It’s been a long time since I have had the urge to write anything here, and consequently, you haven’t heard much from me.
I got a lot of new readership through the recommendation feature of the substack platform—I suspect the majority of which subscribed automatically. If you’re thinking anything along the lines of “…what the hell just landed in my inbox…” feel free to live your best life—full of free will and sovereignty over your own existence—and unsubscribe. I won’t be hurt, I promise. We’re so inundated by garbage that isn’t chosen by us or appropriate for us, that I fully support you quitting me, post haste, if that’s the right thing for you to do.
If you’re still here, then here you are.
I’m not sure where to start, or where it’ll end, but this is what I have so far.
I danced in the studio today, for the first time in months, to music that Spotify combined from my playlists and the playlists of the person I am deeply in love with.
I fell in love.
I am surprised at myself, and humbled, and it’s beautiful, and kinda gross. There’s a song in this queue that has lyrics along the lines of you have to risk it all to win anything big and boy does that approach bear out in relationships.
Lately, I’ve been mulling over what is made possible by loving imperfection deeply, by curbing the sometimes incessant and often inappropriate expectations we place on ourselves and each other for scripted actions, thoughts, and feelings—the neurotically-tinged should’s of relational experience. I shouldn’t like them this much, I shouldn’t be this annoyed, I should try harder to feel attracted, I should be ok with something that isn’t congruent or doesn’t feel good, this shouldn’t bug me as much.
As long as I can remember I’ve thought in pictures, not words. There are little films running in my minds eye most of the time—reading a book on the couch with our as-yet-unborn five year old son, his face lighting up at the sound of your key in the door. A road trip to the hot springs with the windows down, dashboard covered in dust, my hand on the back of your neck rattling down past the graveyards scattered along in-SHUCK-ch forrest service road and that old feeling in the pit of my stomach—the one that feels equal parts gnawing emptiness and storm of overflowing heart. A whole life lived in the space of an afternoon fantasy, staring out the window at the three sisters, the tall trees practicing their best curtseys for me when I’m least paying attention. I am learning in my counselling skills course that this is the brain’s default mode network clicking in, rich in association, an accordion of time.
I keep thinking of this analogy for our relationships: imagine a scene where two people are on stage practicing for a play. They stand awkwardly beside one another waiting for the director to give them a cue. They know that a relationship is part of the expected performance, and this is not an exercise in improvisation (thought I believe the actors would better be served if it were). Someone offstage hands them both scrips and they begin to read, halted sentences, looking up to gauge how their partner is taking the whole thing. It is an exercise in reading comprehension, not an exercise in courage, or passion, or in being alive.
I know we read from those papers out of fear that if we go off-script we’ll be alone. Alone and unloved, unaccepted, unwanted. But I’m beginning to think that we’re all better off aiming for the ad lib approach.
We’ve all been guilty of doing some bizarre googling, especially in order to make sense of our relationships—especially the most fraught parts. Doctor Google, is it too early to move in? Doctor Google, should I tell him that I’m falling in love? Doctor Google, what is the best way to tell someone you don’t want to see them anymore? Doctor Google, Doctor Google tell me how I should live!
It’s interesting that such complex nuanced and relational experiences end up being dissected into howstuffworks articles, with neat numbered sequential steps. I don’t pretend to know why that is, but it makes me feel lonely and crazy to think about people outsourcing their relational experiences to the internet. And yet it also makes me fall in love with my girlfriend even more because I don’t feel compelled to google. Because I know that my own understanding of my experience, and of my skills to build that middle space between us into something loving and careful and filled with admiration and friendship and desire, are good enough. Not perfect, because that is not human, but deeply good enough because that is.
Here is to the ongoing improv class that is life, here’s to being brave and unscripted in our studies, and here’s to love.
xoxo
Ada