Months ago, I downloaded an app on my phone that can identify birds based on their calls. In theory, I’m excited by the ability to perform on-the-spot avian identification; yet in reality, I’ve never once used the tool. I think maybe it’s because when I hear one bird call, I’m usually also hearing several others, and I don’t understand how the app would distinguish them. Or it could be that when I’m listening to birds, I’m usually also doing something else, like running or walking outside with a friend. Whatever the reason, the fact is that I’m still mostly inept at identifying bird sounds, so this morning, I’m appreciating the vague twittering outside my window with a mixture of regret and annoyance that the most intelligent assessment I can make about these creatures is that they are birds.
I’m debating as well whether I should be outside (it is unexpectedly nice out this morning, patches of light blue peeking through lazy clouds, and in Seattle you learn to take advantage of nice weather whenever you can) or stay sleepily nestled in my pjs. Simultaneously, I wonder whether I should brew a cup of coffee, knowing full well I’ve had too much caffeine lately but feeling the sleep in my eyes. I’m amused at how much time I spend trying to make myself feel comfortable.
I do things that require discomfort, too. Yesterday I went on a 40-mile bike ride along one of our main bike paths in Seattle. Around mile 20 is when my crotch started to get sore, and I was ready for some food. I still enjoyed it, though. It’s the most free I’ve felt in a little while, being outside by myself for hours, biking under the veil of a weeping willow, marveling at the sparkling waves of Lake Washington. Mt. Rainier was out as well, towering impressively over the city.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the roles of discomfort and fear in my life. I asked a friend to recommend books on fear, and she suggested The Places that Scare You, by Pema Chödrön, an American nun and Buddhist teacher. My initial reaction was thank you, next - that sounds way too frightening. But because I trust her, I bought the book and started to read. I read in little pockets of time, usually before bed, and I’ve found myself highlighting whole paragraphs, sometimes even two at a time. It’s both confusing and illuminating (and therefore, absolutely appropriate) to explore this topic during a time when I am experiencing so much change. And I don’t actually mean the change of preparing to leave my job and move to the other side of the country to finish writing my book.
Remember a few months back when I wrote about being single, and how it would take a hell of a lot to change that? Well, I guess a hell of a lot happened. At the beginning, this relationship felt so delicate, made of glass, like speaking too loudly would reduce it to dust. I avoided writing about it, at least publicly, to let it temper and toughen, but perhaps more so, to gradually release the shame I might feel if it were to crumble too quickly.
It feels good to write about something that has become a big part of my life. I talk to this person every day. We make silly voices and hold hands when we walk and belly laugh a lot. He laughs in paragraphs, starting quietly and then building up, throwing his head back in glee and surprise. Once, I thought to myself, He hasn’t brought me flowers in awhile. It had been 4 days.
It’s an odd thing, getting used to being loved so abundantly in this way. Shouldn’t that be easy? In many ways it is. We hop on a call that we think will be 5 minutes and talk for over 2 hours, about fun things and deep things and our plans for the week. We like doing the simple tasks together, even just quietly sharing a space. And yet I’m also afraid.
The specific fears change, based on the day or the week. I’ve feared that we’ll get so far down the road, and then a latent, destructive part of him will come out, something entirely in contrast to the loving and receptive nature I’ve gotten to know. Because he relishes in caring for me, which often manifests as providing in some way, I’m afraid that I’ll lose my fierce independence. I’m also afraid that if we were to try living together in the future, I wouldn’t be able to get the solitude I desperately need.
Sometimes I feel frustrated and confused because I don’t know how to love and be loved in this way when I want to explore and achieve and adventure and hit all these goals and work out and feed myself and be creative and clean my house and somehow still get enough sleep at night. Sometimes I want to spend hours with him and sometimes I don’t.
Every time I bring him these fears, he listens calmly and thanks me for sharing. He affirms my feelings, shares his own, and tells me he wants to love me in the way I want to be loved. I told him, right from the beginning, that I need to be loved with an open palm - knowing I have the freedom to be authentic and expansive, being held but not held down. He reminds me of his promise when I need to hear it. “Open palm, baby,” he says.
So here I am, being loved and getting used to it, feeling the power of being compassionately seen, choosing, for now, to sit with the anxiety and fear and discomfort as it arises. I will keep listening to it, and I will trust myself. I will do my best to honor my authentic path. And I will also let myself experience these emotions with curiosity, without an immediate need to change them.
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