Touched

To celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving I treated myself to a massage.  I have only had one other massage in my life - seven years ago - and the following day I rushed myself to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy.  That massage confirmed something I had known for a long time: Touch = Trauma.  Well, a new country, a new attitude, a new attempt at intimacy.  I couldn't find prose to sufficiently express my experience, so I tossed it into a poem.  Not my finest work, but I think it captures something of the essence:

Touched

Strong arms – lift me -- tug me – stretch me

Cradle me.

Our breath in sync, soft on my arm as I am held

By a stranger.

My lifetime of touch in 90 minutes.

His fingers find my weakness, my faults, my wounds.

And there I – naked I –

A sheet between us

A sheet and some oil

A sheet, some oil and a role,

between us.

I want to reciprocate

To stroke back

To touch

To open my eyes and see –

But I don’t.

I feel each push – each detail-

The nail of his thumb

The mindful adjustment of the sheet

The creak of the floorboards

Someone’s growling stomach

My inability to fully let go.

He covers my eyes, then uncovers them-

Obscurity to clarity – here and there.

Under the edge of the blindfold

I see him lift a chair, a heavy chair

Over me-

Placing it at my head.

So exact.  So precise.

In this small apartment, everything has a place

Everything in its place.

I lay in my place.

Where’s his bed?

Perhaps he doesn’t sleep –

Perhaps he doesn’t sleep – here.

But shoes – lined up – in their place –

Under the radiator.

“Jason” he speaks my name – reminding me,

“There’s a towel,” – he places it at my hip.

We’re finished.

He retreats to the small bathroom-

The bathroom with no towels –

Just a speedo hanging where a towel would be.

He waits there

Giving me privacy

(His hands were all over me)

He gives me privacy.

Oil marks on the sheets-

Soiled sheets.

He’s in the bathroom

With the speedo.

I’m covered in oil.

I use the towel at my hip.

I dress- quietly.

Am I changing?

When I finish dressing, “I’m good,”

I announce.

The toilet flushes and he reappears.

Builtlikeahokeyplayer. 

Formalities.

Money.

Receipts.

Sip of water.

Does he know what this meant for me?

Words are empty- flaccid

(How was I flaccid?)

“Thanks” I say.

“It was my pleasure,” he replies.

“It was my pleasure,” I say,

“It was your work.”

Was he composing shopping lists?

Fine tuning the next poem?

Was he there?  Why do I care?

I attempt a joke as I exit – not so funny.

He mentions autumn – the sun – the light –

(What is it about Montrealers and the light? This beautiful fucking light?)
I smile.

My body tingles, pulses.

A chair blocks the door.

He moves it.

“I’ll be in touch.”

In touch.

I descend the stairs

Feeling the rise of each.

But

I forget –

He has warned me-

But I forget.

Gliding out the door, without my arm to guide it,

the door slams behind me.

Remembering 9/11

Ten years ago, while exiting the NYU gym – proud of myself for having made an early-morning effort – I passed someone coming in who was commenting about a low-flying plane that had just gone over the building.  Walking outside, I suddenly became part of the surreal drama that would redefine our generation.  Stepping onto the street I looked downtown just as the first explosion happened.  I couldn’t wrap my mind around what was happening.  An airplane into a building?  And then I saw the second plane – I couldn’t figure out why the towers suddenly were attracting planes.  A second explosion.  A new type of horror.  Standing with others in the street- cars stopped –doors opened – radios on, narrating the drama as it unfolded before us.  We became one – one unified whole.  One pair of eyes to witness, one set of knees to fall, one soul to cry.

So many images play over and over – a seemingly endless loop:

Photo taken on my small webcam

The small specks from the top of the tower – leaping off and falling beyond view.  The radio tells us they are people . . . we refuse to believe.

The radio tells us there are still 20,000 people in the building.  Maybe more.  The towers shudder and collapse – as do we.  Hundreds of people kneeling, crying, staring in disbelief at the now vacant hole in the skyline.

The smell – the otherworldly smell.  With dust and ash covering everything – permeating everything – holding everything.

Vacant stares and disbelief on the ghost white faces of the survivors walking north – looking for water, an ear, a hug, a connection . . . an explanation.

And later-

Washington Square Park 9/12/01

The layers and layers of melted candles covering the ground at Washington Square Park after the nightly vigils – the songs – the signs – the children.

National Guard, dogs, machine guns, showing ID in order to go to my own apartment.

A stopped subway train, no announcement, the lights go off.  Panic.  Crying children.  Praying women.  Weeping men. 

Sprinting from the Empire State Building, “There’s a bomb!!”  Knowing it was true.  No doubt.  This was the new world.

Huddling together with my new cohort at NYU – barely a week old, turning to each other and the city around us for hope, for support – for meaning.

And always sweeping, brushing, gathering - sweeping the dust – the dust that kept coming – the dust that was ash.

In those first weeks, I would frequently sneak past the police line and walk a few blocks from the site – watching the fires, the smoke, the seemingly endless piles and twisted metal – all that was left, all that remained.

As I surveyed the devastation, I would often wonder what would become of us?  Now that we lived in a world where planes, overtaken by religious fanatics, crashed into buildings and murdered thousands – Now that our narcissistic world view had been smashed, our mortality reaffirmed – how could life ever go on?

But ultimately, as my welcome call into NYC, 9/11 heralded a period of my life that would see broad- sweeping changes and ultimately a re-dedication to living.  It was a sign that life was precious, fleeting and that I had a responsibility to myself and others to make something of it.  It also seemed to herald a new period of life in NYC and the greater community.  Suddenly we took notice of those around us.  Suddenly we cared, we engage with each other.  Donations poured in, volunteers by the hundreds, countless prayers, countless vigils.  For a time, we loved - we held each other.  America was unified. 

Here – 10 years later – as I now find myself in another city – in another country – it is at times with a sense of sadness that I look back on America.  9/11 gave us the opportunity to be different – to change – to reprioritize and grow.  And for a brief time, we took advantage of that opportunity.  We stood tall.  We came together.  We blossomed.  However, it is my fear that in the long run we have squandered that opportunity.  In the days and months following 9/11, NYC and the rest of America experienced a greater sense of closeness and brotherhood than ever before.  We were unified and united.  But look at us now.  Our country has never been more divided.  Our global reputation has never been more tarnished.  And perhaps most terrifyingly, in many ways, aspects of our society have adopted the very mindset that guided the 9/11 terrorists.  Religious and ideological extremism often guides our politics and our policy.  Rigid, fundamentalist responses preclude us from compromise or unification.  We won’t give in.  We won’t bend.  Right at all costs . . . even if it means . . .

And for me, as someone who was there – who witnessed firsthand the horror, the sights, sounds, smells and terror of that day – to see some of these people use the events of September 11, 2001 to justify their actions is beyond belief.  It is unconscionable that 9/11 can be used as a battle cry for divisiveness, for imperialism, for small-mindedness and for policies that take away the rights and freedoms of others.

What happened to the atmosphere of unity and love?  Where did the goodwill and tolerance go?  How did we allow the very fundamentalism that drove the 9/11 terrorists to become our own motivation?  Are we so daft that 10 years later, we have, in some respects, reversed roles with the villains of that day?

Muslim, Christian – right or left – it makes no difference what the ideology is – when taken to extremes, when used to draw lines, to exclude – to delineate “better than” or to create “us” and “them” – it is the ideology of destruction and will ultimately be our downfall. 

We are better than that.  We are stronger than that.  It shouldn’t need to take a major tragedy like 9/11 to remind us what is important.  For the rest of my life I will remember 9/11 – I will remember the terrifying images and the horror – but more than that, I will strive to remember those instances – fleeting as they were – where for a brief moment, we took time to notice our neighbor – to breathe – to see – to connect - a moment where we were bigger than the camps to which we were aligned.  That is the America I believe in.  That is the country I proudly call home.

Waxing Poetic

In the middle of May, inspired by a book of poetry I stumbled upon, I committed myself to writing one poem a day for a month.  I told myself they couldn’t be depressing, wallowing poems, but instead, they needed to be somewhat based on the here-and-now.  Like many good things in my life, I started off with good intentions, but by day 22, I lost steam and gave up.  While cleaning today I came across the notebook of poems and was surprised to see a few that I actually didn’t loathe – so I figured I’d share them here.

May 28, 2011

Plop

A drop

Solidly placed

On the crown of my head.

A single drop

From miles high

Landing with a

Sniper’s precision.

God leaning over the earth

With an eye dropper

Held close to his nose

Peering down the shaft

With one eye closed-

Aiming-

A sly grin on His face-

Mischief-

Perfect alignment-

Impeccable timing-

And

Squeeze

The lone drop

Falls

Landing squarely on

Its target

Perched for a moment

Before rolling down my

Forehead.

May 30, 2011

Cold ceramic under foot

Hollow echoes

Lever pulled

Water flows

Lift the knob

Warm, hot, wet

On chest

Running down abs, thighs

Pooling at feet

Shiver

Running hands over back of arms

Wet muscle

Wet hair

Inhale – inflate

Exhale – float

For a moment

Here

I am present

In the shower

Wet and present

In the shower

Here

Just me

Just now

In the shower

Until I am/not

And everything else

Is.

June 2, 2011

Blackberry beeps –

It’s you –

I can tell.

Savoring dessert

I don’t open it immediately –

Pretend it’s not there –

Tracking the red flashing light

In my periphery.

Unconscious smile.

Butterflies.

Quick breath –

I like this moment best.

June 3, 2011

A simple phrase

A matter-of-fact statement

Of theory,

An observation wrapped in a concept

Draped with insight

Accented with a tasteful piece

Of confidence.

So basic.

So simple.

So truthful.

This is the aha –

This is the moment –

This is why I teach.

June 4, 2011

Whose stupid idea was

A poem a day?

What do you think

I am?

Willy-nilly producing art.

Flowery words

Creative metaphors

Unnecessary ornamentation –

A fool’s exercise.

The Boy Who Ate Flowers

When I was a kid, my grandmother worked at the Orem Public Library.  Visiting grandma at work was always an adventure.  All those books and characters – the smells, the quiet.  One of the best perks of having a librarian grandmother was that when books were discarded, she would bring them to us.  As a result, we had a large library of children’s books most with an occasional missing page or hidden crayon masterpiece.  In fact, I attribute much of my love of reading to that library and to our mandatory reading time on summer afternoons.  Back in the days with no video games, no computers and very little TV.  The Boxcar Children, The Hardy Boys and Dr. Seuss were practically members of our family.

One of my favorite books was The Boy Who Ate Flowers by Nancy Sherman with illustrations by Nancy Carroll.  I remember connecting to it at a young age.  An odd kid, different than others, found something that made him happy and was allowed to indulge in it.  I very much related to the main character, Peter.  Several years ago, when moving East, I managed to find the copy of the book – even more tattered – and it has travelled with me. 

The other day, for some reason, for the first time in years, I thought about it and pulled it off my bookshelf for a re-read.  So much of it was just as I had remembered.  Peter didn’t like oatmeal and at one meal refused to eat it.  So his parents, being somewhat typical parents, told him he would have the same bowl of oatmeal for every meal until he ate it.  Well, the poor kid went hungry until while walking in the garden, he saw the sweet smelling, beautiful flowers and decided to sample a lovely white Chrysanthemum.  Well, the Chrysanthemum proved a gateway drug and soon he became a fast flower addict (who wouldn’t?). 

For me, the remarkable part was that surprisingly, his parents supported his new eating habits.  In fact, they sent away to France for a chef, Algernon, who specialized in cooking with flowers.  Together, Peter and Algernon created countless delicious dishes from the flowers of the garden and the world.  After Peter tired of their dishes, Algernon agreed to create a floral culinary masterpiece – he had flowers brought from around the globe in a long parade of the exotic.   He cooked and cooked and cooked.  Television crews arrived.  The whole world sat on the edge of their seats waiting for Peter to take the first bite of Algernon’s masterpiece. 

And, just as the bowl was placed before him, just as he was about to take a bite - - -  He sneezed – and suddenly things changed.  Instead of biting into the creation in front of him, he looked to his mother - - - and asked for oatmeal. 

Reading it now – some thirty plus years later – I am aware of the relatively manipulative nature of the book.  Or perhaps that’s just my bias.  I suppose we could see it as a positive lesson that all roads lead back to the familiar – to home – to oatmeal.  But for me, the ending takes away the magic of the book.  Here I was, a boy struggling with his own difference who finds a story about another boy who is different.  But, instead of shaming him or berating him for his difference, the people around him support that difference.  Acknowledge it as part of him.  Celebrate it.  Help him learn more about it.  How beautiful and amazing, the path these parents take. 

However, then, in the end, he ends up tossing away his difference and joining in with the average, mundane, oatmeal crowd.  Of his own free will.  A future of oatmeal.  And not just that – I can remember, even as a kid, feeling the horror at the realization that Peter never even sampled Algernon’s masterpiece.  All of that work – all of that potential! And not even a taste.  How was that possible?  He could always have an occasional bowl of oatmeal – but why not taste?!  There was no possibility of harm – Algernon would not poison him – his parents would not judge him differently . . . Why, Peter, why?!

I am curious how Peter’s future life would have been different had he tasted it . . . sampled . . . dipped his pinky in and touched it to his tongue . . .

Green Eyed

This post – like the previous – has been inspired by Facebook . . . what is our world coming to?  Recently, I found that there were profiles that I was avoiding.  Certain individuals, if they showed up in my “news feed” would be skipped.  I would make sure I did not read their status updates, wall posts, or check-ins.  Initially this was an unconscious act.  I was not aware I was doing it.  But gradually I became aware of a pinch in my chest, an elevation in my heartbeat, and a rush to action at certain moments.  It felt like something hid for a good reason, so initially I did not attempt to figure it out.  But, my curious psychological nature eventually got the best of me and I decided to investigate.

Who were these people whom I was skipping?  Why the urgency and drive to avoid?  Were they the crazy posters – the obviously mentally unstable friends who post in torrents of emotional vomit and diarrhea?  Were they the conservative right-wingers who consistently put up segments of the Pledge of Allegiance or petitions for gun rights?  Alas, no.  They were my beloved gay friends.  More precisely, they were my beloved gay friends who were in relationships. 

Deep down, I didn’t want to see that John and his partner had checked in to a cute bed and breakfast in Maine, or that Antoine and his new husband were “spending a quiet evening at home with a bowl of ice cream and Glee.”  Derek’s celebration of “five years with the love of my life” or Andrew’s “two more days until I get to see my honey” were practically indigestible for me.  The photos, the sickeningly beautiful celebrations of milestones or adoptions, anniversaries, proposals – they caused a physical response in me . . . and not a pleasant one. 

 

You see, I was (am?) filled with envy. 

It took me a while to figure out and admit -- very interesting how hard it was to accept and realize.  It is so basic – one of the Seven Deadly Sins, basic.  Anthropologist George Foster in a fascinating 1972 article called “The Anatomy of Envy” has this to say:

 “We can admit to feelings of guilt, shame, false pride, and even momentary greed without necessarily damaging our egos.  We can even safely confess to occasional overpowering anger, and although we recognize the destructive nature of great anger, our self-image does not suffer as long as we can justify that anger.  But to admit to envy is enormously difficult for the average American; unlike anger, there is no socially acceptable justification that permits us to confess strong envy.  Envy is untenable and unacceptable” (p165).

Envy is an admission of failure – the inability to achieve something that other people have achieved.  And not only is it a statement of “I can’t” – it is also evolves into a feeling of “and I wish you couldn’t either.”  They say that there are three phases to envy, the first is a feeling of loss for what one does not have – seems simple enough, and legitimate.  The second phase is where envy begins its nasty turn, in resenting the good fortunes of others – “why is he in a relationship and I’m not?  It’s not going to last – we all know how he is . . .” etc.  The third step is where it moves from an attitude and into action – taking steps to actually hurt others.  Now, I don’t think I’ve gone this far yet, but I could see it possible that my subconscious could leak out and act in ways to harm my friends. 

I am definitely not alone in this – I realize that.  There are many of us that wish to be in relationships but for one reason or another are not.  I also feel it is similar (thought not the same) as the experience of women who want to have babies but can’t.  Looking around and feeling that almost everyone else in the world has what I want – and being pissed off about that.  Finding myself avoiding friends with relationships – not wanting to see their happiness because it merely fuels my own sense of loss and incompetence.  Knowing that there is something within me that is preventing me from attaining my wish – but not being able to fix it.  Feeling stuck in an unfair place with little hope that things will change . . . while everyone around me seems blissfully paired.    

So the problem for me becomes, how do I let go of my envy – how do I release the pain I experience when seeing the good fortunes of others?  How can I be happy with those I care about without the physical experience of envy?  And do I really want to let go of it?  Like so many known experiences, perhaps it is something that gives my life meaning – perhaps I am attached to the suffering.  Perhaps on some level I identify with the role of the tragic loner.    

           

I think my answer comes in a few ways.  First, I think it is important to realize that my glorified perceptions of what it is to be in a relationship and the relationships of my friends is probably a bit clouded.  The actuality of being in a relationship obviously takes work and is not always better than the alternative.  Second, I think there are things I can learn from my friends who are in relationships – opening myself up to what I might learn from them might dampen my feelings of exclusion and despair.  Third, I can drop the competition mindset and realize that we all have our own rhythms and timelines – comparison to other people will bring me nothing but heartache and insecurity.  Fourth, I can stop idealizing relationship living as the only way to be happy – my life is pretty great on many levels and adopting a poverty mentality simply because I am not in a relationship does me no good.  And lastly, I can examine what it means to be in a relationship – is it really something I want – and if it is, how about making concrete plans to get that.  I am usually pretty skilled at getting what I want in other areas of my life . . . why not this one.

Yes, I have no doubt I will continue my dance with the green eyed monster for a while – I will have my momentary pains of envy.  But, as they say, knowing is half the battle – by identifying my envy perhaps I can do something about it. 

Unfriendly

Several years ago, in the early evening of a beautiful autumnal Tuesday I was walking through Washington Square Park in NYC.  Ahead of me was a girl, early twenties, cute, well groomed, talking loudly on her cell phone.  She was clearly talking to a close friend and it was obvious the subject matter was very serious.  The conversation was punctuated with exclamations of “I know, right?!?” and “Can you believe it?!?!”  Being the naturally curious person that I am, I walked a little faster in order to more effectively eavesdrop on the conversation.

-                Yeah, I know . . . I know.  But, I just, you know . . . I LOVE him.  I really do.  (Pause.)  Right – no, I can’t take that – not from him – not from anyone . . . I know.  Yes.  Yes.  I am better than that – I deserve better than that.  (Pause.)  That’s what I thought – I thought it was special – I mean, yeah – he and I  . . . (Pause.)  I know.  (Pause.) I KNOW.  (Pause.)  I know – I know I should but I can’t just do it like that – I mean, after everything – I can’t just -  (Pause.)  Oh, this is SO HARD!!  But you’re right...

The conversation was building to a fevered pitch – to a climax – to a moment of decision and action!  This guy was going to get his ass handed to him on a platter – a moment of break-up.  I felt a part of the drama.  I was in on it – I knew before he knew.  Sucker!  I walked a little faster to more clearly hear the resolution . . .

-                Yeah.  Yeah – you’re right – I know.  Fine . . . fine . . . OKAY.  I’ll do it . . . I’ll unfriend him.

Yup, that was the climax – the big decision – no longer would he be privileged to witness her online existence —she was cutting him off – letting him have it – unfriending him. 

At the time it all seemed so ridiculous.  I was not yet on Facebook and the whole idea of social media (outside of a brief stint on Myspace) was relatively foreign and ridiculous to me.  This was the worst she could do?  Unfriend him?  The guy didn’t realize how lucky he was if this was the extent of his consequences. 

But, a few years later, my perspective shifted.

Last year one day after a break-up  -- mind you, a break up where I was dumped – I was unfriended . . . AND blocked.  It was a remarkable slap to the face – a powerful online gesture that hit me hard.  First of all, being the dumped one I felt that I should have the privilege of doing the unfriending.  And second of all why unfriend?  And why block?!?  Why add insult to injury?  The power of the unfriend was revealed – and it stung. 

A couple of weeks ago I became very irritated reading my Facebook news feed.  It seemed like several loud-mouthed “friends” were constantly posting ultra-conservative and bigoted comments.  Some about gay marriage, others about Obama, still others about immigration and child rearing.  I found myself yelling at my computer screen and felt the beginning tingles of a hastily worded liberally biased venomous response.  But all of a sudden I had a thought:  Why was I even Facebook friends with these people?  Some of them were former students, others former classmates from high school while others I have no idea how I was connected to them – they managed to slip in under the radar.  Why did a simple friend request grant them permission to invade my life? 

I had an idea and a moment of courage.  With my heart racing a bit and a giddy (if slightly insane) grin on my face, I went to their profile . . . scrolled down on the left hand side – and clicked “unfriend.”  Facebook asked me if I was sure that I wanted to unfriend them – and I confirmed the action.  And – voila!  That was that.  My friend count went down by one – as did my blood pressure.  It felt so . . . so . . . so good!  It felt like I was finally taking the power into my own hands . . . and sticking it to the conservative assholes.  For a long time I had deluded myself into thinking that I could make more of a positive impact by keeping them as friends and by posting things to my profile that might sway their interest or increase their awareness of gay rights or inclusive thinking.  But the reality was that I was allowing them to get under my skin and cause me distress with their bigoted, self-righteous babbling.  With a few little clicks of my mouse – they were gone and I was blissfully free. 

Now, I have yet to do a pruning of my Facebook friend list – heaven knows it could use a spring cleaning – but I have definitely opened myself up to the possibility of unfriending those that cause me grief.  In the weeks since I have unfriended several right-wingers, a clearly psychotic individual who was using Facebook as a means of relieving their paranoid and psychotic ramblings, two individuals who posted several times a day with only food updates (“Orange juice, two bagels and a slab of cream cheese – mmmmmmm!”) and someone who posted daily weigh-ins – where they were consistently gaining weight (the goal being to lose weight) . . . While there is nothing particularly wrong with any of these, they were all causing me grief – making Facebook less of a positive experience for me – AND, perhaps most importantly, the individuals were not indeed my friends!  Click click.  Sayonara. 

Good riddance, I say!

Now, should they attempt to re-friend me . . . what then, you ask?  Well, Facebook has actually made it easy on those of us who find it hard to reject people.  When you get a friend request, your options are either “Confirm” or “Not Now.”  So – I am not required to Reject or Deny someone’s request for friendship – I can merely say, Not Now.  After all, who knows . . . maybe somewhere down the line I will actually be friends with these people.  And boy oh boy, then we’ll have a good chuckle.

Being Different

Walking home from the gym this afternoon in the surprisingly warm Montreal weather (16°C/60°F) I was struck at the number of people adjusting to the temperature change in various ways.  One woman, late fifties, was bundled up in her winter coat and scarf, gloves, hat securely placed on her head, large sunglasses covering her face, revealing only her perfectly red lips.  Crossing the road she was passed by a young kid in his twenties, shorts, loose t-shirt, and flip-flops talking on his cell phone.  Further down the road a man and his wife, dressed for church, he in a chocolate brown suit, she with a cream dress and burgundy shawl, hurried to their car while a man, shirtless, fat, hairy, holding a dog, waved to them from a doorway.  There were sweaters and spandex, tank-tops and cut-offs.  Gloves and scarves, sports bras and sneakers.  Personally, I was walking in a plain t-shirt and jeans, carrying a sweatshirt that I had brought just in case.  One temperature, numerous responses. 

We are such unique creatures, we humans.  It is amazing to me that in a world such as ours – with so many people – we can all be so different.  One size fits all is a convenient way of marketing socks or parachute pants – but it doesn’t seem to apply to human beings.  No matter where I’ve been in the world – a constant theme of humanity is difference.   

Recently I was comparing Myers/Briggs personality types with a friend (okay, maybe more than a friend . . . or someone I wish was more than a friend . . . or someone that is more than a friend but not quite a . . . anyway . . . ) I was relatively surprised to find that we are almost exact opposites (INFP vs. ENTJ).  He’s extroverted, I’m introverted.  He’s a thinker, I’m a feeler.  He’s a judger, I’m a perceiver.  We’re both intuitive but at different degrees.  So, what did this mean?  Did this preclude us from being soul mates?  Were the differences too great to surmount? Perhaps these are just silly letters without meaning?  Does any of this really matter?  Well, I suppose it does because in the long run it means we respond differently to the world.  Our lenses are different.  We are different.  That’s the simple truth. 

There was a time when I would have wished for homogeneity.  I would have loved for everyone to be the same.  That way, I could better predict behavior, I could better understand motivation and it would take some of the surprise and uncertainty out of my life.  Imagine a world where everyone thought the same as me?!? (While slightly terrifying, it was also potentially reassuring.).  I imagined there would be fewer mind games – less time wasted on trying to “figure” someone out – less speculation.  Perhaps THEN I would be able to find a relationship that worked . . . (is that what this is all about?)  Sameness could be the cure for my frequent sense of insecurity and isolation.

But, I suppose, as they say, variety is the spice of life.  When it comes down to it, I wonder whether or not real attraction could exist without an element of difference – without question marks – without the need to check in, to verify, to explore.  Mystery and uncertainty seem to be key ingredients in the glue that connects us together.  If there was not difference, would we need each other?  Would we still be drawn to each other?  Sure, there could still be attraction – but it seems it would resemble narcissistic attraction more than anything else.  It is my belief that to come together, we have to have difference.  While sameness has the potential to unify – difference has the potential to connect.  Two identical puzzle pieces will seldom fit together.

This idea of different worlds coming together was recently illustrated for me in a TED talk and subsequent YouTube video.  (TED=genius)  The talk was by Eric Whitacre, a composer and conductor who through a series of events decided to create a virtual choir on YouTube.  The most recent piece can be found here and features 2052 voices from 58 countries.  When I initially watched the engaging talk and then the latest video I was incredibly moved.  What moved me most was not the potentially cheesy graphics or even the stunning music – but rather the idea that these individuals, each in their own isolated corner of the globe, uploaded a clip singing their part and thus became a piece of a stunning and beautiful whole.  In the talk, Whitacre tells stories of different participants isolated in far regions of the world connecting with a larger community through the project.  A woman whose husband told her she couldn’t sing – submitting her part from the far reaches of the Alaskan wilderness.  A nine-year-old from England.  Sisters on opposite sides of the world, once again able to sing in a choir together.  Along with these were many stories not told, but imagined.  As the stories were told and the songs played, tears filled my eyes (I am an INFP, after all) and something touch me.  Something shifted and I was changed.

In this large, expansive world of ours, I have hope that it is still possible for us, in our uniqueness – in our difference – to come together.  And while our comings together might only be for a brief time, I also believe they change us.  Perhaps our encounters with difference allow us to see our own uniqueness in a new light – and give us a chance to appreciate it.  Yes, sometimes this might cause us to curse our difference, to wish that connection was easier, faster, longer lasting.  Similar thoughts have, on occasion, propelled me to try and find someone just-like-me.  But, ultimately, I think it is clear to see (at least in my case) that just-like-me is in no way what I want.  When I’m honest with myself, when I sit and truly acknowledge my feelings, I realize I want something . . . different.