that they are not really loved.  The result is fear and psychic wounding:

This wounding hurts so much that children try to push it out of consciousness.  Eventually a psychic scab forms.  That scab is our grievance.  Grievance against others serves as a defensive function, by hardening us so we don't have to experience the underlying pain of not feeling fully loved.  And so we grow up with an isolated, disconnected ego, at the core of which is a central wound, freak-out, and shutdown.  And all of this is covered over with some resentment, which becomes a major weapon in our defense arsenal (p. 47).

            My childhood fit this pattern.  I learned to be silent on the outside while I seethed on the inside.  That was my strategy for survival within a family dynamic that didn't invite or welcome full disclosure.  Unfortunately, that strategy doesn't support the development of intimacy and understanding in a relationship, romantic or otherwise.

            We carry into our non-familial relationships the same communication dynamic we experienced in our nuclear families.  Considering the explosiveness in my family, I often wondered whether the term "nuclear family" really had more to do with disastrous relationships instead of proximity due to birth.

            Gary Chapman explained the relationship between upbringing and communication style develops in early childhood.  He wrote that children develop their emotional patterns and "love languages" when they are very young.  Some children grow up feeling loved and secure while others feel unloved and unwanted, having grown up in households that engender patterns of low self-esteem.  Each group learns how to express itself in a particular way (pp.15-16).

            "The children...will develop a primary emotional love language based on their unique psychological makeup and the way their parents and other significant persons expressed love to them," wrote Chapman.  "They will speak and understand one primary love language."

            He went on to say that husbands and wives generally have different primary love languages, and that miscommunication and misunderstanding occur "...when our spouse does not understand what we are communicating.  We are expressing our love, but the message does not come through because we are speaking what, to them, is a foreign language" (p.16).

            As the eldest of three children, I had many household chores and was responsible for my siblings after school.  Ours was a "latch key" family.  Both parents worked outside of the home.  When I reached the age of fourteen, we no longer needed the adult supervision of a neighbor, and I was given charge of my brother and sister, who were twelve and ten, respectively.  We went straight home after school, where I tidied the house and began dinner preparations.  On weekend evenings I babysat neighborhood children.  At the age of sixteen, I discontinued babysitting and added two part-time jobs to my schedule.  

            By the time I joined the Air Force at the age of eighteen, I was glad to be responsible only for myself.  Compared with my teen years, the discipline and schedule of military life was relaxing.  But the ratio of men to women was 95-to-1.  I was drowning in a sea of youthful testosterone.  It was overwhelming, especially since I hadn't dated much in high school or in my one semester of college.

            The desire for safety and to feel loved and appreciated was the reason I married Jeff, my first husband.  We met when we were in the Air Force.  I was nineteen and he was twenty-one.  We worked on the same shift, and a friendship developed.  Soon, we were a couple.  We dated for six months before deciding to marry.  I was thrilled by the idea of having someone to love me and to take care of me for a change! 

            Jeff was a man who also had a difficult upbringing; he had been a Navy dependent.  His stepfather's aloofness and frequent, long-term absences were difficult for him, and as a result, Jeff didn't express his feelings and didn't know how to deal with mine.

            We moved to his home town of San Diego after completing our enlistments.  We were expecting our first child as we made the cross-country trip and tried to settle into our new life together.  I was experiencing the challenge of being pregnant, living in a new community without my own friends or relatives for support, and being jobless because of the obvious bump under my clothes.  We were struggling to live on one income. 

            After our son was born in September, 1979, I returned to school and collected my GI Bill benefits, which helped the financial situation somewhat.  However, I had a baby, husband, and household to take care of while I managed a full course load at school year-round.  My goal was to try to gain admission into San Diego State University's impacted television and radio program, so I had to maintain an "A" grade average.  I also was chronically ill due to problems arising from poor medical treatment during and after my son's birth. 

            As a result of my physical condition, I was told that I would never have another baby.  So in 1981 we were surprised to learn that I was again pregnant.  The pregnancy was challenging because my uterus was covered with scar tissue from the C-section from my son's delivery and the severe infection that had gone on for more than a year following his birth.  I almost had a miscarriage six months after our daughter was conceived.  We hung on, though, and she was born in January 1982. 

            All was not well, however.  She had a serious birth injury that caused her to be hooked up to machines in neonatal intensive care for the first month of her life.  She was born with a "gastroschisis."  Her intestines and other abdominal organs protruded through a hole near her navel.  She required immediate surgery, and we didn't know whether she would survive.  She did survive however, and she came home in late February.  But she was still a sick baby and required two additional surgeries in the first year. 

            Jeff's solace was in his relationships with his long-time high school and college buddies, whose friendships rekindled after his return from the Air Force.  They had their weekly poker nights, went to football and baseball games together, played racquetball, and took weekend gambling trips to Las Vegas.  I stayed home and took care of home and hearth.

            I continued to carry a full schedule at school and maintain an "A" average.  I also had constant pain as a result of the problems with my son's delivery, and seven months after my daughter was born, I had a hysterectomy.  In 1982, support groups weren't the norm.  I was twenty-four, and didn't know whether I was still a woman following the removal of my uterus, cervix, and one ovary and fallopian tube.  Four weeks after the hysterectomy, I was back in school full-time and I had an internship at a radio station as I tried to gain a foothold in San Diego's broadcasting community.             

            I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.  I felt unsupported and alone.  Additionally, I didn't know that I was suffering from chronic clinical depression.  These circumstances made communication very difficult.  I was unhappy and couldn't pull myself out of it.  Jeff kept trying to please me and nothing worked.  We grew angry, disappointed, resentful, and distant.  Neither of us knew how to communicate with the other, to share our feelings, or to understand the situation.  I had a brief affair with a college professor.  I was reaching out for some kind of love, affection, and understanding.  In a moment of honesty, I told Jeff about the lapse.  He demanded a dissolution, which was final in 1983.

            Many years later, after we both had been through counseling for our own issues, we finally talked about our marriage.  Jeff told me that he had been struggling during those years, too.  He was trying to earn enough to allow me to stay in school, and he felt overwhelmed by the financial responsibility of a mortgage, wife, and two small children.  He also saw my suffering and didn't know what to do about it.  And the pain and struggle that our daughter experienced during her first year literally had crushed him.  He didn't know how to deal with his own feelings during that time. 

            In our relationship, his "love language" was expressed by providing me with a home and by paying the bills.  I didn't recognize his language.  He didn't help me around the house.  He didn't invite me to go to Las Vegas with him, or to be his buddy at Chargers games.  He didn't buy me little presents, the way my stepfather brought trinkets to my mother.  He didn't arrange for his mother to take the kids for a weekend to take me out to romantic little getaways.  Therefore, I didn't believe he loved me, and I didn't feel supported by him.

            I also had my own love language.  I cooked and cleaned with a fury, working hard to be sure that everything at home was under control.  I was the perfect hostess when friends and family came to dinner.  I also worked hard in school in order to prove my own ability to carry my part of the load.  I was accustomed to working hard because that was what my parents had demanded of me.  I was the caretaker, just as I had been since I was fourteen years old.     But Jeff didn't receive the nurturing and loving companionship he had hoped to find in a wife and mother of his children.  I was a fabulous "doer," but I wasn't the companion or lover that he wanted.

            Sadly, despite our nearly super-human efforts to please each other, we were both very disappointed.  It reminds me of the plot of "The Gift of the Magi," in which each spouse gives up something important to give the other the dearest gift.  In the end, both were left without their treasures.  In our case, however, in our disappointment we even gave up the love and companionship we thought we had had at the beginning of the relationship.

            If we had talked to each other during our marriage, perhaps we'd still be together.  Or, if an end was inevitable at some point, perhaps it would have occurred with less pain and damage.

            Welwood explained that we want our relationships to be perfect and infallible.  We "...expect human love to be absolute, providing a...steady flow of attunement, unconditional acceptance, and understanding."  He wrote that we blame the other person when this doesn't occur in the relationship (pp. 47-48).

            After several marriages and relationships, I took a long, hard look at myself.  I didn't want to continue to blame the other person.  I knew that I had my own part in the disappointments and divisiveness that had occurred in these relationships.

            I've only recently discovered my destructive communication pattern of burying my feelings and negating my own wants, needs, and desires.  When angered or hurt, I used to shut down and act as if nothing was wrong.  My partner didn't know what was wrong, but I expected him to fix it for me. 

            I had learned this behavior from my parents, as noted earlier.  I had learned part of it as my communication pattern to win favor with my parents.  I also had learned from their example as a couple.

            They argued at night, as if somehow we wouldn't be aware of the yelling and the slamming doors.  "God damn it, Beverly!" and "I've had it, Bob!" carried up the stairs to my darkened bedroom, and they were phrases that made me shudder.  The following day, the chill in the house was palpable.  The sulky, silent mood that passed between my parents, their glaring glances at each other, and their shortness with us children bore torturous testimony to what had gone on downstairs during the previous night.  These periods often lasted for days.

            As a result, I determined that I would never argue with my husband when I grew up.  Arguing meant that love was no longer present.  I decided that to show my love, I would never argue or disagree.  This was a childish interpretation of the events, but I was a child, and those early impressions carry well into our adult lives unless the messages are reframed.

            I have since learned that these unexpressed feelings are disempowering.  According to Welwood, we retreat from our painful feelings to make them smaller (p. 79).  Instead of making us feel better, he wrote, it causes us to disconnect.  "If you flee from the wound, you only give it more power over you.  Eventually, your emotional body becomes like an abandoned, haunted house.  The more you flee the pain of unlove, the more it festers in the dark and the more haunted your house becomes" (p. 82).

            Welwood suggested that we learn to accept and acknowledge those painful places within ourselves.  As a result, "...the wound that once seemed so huge, so monstrous, so overwhelming, becomes tolerable" (p. 82).

            Through therapy, I have now learned to acknowledge my "negative" feelings rather than bury them as if they never existed.  As a result, I recognize that when something occurs in my relationship that brings up a feeling of insecurity, which I equate to being unloved, I'm only experiencing a trigger from a past relationship.  I don't blame my partner for being the trigger.  I know it's not about him.  Instead, I tell him about what I'm feeling, and we explore it together.  I bring it up from the depths and into the light, where it can be seen for what it is.  My feelings are no longer the monster under the bed that gathered up my parents' harsh words and kept them, waiting to pounce on me with them when I let down my guard.

            I'm very fortunate to have finally learned how to feel my emotions, to accept them, and to communicate about them with my partner.  I'm also very lucky to have Dan as my partner.  He's been through many of the same experiences I've been through, and he understands how relationships trigger old wounds.  He's also undergone a great deal of therapy, and he is a fabulous, sensitive, compassionate, articulate communicator of his own feelings.  At the same time, he is a spacious vessel for me.

            One of the first rules that we agreed to in our relationship was to talk to each other when either of us feels angry, afraid, unloved, misunderstood, or lonely.  We both know the damage that is caused by letting misunderstandings fester and grow. 

            In addition to learning how to be present with our feelings, we've each learned how to communicate and listen in a nonviolent, non-defensive way.  "There's something on my mind, and I wonder whether you're in a space to talk about it" generally is the beginning of the discussion.  We have a pact to search ourselves to answer this very important question honestly.  Leaping to a "yes" if we're really not able to be attentive and open is just as harmful as leaping into defensiveness and striking a battle pose.  If the answer is no, there is an agreement to come back to the discussion as quickly as possible.  When both are open and receptive to listen and problem-solve, the result usually is a quick resolution and greater intimacy.

            We use "I feel" statements rather than "you make me feel" statements.  When we own our own feelings, we don't force the burden of responsibility or defensiveness onto our partner.  This allows the partner to be open and receptive, and it facilitates clear communication. 

            Clarifying questions help to prevent misunderstandings.  In past discussions, Dan has asked, "Let me see if I understand you," and he restated the conversation in his own words.  Or he's asked, "I'm not sure I'm getting this.  Do you mean...?"  This lets me know that he is listening actively, and it gives me the opportunity to restate or clarify any misperceptions.  Naturally, I do the same.

            We're also honest with each other when we do or don't want to do something.  If the activity is important to the other, we negotiate.  This prevents resentment from occurring. 

            We choose to be open and available for each other, and to face our fears and insecurities with courage and integrity.  We choose to love each other and ourselves enough to communicate.

            Dan is a thinker, and I'm a feeler.  I have to communicate with him in thinking terms.  I need to be logical and sequential in my serious discussions with him.  He knows that logic doesn't work with me.  He recognizes that feelings are more important to me.

            This is illustrated by a recent discussion about my desire to redecorate the condo I rent.  I talked about colors, window treatments, lighting, and furniture.  He didn't understand why I would want to spend the time and money decorating what, to him, is a temporary place to live.  It didn't seem logical.  I explained to him that I have already been living in the place for three years, and I had no desire to leave it until I finish my schooling, and perhaps longer.  I told him that it's not just a place to live, it's my home, and I want it to feel homey and comfortable. 

            His expression changed as he began to understand.  "Oh!" he said.  "This has to do with how you feel about the place.  So it's not about the logic of it for you." 

            Exactly!  He understood because he was willing to listen to me in my language.

            "Love is a choice," wrote Chapman.  It's easy to understand and listen when we agree or when we're feeling good.  When we're angry, resentful, or hurting, it's hard to make the choice to talk and listen.  According to Chapman, "Love doesn't erase the past, but it makes the future different.  When we choose active expressions of love in the primary love language of our spouse, we create an emotional climate where we can deal with our past conflicts and failures" (p. 143).

            The echoes of my childhood pain can still reverberate occasionally.  Instead of letting them become cacophonous, I listen and ask Dan to listen with me.  As a result, the destructive voices no longer clamor for attention.  They are acknowledged and accepted through openness and communication.  That acceptance allows me to open my heart and my life in ways that I never thought were possible.  I no longer need to be on guard against perceived wrongs.  I recognize that the only wrong is in not being present with what I'm experiencing here and now.

                        

Works Cited

 

Champman, G.  The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to
Your Mate. (3^rd ed).  Chicago: Northfield Publishing, 1992.

Welwood, J. Perfect Love, Imperfect Relationships: Healing the Wound of the Heart.

            Boston: Trumpeter Books, an imprint of Shambhala Publications, Inc., 2006.

Karen E. Kelsay.  All Rights Reserved.  Copyright 2008.

OMG!  I think this ranks up there with the folks who raise monkeys as surrogate children instead of adopting real children who are in need.   Anyone know of a nice, quiet mountain top that I can perch on (a blunt one!)?
 

By Sean Silverthorne

July 9th, 2008 @ 5:29

http://blogs.bnet.com/harvard/?p=366&tag=nl.e713

As people continue to pinch pennies in a slowing economy, how does the seller of upscale products and services convince them to buy items that are impractical (Hummer), unnecessary (Amazon rain forest excursion),  or expensively luxurious (Lobster of the Month Club)?

The answer is simple. Lay on the guilt.

According to a new Harvard Business Review item When Virtue is a Vice, consumers who forgo indulgences in favor of sensible choices regret their frugality years later. But those who succumb to the Influence of the Immoderate and buy that John Ferdinand bracelet for men or Manolo Blahnik alligator boots for women rarely regret their actions, write Harvard Business School assistant professor Anat Keinan and Columbia marketing professor Ran Kivetz.

And that's why marketers should consider playing up the regret angle when selling high-ticket items.

"Our findings suggest that marketers of luxury products and leisure services could benefit from prompting consumers to predict their feelings in the future if they forgo the indulgent choice. For instance, a travel company might ask customers to consider how they'll feel about having passed up a family vacation package once the nest is empty."

In other words, you will be doing your customers a favor by convincing them to indulge. Chocolate is good for you!

BTW, what luxuries are you unwilling to part with even in the midst of recession? Are you Sex in the City's Carrie Bradshaw, who realized she had spent $40,000 on shoes but couldn't afford an apartment?

Knowledge is something you think you know, and wisdom is something you really know.

Wisdom is employed when acting from knowledge has a potential for creating situations that are better left uncreated. 

Wisdom requires a high level of emotional intelligence.

Wisdom requires commitment.

Considering the traffic I just encountered while running errands, I'd have to say -- at least for the moment -- the current world situation is akin to squabbling toddlers who haven't learned how to share.  Nor have they learned any manners.  Perhaps if we give them a cookie they'll behave?  Or, carrots and raisins for those of us who prefer healthy lifestyle choices.

 Big news came out of Sacramento this week.  The California Supreme Court decided in favor of marriage for same-sex couples.  I smiled as I heard the news on my car radio.  I'm not a lesbian, and to my knowledge I have no family members who are gay or lesbian.  But I thought it was wonderful news just the same.  I am happy whenever human rights are successfully defended and upheld.

I haven't always been this open and accepting when it comes to differences between people.  I was born in the late 1950s and grew up in the ‘60s and ‘70s.  I was a product of my blue collar, upstate New York upbringing.  The "N" word was used liberally by my dad and his friends, although today my mom insists that she and Dad never raised us to see differences in race and color (even personal memory can slip into political correctness).  Misogyny was accepted as perfectly normal in those days.  Interracial couples were seen as abominations, regardless of the racial, national, or ethnic combination.  In short, anyone who didn't look or sound like "us" was viewed with suspicion.  And "they" regarded us with the same suspicion.  That behavior was accepted as normal.

However, over the last couple of decades I've stretched my horizons.  The things that I once believed were absolute truths have turned out to be little more than xenophobic responses to anything that appeared to threaten the status quo.  I've learned that thoughts, beliefs, ideas, morals, values, and judgments are personal choices.

However, some things in our lives are not choices.  They are part of who we are, such as being right- or left-handed, tall or short, and white- or brown-skinned.  I've had discussions with my gay and lesbian friends and acquaintances.  I have learned that each one's sexual orientation is NOT a "lifestyle choice."  It is part of who my friends are.

Just as I am not wired for a same-sex relationship, my same-sex friends are not wired for heterosexual relationships.  My lesbian and gay friends told me that sexual relationships with members of the opposite gender simply don't interest them.  It wouldn't even be an issue for them if heterosexuals didn't make it so much of an issue.

I'm not an expert.  I'm simply an observer.  I don't know every person who has a different orientation from mine.  But here's what I know about the gay and lesbian people who are in my life:

Their sexuality is not sexual misconduct, nor is it perversion.  They do not deliberately victimize or harm others in their relationships any more than any of we "hets" do in our relationships.  They'd prefer to keep their sexuality as a point of intimacy between themselves and their lovers, just as most heterosexuals do. 

There are many levels and varieties of sexual expression in the LBGT worlds, just as there are in the heterosexual world.  There are also degrees of behavioral acceptance and tolerance, freaks and geeks, and sub-communities within larger communities, just as there are in "my" sexual world.

There are also countless people in each of these worlds who are deeply hurt and wounded, psychologically unstable, mentally ill, chemically dependent, and otherwise challenged when it comes to relating to other people.  They cause harm to others.