Anima & Animus

I had many comment on Bed Wrecker or Home Wrecker and what Mark or I should do or what I should have said. I know these conversations drive-up emotions, for me as well. It is in my writing that I sort myself out. In this muse, through a conversation with another, I address my willingness and context for granting Mark space and being.

Let me challenge my Wisdom/LM community to begin the dialogue here. POST your comments and this blog too, becomes a social commons.

This muse is a conversation from the Wisdom Weekend. In the Wisdom Course people become more self-expressed, they become more fully themselves, and - there is nothing for me to do. Someone can express love or lust or whatever - and I don’t have to do anything with it.

“If you know nothing about me, here’s the thing you gotta know.” He held his head between his hands for a moment, as if it hurt. “In the world of Anima,” he dropped his hands to look at me. “Are you familiar with Anima?”

“I know Animus,” I said.

“Animus is man,” he instructed, “Anima is woman: the spirit of woman, the spirit of all women.” His arms spread to include all women. “You are the embodiment of Anima for me. Everything about you calls to me.”

“Waaaooww Franklin, thank you.”

“And I have this amazing marriage with Jane; right? And she is not Anima for me. You are: the way you walk, the way you talk, the things that come out of your mouth, your smile, your beauty, all of it.”

“Okay. Thank you.” I was wide-eyed, stunned and surprised. “Let me ask you this,” I said after a moment’s recuperation, “Is there something I need to be responsible for in our relationship, given that I always tease you?”

“No, no, I love that you do that. But just know that that will always be there,” he karate chopped the air between us, “That spirit of woman that will always call to me.”

“Okay, thank you,” I paused, “And thank you for telling me,” I added as an afterthought.

This I understand for when I said, “I know Animus,” I spoke truth. I know Animus. Animus incarnate: that man who captures the spirit of man and all men. Animus: the man for whom I will always attend and honor and love and care and want and sometimes pine.

Given our circumstance, our relationship is in constant renegotiation, continual architectural reorganization, a redraw and rewrite of the thin blue lines that structure, bind and circumscribe our coexistence. Over the years I’ve learned it is a very adult relationship that can allow Anima or Animus to dwell in our lives without trouble-making to have them occupy our beds. Heretical and dangerous, most would say. Magical seems more apropos.

Given Animus incarnate - the indescribable and infinite playzure I derive in him - I am the last person on the planet to judge another’s search for love and belonging. Capiche?

All that being said, Anima and Animus are mere stories, filters through which we view the chosen. I could deflate those wheels, flatten those tires and stop that vehicle but… nah! I prefer my life sprinkled in magic, dusted in love and peppered with adoration. Call me mad.

Bed Wrecker or Home Wrecker

He is an attractive tri-athlete, a hard-body, disciplined, svelte, smart, and savvy. That he loves to cook aligns with my habit of surrounding myself with friends who love to feed me. And - he knows the best restaurants in the city.

“That’s my favorite place,” he pointed at The Boulevard as we drove by.

“Why aren’t we eating there?”

He glanced at his watch, recalculating. “We’ll have to go there another time.”

That implied there would be another time. Oncoming headlights reflected brightly off wet streets. We passed Fisherman’s Wharf in companionable silence and turned left.

The large see-through fireplace on Houston’s patio was well tended, flames licked at logs, a crackling invitation, the illusion of warmth for a dank night. We ordered wine and waited for a table inside.

“My next woman will be a bed-wrecker,” he said laughing.

“A bed-wrecker?” I guffawed, “That’s hilarious! But,” I grew serious, “You sound like you know there will be a next woman.”

“I know that long-term, my marriage won’t work,” he turned equally serious, and poked at the round cocktail table with a large finger. “But I don’t want to disrupt my girl’s life. I don’t want her going back and forth. So it’s a choice, I’ve chosen to stay until she graduates.”

“But here’s the thing Mark,” I leaned forward and dropped my voice. “Do you think your wife doesn’t know that? Can’t feel it? And it informs your marriage now; like it limits who she can be for you and vice versa. And if you think she doesn’t know; you’re fooling yourself. She knows you better than anyone.”

These are not easy conversations and there are no easy solutions. Having an out-loud conversation is a start. Freeing the conversation from cranial incarceration into dialogue with another is a great start. Having the out-loud dialogue with a woman for whom you hold great attraction is probably not the best strategy, though perhaps a practiced one.

Women are such suckers for this conversation. We just know he married the wrong woman and that we can be what she is not and can never be. I could be a sucker for this conversation except I too, am well rehearsed.

I swirled my wine and watched the reflection of flames and fireplace melt and twirl in my glass. I sniffed, a full and fruity bouquet jumped at me.

“Wow, this smells good!” Holding my glass by the stem, I extended and he guided its bowl to his nose.

“That’s a good bouquet,” he smiled, flames dancing in his eyes. His dark eyes were crimped at the edge in laugh lines and I often heard his laughter.

I sipped slowly, spreading grape nectar across my palate before swallowing. A fit man is always attractive. A well dressed, fit man gets brownie points. He wore black cashmere over camel colored slacks and two-toned Kenneth Cole loafers. Very nice; many brownie points.

“You know, an underlying conversation here is integrity to your commitments.” I began slowly, choosing my words carefully. “If you are committed to staying, then chose powerfully and stay. But there is no integrity to staying with the intention of leaving in two or three years unless that’s communicated. And there is certainly no integrity to staying with a roving eye and extra-marital affairs, unless of course - you have an open marriage.”

My fellow Americans brand California “The Land of Fruits and Nuts” and point to open marriage as yet another in a long litany of examples. But given that an estimated 60% of men and 40% of women will have at least one extra-marital affair, open marriages provide an alternative to lying, cheating, sneaking and keeping secrets. Which, by the way, 60% of men and 40% of women, do. But I digress.

“Do you have an open marriage?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’ve tried to have that conversation so that some of my needs can be met, but she won’t have any part of it. I will always take care of her,” he looked me in the eye, “She will never want, but she can’t satisfy what I want or need any longer.”

Knowing that and verbalizing it is positive, methinks. When one can honestly assess one’s circumstance, peeling away the facade and pretense – integrity is, after all, more than going through the motions, more than staying because I said so.

If there is no conversation of how it really is and for what might work, then behavior is predicated on pretense and illusion, the pretense of “happily married ‘til death do us part” and the constant fabrication of a public persona to bolster that illusion. The inherent problem: the stench from a stinking kettle of fish.

The handsome, young maître d’ ushered us to our table. Mark removed his black, leather bomber-jacket and tossed it on the bench before sliding in.

“You know, I reached a point in my marriage where there was no integrity to staying because,” I poked a finger in the air, “I didn’t love him,” I raised a second finger, “Nor did I respect him. So while it sounds crazy, there can be a lot more integrity to leaving than staying.”

“Well, my daughter is the glue,” he defended.

“Kids are tremendous glue for relationships,” I nodded.

Our waitress popped in suddenly to detail the specials. She seemed intrusive and intruding and we pried ourselves from one another to heed her words. She highly recommended the Thai-noodle, steak-salad and its 17 ingredients. We capitulated and both ordered the salad.

He was by my reckoning, a man of faith. He professed faith and attended church with his family. He had contemplated attending seminary as a young man; I changed tack.

“You are a Christian man; how do you make this work with your faith? You agreed to love, honor, and cherish ‘til death do us part.”

“I didn’t agree to ‘til death do us part; I was going through the motions.” Stunned by his response, I pressed my lips into silence. Father of a teen, I wondered if pregnancy prompted said motions those many years ago.

I have difficulty with the separation of church and state of a marriage. Additionally, I acknowledge ease with casting stones at Christian marriages. I am guilty of saying, “If that’s a Christian marriage; I don’t want one coz in my world, forgiveness is more than a Sunday morning phenomenon.” For this I am hardly penitent.

Statistically, Christian marriages fare no better than the unclean, unsaved, heathens, pagans, infidels or gentiles. Why? I purport that tools for happy marriages are not proffered from pulpits, for if they were – proof/pudding, you know the adage. Secondly, we have our eye on the wrong ball. If we kept our eye on love, honor and cherish, ‘til death do us part would be a forgone conclusion. We don’t, so it’s not.

Our salads arrived and we dove in with vigor. They were a scrumptious blend of Thai noodles, chili pepper oil, spring salad mix, steak, cilantro, tomatoes, shredded carrots, peanuts and more.

We ate in silence for a short time and I toyed with the enticing affair. I ran a cost-benefit analysis, counted punch cards and hanging chits, tallied the scorecard and cost averaged. My calculations never favor the married man.

“I don’t quite have love, sex and attachment pulled apart,” I said after a time. “I tend to become very attached to the men I bed. Given you’re married, it’s best we don’t go there.”

“I’m not trying to convince you to have sex with me tonight but,” his hand touched his chest in gesture, “I am the perfect man for you.” He straightened, smiling broadly.

“How’s that?” I giggled, placing a hand on my chest to hold my laughter. Sometimes these conversations are equally fascinating and entertaining. Setting my utensils down, I settled back in my chair, folded my hands and gave him my full attention. Given that I don’t dine with duds, I had keen interest in his answer.

“You don’t have to worry about commitments or demands or that I’ll want more,” he said confidently.

Do people think I’m commitment-phobic?

“What if I want more?” I raised an eyebrow. “Let’s say I work out my attachments and think I can handle an affair. What would that look like?”

“I’d love to come see you for the night sometimes, without lying about it.”

I nodded and held his gaze far longer than was comfortable.

“That feels,” my eyes left his to scour the ceiling in search of the proper word, “Promiscuous to me. Not for you - for me.” My splayed hand touched my chest instinctively for emphasis.

Young adults have a term for this: fuck-buddies, a term more revolting than actual practice methinks. Conceptually, I have no difficulty with any kind of sex between consenting adults. But as a practice in my life?

“Those Judeo-Christian roots are hard to shuck,” I said in my defense. “Anyway, you guys are hard-wired to spread your seed. From that purview, your desire for other women makes perfect sense. Women are hard-wired for security, to create a nest and raise the kids. We look for big and strong, someone capable of killing the deer and dragging it home. From a woman’s perspective, spreading your seed is a threat to the survival of our brood. I don’t have a problem with it but I do have a bit of a problem participating in it.”

“I got what you are saying about spreading our seed,” he prepared to bolster his case, “But it’s not just with anyone; there has to be a connection. It’s not just about sex. At my age, sex is no good if there’s no connection.”

I couldn’t disagree and thought it probably THE issue in his marital bed as well. Unfortunately, the men for whom I held strong connections were married. That made them somewhat unavailable. Not entirely but physical intimacy was Kapu - off limits.

“I know that I am reliable to create another long-term relationship,” I started with my reasons, as if I needed them. “I used to say, ‘I’m not a No-Never; I’m a No-Not-Now.’ I can see that in the last year I have shifted to: No-Not-You. Not you, not you, not you.” I pointed at three spots in the space between us. “And if I become involved with you, unless I work out my attachments, I’ll be unavailable to the possibility of someone else. Like, I might not even notice him.” I had been known to not notice.

“I have a friend who went on Match.com and dated some great gals. You are so pretty, you could meet hundreds of men on Match.com.”

My hackles rose. This topic was a briar patch. I dove for cover, into a nearby rabbit hole, head first, full speed ahead. “Match.com is based on the supposition that I am looking; I’m not. There is no lack of men in my life. When I want to date, I will.” End of conversation.

We finished our dinner, split a cobbler dessert topped with vanilla ice cream and walked back to his vehicle, arm in arm.

“Here’s the hard part about this,” I said standing before him with my arms folded. “When it’s all said and done, you’ll go home and snuggle up for TV with you wife and daughter. Later, you’ll crawl into bed with your wife. I’ll go home to an empty house and snuggle with my cat. I’m not - that interested in becoming attached to you and going home to an empty house.”

We hugged before climbing into his auto. It is always a pleasure to hug a fit and trim man. I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of a man. Ah… nice bouquet. We kissed when he dropped me at my hotel and that too, was very nice.

These are not easy conversations and there are no easy solutions. There is no right way, no wrong way. There is dialoguing with those of import, seeking workability and happiness. Having an out-loud conversation is a start. For that, the man gets brownie points. When he has it where it counts? Many, many brownie points.

A Fetching Fur

My submission into the Writer's Digest Short Story contest. Literary license has been exercised.

A Fetching Fur

Precipitation on the peaks overhead, fell soft and silent in giant, white flakes. The first snow always plucked bittersweet, tuning her heartstrings for the swan song of summer and the overture of winter. Rain drummed the cobbled streets in bone chilling drops. Rain and snow were not forecast though welcomed by the Vail mercantile. Off-season sales would end in the coming weeks and sooner was better.

From beneath her dripping brim she peered, picturing the street decked in snow, bows and boughs for the season. This village is romantic in any season she thought, before ducking into the corner furrier.

“Try one on,” Ric followed, happy for shelter.

She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Try one on,” he insisted, circling the chair before coiling himself into a comfortable pose for the show.

Overhearing them, Juan approached and after introductions offered, “Let me take your coat; let me see your size.”

He helped with her raincoat and fleece jacket. The stench of cigarettes surrounded him, emanating from his breath and clothes. Imperceptibly, her face averted.

Juan stepped back and stirred the air with his finger, prompting her turn as his eyes traveled her length. She watched his eyes stop and linger and move and stop. In different circumstances, his scrutiny would be uncomfortable and unwelcome.

“You’re tiny,” was all he said.

“Where I come from,” she taunted, “They shoot people for wearing these.”

“Where are you from?” His words possessed a distinct Spanish sway.

“California”

His shrug was dismissive. “Depends on where in California.” Juan refused to engage an argument.

“True enough,” she agreed, remembering the Hollywood royals.

“Let me put you in several coats.” Juan moved without hesitation, pulling from his palette of fur.

“First, something more classic. Mink.” He held it open and she dipped even as he lifted it to hang upon narrow shoulders. Half-length, it fell to her thighs, flawless, luxurious, black and smooth.

She twirled slowly, studying the mirror, remembering her grandmother’s pearls and thinking they would pop against the ebony fur. She assessed herself and glanced at Ric’s reflection.

“It’s beautiful … and black is not my best color.”

“This is timeless and always fashionable and elegant,” Juan complimented.

“You look stunning,” Ric smiled from his place of repose. When particularly pleased, Ric absently curled his tongue to touch his top lip. She twirled again, to gaze in the mirror, to study his expression, to catch his tongue curling in unexpected pleasure.

Juan left them mesmerized: the man with his lady in mink, the lady speculating on her startling suitor.

She had never been coaxed into fur and was taken by its texture and beauty. Friends for decades, he had never seen her dressed in finery and was astonished by her arresting appeal.

They eyed one another as Juan moved silently to fetch another fur. His return burst their bubble; broke the spell and the very private look exchanged through the looking glass.

“This is chocolate swakara from Namibia,” Juan raised the second fur, “It’s Persian wool.”

She loved textures, finding its cow-licked, curly quality instantly captivating and reminiscent of cao de agua, Portuguese water dogs.

“The ruff is lynx.” Juan held the coat as she stepped into it.

“Hold it closed for me,” he instructed, pinching the coat to her waist. “The closures are put in once the coat is purchased, for a perfect fit. We can put in as many closures as you want.”

A closure between her breasts let lynx lavishly languish off-shoulder, in a framing décolletage. Each closure, placed higher, pulled lynx closer until it fastened beneath her chin: swank, sumptuous, and shi-shi.

“It’s you,” Ric grinned, pointing at her reflection, his shoulders bobbing with laughter, his tongue slithering north.

“This coat will dress up or down easily,” she said, loving everything about it. She rotated away from the mirror, turning her head for a rear view. “I always worry that I’ll gain weight,” she thought aloud of the closures.

“The ruff is American lynx,” Juan offered. “The belly hair is the whitest, longest and softest fur, so the best coats use only pelts from the belly.”

She listened absently, picturing the coat with an array of outfits: skinny jeans and heels or splayed off-shoulder over a gown for an evening performance at the Mondavi.

Last, Juan draped her in full-length mink. He hoisted the coat onto her slight frame and she felt the press of its weight. Heavy and dark, it trailed the floor. Her thoughts traveled to European royalty, cold stone castles and dreary, dismal weather. All consuming, its shapeless bulk swallowed her.

Far too warm for California, the mink was easily shucked. Not so the lynx. She donned it once more and they discussed the care and feeding of fur.

“We made only three,” Juan said, “This is the last. On November first, we will double the price and I will sell this coat for Christmas.” He paused, “Shall I give you a minute?”

They fell silent, each seeking the next course. She, before the mirror, wrapped in chocolate swakara. TICK, the clock clicked on the wall. Ric mindlessly drummed a tattoo against the armrest, like Monk. Juan played it very cool, like Miles. She looked like heaven when she smiled.

TOCK.

“We’re negotiating for sex,” Ric said with a wry smile, prompting a guffaw.

“We always are.” The corners of Juan’s mouth curled discreetly, his words more than prophetic.

“Let’s get an Irish coffee and discuss this,” Ric sprung from his chair.

“Really?” She froze with eyes that grew to saucers. “You can’t be serious!”

Hand in hand, they crossed soggy cobbles, seeking a cozy corner and warm beverage as the weather broke and shadows grew.

Him: Could he purchase the fur for the likely enjoyment of other men?

Her: Could she receive such a gift without a yoke of obligation?

He: weighed investment to extravagance and struggled to strangle this barrier to its possession:

She: bound the fur to requirement and remuneration.

They: spoke of love, possession, obsession, obligation, expectation, possessions, pleasure, attachment, avarice, and animus, the negotiations more titillating than the pelt itself.

She: thought he should not.

He: knew he should not ... and he could.

Two Irish coffees in Pepi’s Cantina; fourteen dollars.

Three nights in Vail: two hundred, twenty-five dollars.

One roundtrip ticket, SMF/DEN: two hundred, eighty-one dollars.

One chocolate, Namibian, swakara fur with lynx ruff: fifteen thousand dollars.

Heartfelt conversations: very rich and very real: priceless.

Adage or Idiom?

“They are the continuation of my family into the future,” he said of his children and their friends, as if that were important.

That I was devoid of that concern, struck swift and smart. While I do want for my niece, nephews and others of my tribe to prosper and thrive, I cannot say I have ever contemplated the continuation of my family into the future. No not once, not ever.

I felt instantly deficient, lacking more than the genetic thread stitching one to both past and future. I am again struck by the stark and unidentified differences of those who beget to those who have not and how those differences are revealed. I can never really know or fully appreciate his world or he mine.

And I promise to never know you seems more adage than idiom.

A Quandry on Mt Quandry

I summited alone at two-twenty in the afternoon; twenty minutes past the designated turn-around time. I’d crossed paths with the last summiteers fifteen minutes prior. Westerly’s drove a storm in my direction. Climbing the last 700 vertical feet alone, I’d almost retreated twice. The mountain seemed to part the jet stream, coercing thunderclouds either north or south. While the weather pattern held directly overhead, I continued upward even as thunder rumbled softly to the north. The summit was quiet and eerie. A vague sense of you-shouldn’t-be-here-alone haunted. I had violated the first rule of the mountains: NEVER go alone. I should have abandoned my summit bid with my compadres. I however, am not known to deny myself an obtainable summit. It was a calculated risk, the trail was straightforward without cliffs or snow… and a summit is only the halfway-point. I snapped four pictures: one of my face against the summit marker, one of the log book container which, try as I might, remained unopened, and two of neighboring peaks. I tightened my bootlaces and ran as snowflakes fell. Wild mountain goats perched effortlessly on nearby crags, defiant against silent snow flurries. So near, so majestic, so breathtakingly beautiful, I stopped to stand with them. In one diastolic depolarization, my heart opened to all-of-it and touched the Eternal. I say mountain climbing is a holy experience that brings me to touch the face of God. It IS that, the experience of being very present and connected to all-of-it.

A Fetching Fur

“Where I come from, they shoot people for wearing these,” she laughed, taunting him. “Where are you from?” His diction possessed a distinct Spanish sway. “California” He shrugged, “Depends on where in California.” “It’s true.” “Try one on,” Ric said, happy for shelter from the rain. Rain and snow were not forecasted though welcomed by the Vail mercantile. Off-season sales would end in the coming weeks and sooner was better. She wrinkled her nose. “Try one on,” he insisted and sat for the viewing. “Let me take your coat,” Juan offered. “Let me see your size.” She shed a raincoat and fleece jacket. “You’re tiny. Tell me about yourself,” Juan commanded. “I’m active and I like playful,” she stood before them both. “Let me put you in several coats.” Juan moved without hesitation, pulling from his palette of fur. “First, something more classic; a mink.” He held it open and she dipped, even as he lifted it to her shoulders. Half-length, it fell flawlessly, luxuriously, black and smooth. She twirled slowly in the mirror, remembering her Grandmother’s pearls, assessing herself and Ric’s countenance. “It’s beautiful … and black is not my best color.” “This is timeless and will always be fashionable and elegant,” Juan said. Juan moved behind them to another corner, to fetch a fetching fur. Chocolate swakara from Namibia; Persian wool with a lynx ruff. “Hold it closed for me,” Juan instructed, pinching the coat to her waist. “The closures are put in once the coat is purchased, for a perfect fit. We can put in as many closures as you want.” A closure low on her bosom let lynx lavishly languish off-shoulder, in a framing décolletage. Each closure, placed higher on her chest, pulled the lynx closer, framing her face until finally, pinched beneath her chin, the belly pouch pulled over in a hood. It was swank and sumptuous, shi-shi and ve-e-ery sexy. “This coat will dress up or down really easy,” she said loving everything about it. “I always worry that I'll gain weight,” she thought of the closures, “And… I never do, so I guess it's a non-issue.” “The ruff is American lynx,” Juan said. “The belly hair is the whitest, longest and softest fur, so the best coats use only pelts from the belly.” Last, Juan draped her in full-length mink. Heavy and dark, it trailed the floor and she was immediately reminded of European royalty, cold stone castles and dreary, dismal weather. All-consuming, she was lost in its shapeless bulk. Far too warm for California, that coat was easily shucked. Not so the lynx. She donned it once more and they discussed the care and feeding of such an animal. “We made only three,” Juan said, “This is the last. On November first, we will double the price and I will sell this coat for Christmas.” “Let’s get an Irish coffee and discuss this,” Ric rose from his perch. “You can’t be serious!” They crossed a soggy street, seeking libations as the weather broke and shadows grew. Could he purchase the fur for the probable enjoyment of other men? Could she receive such a gift without a yoke of obligation? They spoke of love, possession, obsession, possessions, obligation, attachment, expectation, pleasure, avarice, animus … the negotiations more titillating than the pelt itself. She thought he should not. He knew he should not ... and he could. Two Irish coffees in Pepi’s Cantina; fourteen dollars. One Vail condo for three nights: two-hundred, twenty-five dollars. One roundtrip ticket, SMF/DEN: two-hundred, eighty-one dollars. One chocolate, Namibian, swakara fur with lynx ruff: fifteen thousand dollars. Heartfelt conversations: very rich and very real. Priceless.

As Good As It Gets?

“You know Lorin,” Juan’s manner was so nonchalant, “One thing we’ve never talked about is sex.” Deer… headlights. I walked between them, heading north on Sepulveda Boulevard for Trader Joes. I shot a look left at Wade. He gazed into traffic, face averted to hide a smirk, his broad shoulders already bobbing with laughter. Wade knew this conversation would be stopped dead in its tracks, a crime of passion, murder in cold blood and broad daylight. “You’re right,” I faced my assailant, “We’ve never talked about sex and we’re not gonna now.” “Why not?” my little Mexican friend wanted to know. “Because you’re not The One.” I don’t believe in the concept of The One but it was a ready rebuff. “A man has to be The One to have a conversation with you about sex?” “You have to be The One or a reasonable facsimile. You are neither and I have no intention of having this conversation with you!” Case closed… and thrown in his direction…like a fastball… at his head. I was in LA attending a Partnership Exploration Course weekend, a course designed to explore my boundaries in conversations and life. Sex was an obvious boundary. “But don’t you want to be held and cuddled?” Gary asked over breakfast. “Of course.” “Could you have cuddling without sex? I could see cuddling with you. Could you have a man in your bed cuddling you without it being a sexual relationship?” If I had fur… I’d bite. Monkey’s hackles rose and he bounced from a skinny branch, scr-e-e-e-ching. My leg bounced beneath the table and heel jack-hammered the carpet in a sure sign of discomfort. “I don’t have that pulled apart,” I admitted. “You’re in my bed; you’re my lover. You’re not my lover, you ain’t there.” “Yeah but…” I raised a hand to stop him; here after all and once again, was the boundary. “I got that it keeps me from a certain amount of intimacy but so far, I haven’t worked this out. I’m not one for recreational sex and I don’t see that changing. I have sex and love interwoven, there is not one without the other. Add attachment for a dicey ménage de toi. I have sex?” I raised a finger, “I’m in love,” I raised a second, “And attached. I can see they are three separate issues: love, sex and attachment… and knowing makes no difference.” “Ok-a-a-a-y,” he sounded dubious. Then quite unexpectedly, he flushed with tears. I waited quietly for him to gather words. “I’m sad because… I could really love you and I think…,” his lip trembled, “It will never be that way for you. I’m smitten,” he was forthright and unembarrassed, “In some stage of gotta have you,” he smiled through his tears. “Thank you,” I reached for his hand and squeezed. He was right, it was not that way for me but this time, there was no fastball to the head. This time, there was compassion for his heart and his willingness to share it with me. “I married the wrong woman,” Tony said. No you didn’t; I woulda killed you. “We are so much alike and so well matched.” No, we’re not. Really, trust me on this. Some philosophies purport we marry the perfect person, the one who lets us run our rackets and schemes. And that old adage “opposites attract,” points to opposing strong suits. “You’re mine,” he said so confident, “One day I’ll have you.” I calmed myself before speaking. “When you say that, it comes across like I have no say in the matter. I can’t tell you how uncomfortable that is.” We often think we can hear anything and have any conversation. The more likely truth is, we train people to avoid our boundaries. As my capacity for edgy conversations expanded, so too did the Christopher Columbus’ sailing to explore my edge. “Oh, I don’t mean anything by it,” he backpedaled, “You’re precious and I just want to love you.” Loving me and making love to me are completely separate issues… and I was uncertain I wanted either… with any. “How good are you willing to have it?” I asked Tom one day. “Like, how much love can you stand?” “Not that much I guess,” he squirmed. “So if love doesn’t match your picture; you throw it out?” His constant complaining was tiresome and earned him the moniker: curmudgeon. Not his real self, the curmudgeon was a fixed way of being, a habit and crust to protect his soft, kneaded and gently baked heart. Beneath concrete, I knew a man with twinkling eyes and tender thoughts. The world however, knew the curmudgeon. “Yeah, I guess I do,” he admitted thoughtfully. “What do you suppose the age of that conversation is?” “I don’t know,” he growled. “Like how old is the child who says, ‘If you don’t play my way, I’ll take my ball and go home!’” Silence. “About five?” I offered, “Six?” “It’s easier… see, if I can’t have you the way I want you, it’s easier to make up a story about how you don’t want me and push you away.” “Understood. And then you don’t get the love I can and do give. This doesn’t have to be an all or nothing game… or does it?” This is a strategic game, this game of love fully-expressed within societal bounds. It’s a complex game with traps and treasure, rules and exceptions, dungeons and dragons, disappearing walls, expanding boundaries, shadow play and shackles, kings and queens. A full ten-months later, the Partnership Exploration Course was dismissed for lunch. “You single people are scheming for hot-sex all the time,” Angela laughed from stage. “And you married people have the vehicle for it and don’t understand why you don’t have hot-sex all the time.” I traipsed to the pool, to spend 90-minutes in sun filtered through LA’s smog. Ron was long and lean, the body habitus that reliably pings my radar all day, every day. He wore a thick thatch of dark, wiry hair unparted and combed straight back, jeans and a plain, short-sleeved, button down shirt, sans tails. In a course of 300, he’d gone unnoticed. I read his a nametag. “Hi Ron,” I sat and stripped to my bikini. No Hi or Hello, no social small talk, Ron dove right in. “So what about you?” he asked in telltale Brooklyneese, “Are you interested in hot-sex all the time?” Deer… headlights. My eyes seized the size of saucers. Thank God for sunglasses. I paused and inhaled deeply the jet exhaust permeating the LAX surrounds. “You know,” I visibly calmed, “I am interested in hot-sex all the time but that seems to be attached to a committed relationship and I’m not so committed to that.” “That’s interesting,” he said, ending our conversation before it began. Not threatened, thoughtful. No fastball, simple truth. The vague smell of pipe tobacco always clings to clothes impeccably pressed and white lab coat, stiffly starched. His eyes always brighten when they find mine. Andar is a short, thick man with cropped silver hair and English usurped by Portugal. A broad, gold cross hangs from a substantial gold chain. He is soft spoken and unpresumptuous. I love his rolling R’s and dark, golden skin. I love too that he claims me for his slice of Portugal. On occasion, when my patient load is anything but overwhelming, we sip coffee in the hospital cafeteria. “I don’t suppose we could meet sometimes… outside the hospital?” “I don’t think that’s a good idea Andar.” I shook my head. “I’m very good with tools,” he stammered, “If you need help fixing things.” I watched him struggle, stumbling over his words. I forced myself to silence, to let him finish. He probed the woody grain of his chair with a fingernail. “In your house,” he glanced up momentarily, “In your yard. You have my pager; you call me. Sometimes is good to have a man around.” His smile was fleeting and sheepish. I smiled back. Married forty-something years, his union was no longer happy. Given the state of many marriages, one could surmise his unhappiness – spanned decades. Too long we ignore the slow leak at the seam. “At my age; where else I go?” He shrugged, palms skyward before returning them to work the wooden armrests with fingers as thick as sausage. Andar goes. He disappears for months, home to Portugal or Alaska’s inland passage. He loves to travel and returns filled with stories and life, the spark in his eye rekindled. Over many months, he’d settle into the drudgery of his work and marriage or they settled upon him, like dust on a comfortable old chair. Until another excursion called, an escape from drudgery and dust to that which breathed life into him once more. Behind halting, broken English and the façade of an aging man, beneath a morass of morals and mores, dressed in bright eyes and tentative courage, his shadow-self dipped a toe to test my waters. Pushback and resistance are automatic, like deep tendon reflexes. I always wrestle with my want, with swift, harsh hand, to reestablish immutable and immovable boundaries. And yet, is there any such thing? If there is one conversation for which I have compassion, it is this one. That of, not unrequited or unreturned love, but love seemingly tethered by societal expectation. There is an order to society at large that provides workability and structure to our relationships. We grow-up with fantastical pictures and fairy tales more convoluted and invasive than Jack’s beanstalk. When life does not match the picture, we have opinions of how life should be. How life should be rarely includes people that captivate us from their point of entry ad infinitum. God forbid they are gender opposite! And love doesn’t match our picture. How life should be never includes those, excepting our children, who capture our hearts Stockholm-style, a captured heart freely relinquished to one’s captor. And love doesn’t match our picture. How life should be excludes another’s spouse, albeit statistically prevalent. And love doesn’t match our picture. How life should be ignores friends who love. There is no condoning extra-marital, loving friendship of opposing genders, however common. And love doesn’t match our picture. We have rules for relationships. We reestablish boundaries, harshly, swiftly because to let them love us threatens… what does it threaten? “It challenge our assumptions of right and wrong,” Keoki asserted. “How much love can I have in my life?” I asked. “That’s a good question,” he said, “And one I struggle with myself.” “Can I let this man love me without pushback? There was no request of me; can I be with his love and care? Who says I have to cut him off and cut him out? And why my penchant for it?” “Thank you for your offer Andar; you are very kind. I appreciate that you care for me and want to take care of me. How lucky am I?” Our coffee mugs drained, he departed for Portugal. He will return with English folded in Portuguese like heavy cream in coffee. Listening to his stories will require both eyes and ears, watching the words form on his lips to extract English from brogue. I will love the resuscitation and rejuvenation in him and find nurturance in love that challenges my assumptions of right and wrong. How much love can I have? The more salient question is: how much love can I stand? Can I let them love me even when it doesn’t look like it should? Or thought it would? How much love can I have? As much as I can stop pushing away.