I have flipped through the pages of Tolkien (my first time!) and pondered the emotional life of boys in America. I have procured, to my great delight, vintage beauties from an idyllic second-hand bookshop in Bountiful and stacked high tomes from the library. I think I had forgotten this past semester what joy I find in reading.
That got me thinking about some of the other things that are such boons to me:
Waking up to NPR.
Falling asleep to NPR.
Ira Glass' infinite Ira-Glass-iness.
Making things.
Giving (humble) gifts.
Writing letters... real letters!
My list is decidedly more pedantic than Maria's cat whiskers and brown paper packages tied with twine. But, still.
I'm not one to really make New Year's resolutions, if only because calling them such dooms them to failure. I am, however, one to readdress priorities. And so, I will say this: I have found much value in pausing and engaging in those things that bring me stillness and fullness; this year – and, hopefully, much longer than that – I will place a higher priority on items that seem to continually get pushed to the bottom of the list in favor of the much more pressing, and stillness-snatching, idle to-do's.
It was, you see, the very first day of school after a long, dreadfully school-less summer. Madie, knowing my absolute love for school supplies, classes and You've Got Mail, planned quite the surprise. And, you must believe that it kept me smiling all day.
So, I guess that classifies me as a total dork.
Other signs:
I have been waiting for this day since four days after classes ended in May. For reals.
While others have been complaining all around me today about professors and syllabi, each class just made me actually sigh - out loud - with satisfaction.
I could. not. wait. to get home from FHE to do my translations. I even left a bit early so I could sit out on the lawn and make my Greek flash cards.
In all honesty, though, the reason I'm writing is this: yes, I confess to be guilty of succumbing to my nerd-ocity. Yes, I know, that I should be only begrudgingly engaging in using my head again, preferring instead the carefree days of summer...
Yet, here I am, tired, but happy. I have to think that I am just so blessed by the Lord to have found the one discipline in this life that ignites me - head, heart and whole soul. The knowledge that I was brought here, where Deity clearly had different ideas than I about my trajectory, is, perhaps, the greatest gift I have been given since finding the Gospel itself. But perhaps that's why I love it so much: I find the Gospel in a new way each and every day.
You see, I desire to marry and raise men that are Christlike, recognizing the equality, beauty and value of both genders. Men who are able to see clearly through the fog of gender stereotyping and societal norms. Men who do what they want to do without fear of being called "girly" and when they are, they do not take it as an insult. Men who are able to be true partners with women.
With all of that in mind, I want to share with you a fantastic TED talk that struck my heart with force. (If you can't see the video below, scroll all the way to the bottom of this post to read the full text.) In this video, Tony Porter discusses some of the issues involved in raising men of true strength. Take a look:
I was particularly stuck by Tony's closing statements:
I need you on board. I need you with me. I need you working with me and me working with you on how we raise our sons and teach them to be men. That it's okay to not be dominating. That it's okay to have feelings and emotions. That it's okay to promote equality. That it's okay to have women that are just friends and that's it. That it's okay to be whole. That my liberation as a man is tied to your liberation as a woman. I remember asking a 9-year-old boy—I asked a 9-year-old boy, "What would life be like for you if you didn't have to adhere to this Man Box?" He said to me, "I would be free."
I found Tony's assertion that "my liberation as a man is tied to your liberation as a woman" incredibly on point. And, to that end, extremely eye opening as a Latter-day Saint. It comes as no surprise the idea that when one gender is bound, both are. However, I wonder if, in this society where the issues Tony discusses are extant, we don't focus too much on the oppression of women. I found myself thinking of what a disservice we do our men, our beloved boys, in giving them the perceived "leg up." The countless intangible, but very real, ways we stunt men by teaching them to stunt women.
Neither Tony nor I offer up many avenues to reaching this lofty goal. Which is a shame, and I'm sorry. I have to think, though, that getting people - parents and future parents - on board is the first step.
***Full Text Below***
I grew up in New York City, between Harlem and the Bronx. Growing up as a boy, we was taught that men had to be tough, had to be strong, had to be courageous, dominating, no pain, no emotions, with the exception of anger, and definitely no fear. That men are in charge, which means women are not. That men lead, and you should just follow and just do what we say. That men are superior; women are inferior. That men are strong; women are weak. That women are of less value. Property of men. And objects, particularly sexual objects.
I've later come to know that to be the collective socialization of men, better known as The Man Box. [shows graphic of box containing classic masculinity tropes] See, this Man Box has in it all the ingredients of how we define what it means to be a man. Now, I also want to say, without a doubt, there are some wonderful, wonderful, absolutely wonderful things about being a man—while at the same time there's some stuff that's just straight-up twisted. [laughter] And we really need to begin to challenge, look at, and really get in the process of deconstructing, redefining, what we come to know as manhood.
This is my two at home—Kendall and Jade. [shows picture of two children, a girl and a boy] They're 11 and 12; Kendall's 15 months older than Jade, and there was a period of time, you know, when my wife, her name is Tammy, and I, we just got real busy, and whip bim bam boom, Kendall and Jade. [laughter] And when they were about 5 and 6, 4 and 5, you know, Jade could come to me, it didn't matter, come to me crying, you know, it didn't matter what she was crying about, she can get on my knee, she could snot my sleeve up, just cry, cry it out, Daddy got you, that's all that's important.
Now, Kendall, on the other hand, and, like I said, he's only 15 months older than her, he come to me crying, it's like, soon as I would hear him cry, a clock would go off, you know; I would give the boy probably about 30 seconds. Which means by the time he got to me, I was already saying things like, "Why you crying? Hold your head up. Look at me. Explain to me what's wrong. Tell me what's wrong! I can't understand you while you crying!" And out of my own frustration, of my role and responsibility of building him up as a man, to fit into these guidelines and these structures that are defined in this Man Box, I would find myself saying things like, "Just go in your room! Just go on—go on in your room! Sit down, get yourself together, and come back and talk to me when you can talk to me like a"…what? [audience: "Like a man."] Like a man. And he's five. years. old.
And, you know, as I grow in life, I would say to myself, "My god. What's wrong with me? What am I doing? Why would I do this?" And I think back, I think back to my father. [shows picture of his family] There was a time in my life when we had a very troubled experience in our family. My brother Henry, he died tragically when we was teenagers.
We lived in New York City, as I said—we lived in the Bronx, at the time—and the burial was a place called Long Island—it was about two hours outside of the city—and as we were preparing to come back from the burial, you know, the cars stopped at the bathroom, you know, let folks take care of themselves, for the long ride back to the city, and the limousine empties out—my mother, my sisters, my aunties, they all get out, but my father and I stayed in the limousine. And no sooner than the women got out, he burst out crying. He didn't want to cry in front of me, but he knew he wasn't going to make it back to the city, and it was better me than allow himself to express these feelings and emotions in front of the women. And this is a man who, 10 minutes ago, had just put his teenage son in the ground—something I just can't even, I just can't even imagine.
The thing that sticks with me the most is that he was apologizing to me for crying in front of me. And at the same time, he was also giving me props, lifting me up, for not crying.
You know, I come to also look at this as this, this fear that we have as men, this fear that just have us paralyzed, holding us hostage to this Man Box.
I can remember speaking to a 12-year-old boy, a football player, and I asked him, I said, "How would you feel if, in front of all the players, your coach told you, you were playing like a girl?" Now, I expected him to say something like, "I'd be sad; I'd be mad; I'd be angry," something like that. No, the boy said to me, the boy said to me, "It would destroy me."
And I said to myself, "God, if it would destroy him to be called a girl, what are we then teaching him about girls?" [applause]
It took me back to a time when I was about 12 years old—I grew up in tenement buildings, you know, in the inner city, and at this time, we're living in the Bronx—and in the building next to where I lived, there was a guy named Johnny. He was about 16 years old, and we were all about 12 years old, younger guys, and he was hanging out with all us younger guys, and this guy, he was up to a lot of no good; he was the kind of kid parents have to wonder, "What is this 16 year old boy doing with these 12 year old boys?" And he did spend a lot of time up to no good; he was a troubled kid, you know, his mother had died from a heroin overdose, he was being raised by his grandmother, his father wasn't on the set, his grandmother had two jobs, he was home alone a lot.
Well, I gotta tell you, we young guys, we looked up to this dude, man. He was cool. He was fine—that's what the sisters said; he was fine, right? He was having sex. You know, we all looked up to him.
So one day, I'm out in front of the house doing something, just playing around, doing something, I don't know what. He looks out his window, and he calls me upstairs. He said, "Hey Ant—" (they called me Anthony growing up as a kid) "—hey Anthony, come on upstairs." Johnny call; you go. So I run right upstairs. As he opens the door, he says to me, "Do you want some?" Now I immediately knew what he meant, because for me, growing up at that time, and our relationship with this Man Box, "Do you want some?" meant one of two things: Sex or drugs. And we weren't doing drugs.
Now my box, my card, my Man Box Card was immediately in jeopardy. Two things: One, I never had sex. We don't talk about that, as men; you only tell your dearest, closest friends, sworn to secrecy for life the first time you had sex. For everybody else, we go around like we been having sex since we was two. There ain't no first time. [laughter] The other thing I couldn't tell him is that I didn't want any. You know, that's even worse. We supposed to be always on the prowl; women are objects, especially sexual objects.
So anyway, I couldn't tell him any of that, so, like my mother would say, to make a long story short, I just simply said to Johnny, "Yes." He told me to go in his room. I go in his room; on his bed is a girl from the neighborhood named Sheila. She's 16 years old. She's nude. She is what I know today to be mentally ill, higher functioning at times; at others, we had a whole choice—words, you know, inappropriate names for her… [he drifts off; he looks pained]
Anyway, Johnny had just gotten through having sex with her—well, he actually raped her, but he said he had sex with her, because while Sheila never said "no," she also never said "yes."
So he was offering me the opportunity to do the same, so when I go in the room, I close the door—folks, I'm petrified. I stand with the back to the door, so Johnny can't bust in the room and see that I'm not doing anything, and I stand there long enough that I could have actually done something. So now I'm no longer trying to figure out what I'm gonna do; I'm trying to figure out how I'm gonna get out of this room.
So in my 12 years of wisdom, I zip my pants down, I walk out into the living room, and, lo and behold, while I was in the room with Sheila, Johnny was back at the window calling guys up. So now there's a living room full of guys, like, you know, like the waiting room at the doctor's office. And they ask me, "How was it?" And I said to them it was good. And I zip my pants up in front of them, and I head for the door.
Now, I say this all with remorse, and I was feeling a tremendous amount of remorse at that time, but I was conflicted, because, while I was feeling remorse, I was excited, because I didn't get caught, but I knew I felt bad about what was happening. This fear of getting outside the Man Box totally enveloped me. It was way more important to me, about me and my Man Box Card, than about Sheila, and what was happening to her.
See, collectively, we as men are taught to have less value in women, to view them as property and the objects of men. We see that as an equation that equals violence against women.
[shows a graphic reading: "The Collective Socialization of Men: Less Value + Property + Objectification = Violence Against Women."]
We as men, good men, the large majority of men, we operate on the foundation of this, this whole collective socialization. We kind of see ourselves as separate, but we're very much a part of it. You see, we have to come to understand that less value, property, and objectification is the foundation, and the violence can't happen without it. So we're very much a part of the solution, as well as the problem. The Centers for Disease Control says that men's violence against women is at epidemic proportions—it is the number one health concern for women in this country and abroad.
So quickly, I'd just like to say, you know, this is the love of my life [shows picture of daughter]—my daughter, Jade. The world I envision for her, how do I want men to be acting and behaving—I need you on board. I need you with me. I need you working with me and me working with you on how we raise our sons and teach them to be men. That it's okay to not be dominating. That it's okay to have feelings and emotions. That it's okay to promote equality. That it's okay to have women that are just friends and that's it. That it's okay to be whole.
That my liberation as a man is tied to your liberation as a woman. [applause]
I remember asking a 9-year-old boy—I asked a 9-year-old boy, "What would life be like for you if you didn't have to adhere to this Man Box?" He said to me, "I would be free."
When I was in the second grade, I didn't just want glasses. I yearned for them. You see, I had an American Girl doll. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. I had Molly... kind of. You see, I actually had Samantha, because my sister's name was Samantha. But I really wanted Molly. The glasses-ed, plaid-wearing, nerdy American Girl doll. And, since the only difference* between Samantha and Molly were glasses and a fifty-eight dollar outfit, I got Samantha, but kind of also Molly. Thus began my love affair with glasses.
Starting the day I received my Samantha doll (and Molly outfit), I begged my mom for glasses. Even though I didn't need them. At all. I even asked Santa for a pair of glasses. And, Lo! and Behold! Santa came through for me. For the Christmas of my eighth year, I received a $5.99 pair of those reading glasses from the drug store. Gold rimmed and +0.25 lens strength, I was a stylin' second grader.
(I know what you're thinking and, indeed, I have been a dork from the womb.)
And then the day came when my mom realized that I need glasses for real. Mwahahaha my evil plan had worked.
Since then, I have been glasses'd.
And then there's my family. We are - how you say? - optically challenged. There's my uncle Phil:
And Uncle Charles:
And then there's my Aunt Kay, after whom I am named:
And, of course, my own mother...
My entire glasses-wearing life, I have been poking fun at them and their poor choices in face-covering, thick-rimmed frames.
Well, I have a confession: I have joined their ranks.
Oops.
P.S. Just to further my hypocrite-ism, can I just say how rad I think all of my family's glasses are? Except maybe my mom's Elton John glasses...
I have felt tapped out by my wonderful life and didn't have the energy to write it all down. With that in mind, I thought I might share some of the happenings I would be remiss not to write.
One of the biggest changes that has happened is the disbanding of my former (incredible) ward here in Provo. The First Presidency decided to restructure the whole of how YSA/student wards work in highly concentrated young Mormon areas. The restructuring is complicated, and I'm sure you have heard all about it by now (me being so far behind the times in my writing). Suffice it to say, Oy. What a change.
Don't get me wrong, my new ward is just fine. And there are some really incredible things that are happening – I'm really enjoying Sunday School, for example. Eek. *Foot in mouth.* It's not that I didn't enjoy Gospel Doctrine in my old ward, it's just....different. Maybe the fact that we're sitting in a classroom...?
One of the hardest things about leaving my old ward was this very heavy feeling of incompletion when it came to my calling as a Relief Society teacher. Turns out, I wasn't finished after all. Just four days into the new ward, the first counselor in the Bishopric (who, by the way, is younger than I am) called me in and asked me to be a Relief Society teacher. Score.
My dating life has been quite eventful, if not a bit of a sit-com. I will spare the whole world intimate details, but suffice it to say, dating in Provo is quite...well, it is what it is. There have been a few bright, shining moments wherein I found myself thinking Oh, right. This is what I'm actually looking for. Which is great! But for the most part, dating has been a series of missteps and after-date recaps with Mad that end in me saying "What was I thinking?"
But I sure have some stories to tell.
Oy.
I promise I'm usually wittier or more insightful, but give a girl a break! This is really my first time back in months! I'll be better next time, je te promet.
A scary statistic via Google Reader (a blog tracker that delivers blog posts to an inbox): over the past 30 days, I have read 1,893 posts (at least partially, but most all the way through).
....There may just be no words.
What magnifies the issue? Blog reading is just a fraction of my information-consuming tendencies. I have spent literally hours listening to podcasts and perhaps more reading. Certainly way up there is the discovering and listening to of new music.
Doesn't that just boggle your mind? It certainly does mine. And it makes me think...
Here's the good news: I try to ensure that the information to which I subject my mind is geared toward education on topics that matter – first and foremost: spiritual, current events, work-related, hobbies. More than half of all of my incoming information is topical to spiritual matters, be they blogs, books, articles, podcasts, journals, etc. So, that's good
....Right? I have to say, when I look at it in the stark light of day, it just seems like so much information.
It reminds me of this modern day parable called "The File Room" (just scroll down to where you see the sub-heading THE FILE ROOM). Will I one day be shamed of the time I spent focusing on these pursuits? Is it possible that my love for new sparks of inspiration is good, but that there is something greater on which to rely?
What if I replaced some of this time with more in-depth, more intuitive Scripture study? Or, more time spent pondering in the temple of our Lord? I know that my focus on bringing new information into my life has helped me to become a more grounded person, to think more deeply about the Gospel, to become a person who thinks and puts forward original thoughts, but I still can't shake the idea that there could be something a bit greater if I were willing to take a few steps backward and see the big picture.
So, music has been on my mind, especially its value and weight in my life. I ache for those who don't find joy in music, because my life has been lit on fire by its power. Truly, music has enabled me to live passionately.
I love the way in which music connects us with each other.
Case in point, the girl that is the other part of me–my bestie (sans testie) loves music, too. We sealed our girl-crushing fate dancing in the dark in the middle of a parking lot...and in a snowy mountain driveway in the dead of winter.
But music is not just forceful in the good friendships. Music has been instrumental in keeping me connected with my more difficult relationships. Music has kept me close to my father, even in the most strenuous of times. I will never be able to say that I am not my father's daughter...because you know that music snobbery? It came from him.
I can't remember one single memory from my childhood that doesn't include a soundtrack. Cruising for yard sales in the summertime? Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Driving to Florida to go to Disney World? The Blues Brothers. Fixing the cars in the garage? Jimi Hendrix and Peter Frampton. The most bittersweet goodbye I can remember? Don Henley.
If I'm really honest with myself, I have to admit that the gratitude that I feel for music originates in a gratitude for my father. Which is a heady thing.
And so, music is a huge thing in my life. Perhaps better stated, music is how I most fully experience the joys of the world. The joys my Heavenly Parents would have me know.
I had a conversation with a friend recently wherein the influence of music was questioned–not its power, but whether or not it was a power for good. That conversation has made me think. It pierced me through because I can't imagine my life without music; I can't imagine my survival through the hard times or my joy in the good. I can't imagine stringing the highs and lows together without the soundtrack of my life. More so, I can't imagine smiling at former pains without music. I don't know if I would be so able to measure my growth without it.
I can't describe the feeling I get when I hear something that so perfectly is me in the moment in which I hear it, the gift that it is for that to happen. In short, while the lives of others may not be so reliant on music, I am here in a very real way because of its sheer positive force.
So, enough of the cheesiness. Let me share just a handful of my all-time favorites (because you got this far, and you deserve a reward for reading this less-than-awesome-or-at-least-very-divergent post)!
Love the line "Can't scrape together quite enough to ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love."
This cover makes me melt. The original is pretty rad, too (find it here).
This song feels like home.
Totally reminds me of my time in Paris.
Honestly, this song brings me really close to my Father in Heaven.
That night, I regained my voice gave my voice permission to speak.
These days, I'm probably a bit too brazen. I probably give voice to a little bit too much to make everyone around me totally comfortable 100% of the time. But, I definitely prefer that to the alternative.
When I'm really honest with myself, I have to admit that I actually kind of love that about myself.
Giving myself permission to speak was not about wreaking havoc on those that had done me wrong. It was about giving myself permission to express who I was; about giving myself permission to have feelings in the first place–to act and react...to be an agent capable of independent action. Giving myself permission to have a voice was about giving myself permission to be.
I see, too often, people that I love denying their right to have a voice. And for what, I don't know.
What I do know is that Satan would have us be silent, for when we are silent, we are far less powerful. Please speak, friends. Give voice to the most tender parts of your souls, even in the face of fear in all its forms. Allow yourself to be heard, for we want to hear.
A few years ago, a good friend of mine proclaimed from the pulpit during Sacrament meeting that tolerance was one of her least favorite words in the English language. "Tolerance" she said, "is not enough to fulfill our covenants with the Lord." Needless to say, I developed a girl crush (it's the female form of bromance) right then and there.
Those words came rushing back to me the other day, as I stood in the Apple store in Salt Lake City replacing my broken iPhone. The store representative had taken my recently toileted (yes, that's an adjectival verb) phone and was off doing his thing, so I was left standing there with nothing to do for a few minutes. Something at the front of the store caught my eye, so I walked forward to take a look, but before I even took three or four steps, I was caught up in a scene that was taking place just outside the store's large, shiny facade. I stood there, looking out from inside the very epitome of wealth and luxury at a homeless person meekly asking for change.
He wasn't intrusive or aggressive. He didn't even have a sign. Just a cup and ragged clothing, certainly not enough to keep the wind from cutting him to the core on that gusty winter night. And, as I watched, perhaps two dozen people walked briskly by, most avoiding eye contact. None were visibly rude, but each just walked by pretending not to see him in the first place. I knew what they were doing because I have done it myself.
In fact, I had probably done the same thing when walking into the store.
In that moment, my heart ached. I looked at that man–that brother–with renewed eyes. I am not going to tell you what I did next, because it's not important to what I'm trying to say here. But, here's what I learned: Tolerance is not enough.
Each of us walking past that brother looked away, pretending not to see him–an act that was probably seen as polite in our subconscious minds. Either overtly or not, we likely thought of him as a nuisance and we tolerated him by not thinking to ourselves about how he got to the place in which he was. In short, we endured his presence. Perhaps more importantly, each of us tolerated this disparity in human experience with little or no thought.
Recently, I watched a TEDtalk by Krista Tippett from The Charter for Compassion in which she hopes to have us reclaim compassion through making it more accessible. In this talk, she addresses the idea of tolerance powerfully:
When this country first encountered genuine diversity, in the 1960's, we adopted tolerance as the core civic virtue with which we would approach that. Now, the word 'tolerance,' if you would look at it in the dictionary, connotes allowing, indulging and enduring. In the medical context that it comes from, it is about testing the limits of thriving in an unfavorable environment. Tolerance is not really a lived virtue, it's more of a cerebral kind of ascent. And it's too cerebral to animate guts and heart and behavior when the going gets rough...and the going is pretty rough right now. I think that without perhaps being able to name it, we are collectively experiencing that we have come as far as we can with tolerance as our only guiding virtue.
I would say that as Latter-day Saints who have made very specific covenants with the Lord to love one another and to mourn with those who mourn (not to mention consecration), the above quote is even more important, even more condemning.
Since that night at the Apple store, I have thought much about tolerance, about how I have not done enough in the way of fulfilling my covenants in this regard. Tolerance, I think, is a big issue for Latter-day Saints...and one of which we are not necessarily on the winning side. We do a lot of good but, here, on this issue, I believe there is ground to be won.
I have thought often, of how that man must have had such a greater need to tolerate me and others like me in ignoring him; how greater of a need there must have been for him to turn the blind eye to my arrogance and my pride. That's the irony with tolerance; those who proclaim to be tolerating really are those who need to be endured by others.
How different would our actions be, I wonder, if tolerance–the word and the idea–were to be rooted out from our ranks. What would take its place? Is it possible that there would be a greater emphasis on and energy toward true love? Would our rhetoric change? What about the private thoughts we think that nobody else knows?
One last question: Did Christ ever tolerateanyone?
Here's the deal. I have 8 almost-complete posts in the works, but none of them are ready for the permanence of the "Publish Post" button. But, I still have stuff to say. Rough, unhewn, unpolished things. So, here's what is going to happen. I'm going to spew a whole bunch of random, disconnected thoughts your way, and you can take it or leave it. Sound good? Good.
Confessional: I'm kind of obsessed with the stats that Blogger provides me on how many people come to the site. I'm shameless in admitting it. Isn't the whole point of being a blogger to play out whatever narcissism is motivating you to put your thoughts into the purview of the entire internet? It is this obsession that led me to find out recently that I am Google-able. One of you fine readers Googled "Lauren Kay House" latter day, which–apparently–yields a multitude of results. This, in itself, was enough to feed my already large ego. But then I told the Maharajess, who said she Googled me recently (before this whole episode) and found all sorts of pertinent things. Gotta say, I feel like I'm really gaining traction now that Googling "Lauren House" doesn't yield 1,202,034 results for Lauren's House.
Confessional: I don't blush at things I probably should blush at. While some would say that I'm bordering on wicked, I just consider it part of my charm.
Confessional:When people fall, slip or otherwise hurt themselves, it's funny. The noble thing to do is to pause, check to see if they are alright and then let out a small chuckle. Sometimes it's just funny.
Confessional:I am currently adrift in an obsession with books. On top of the fact that I already own a TON of books, I literally am unable to walk through the BYU bookstore, Deseret Book, Barnes & Noble or,*gasp* the biggest culprit of all, Amazon.com without purchasing a book (or two or three).
Confessional: Second to Church, the most important three hours of my week is listening to my NPR programming: This American Life/Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me/Car Talk.
Confessional: I like asking for boys' help (even if I know how to do the job myself). And, yes, I am aware that you might think that makes me anti-feminist.
Confessional: I can't find even a particle of myself that misses DC. Provo is home through and through.
If not, here's a quick summary: Charles Bovary falls in love with Emma and the two decide to marry. After an elaborate wedding, marriage doesn’t live up to Emma’s romantic expectations. Ever since she lived in a convent as a young girl, she has dreamed of love and marriage as a solution to all her problems. After she attends an extravagant ball at the home of a wealthy nobleman, she begins to dream constantly of a more sophisticated life. She grows bored and depressed when she compares her fantasies to the humdrum reality of village life, and eventually her listlessness makes her ill. Madame Bovary begins an affair with Leon, which ends with him losing interest and subsequently moving to Paris. Enter Rodolphe. Rodolphe plays into Madame Bovary's desires for passionate romance; soon enough, the jaded and worldly Rodolphe has grown bored of Emma’s demanding affections. He leaves her.
I read Madame Bovary when visiting Chicago in 2008. Every moment of the novel made me disproportionately, passionately uncomfortable. Madame Bovary was so hateful a character I almost did not finish the book.
In hindsight, the book has had, perhaps, the most impact on me and my perspective than any other that I have ever read. In hindsight, I realize that I was a bit of a modern-day Madame Bovary. In hindsight, I think that the book was so uncomfortable because it hit just a little too close to home. You see, Madame Bovary became the person she was–and developed the expectations she did–through reading romantic novels day after day. She wrapped herself tightly in the narratives of the romances she read, and they formed the foundation for her expectations of romantic love.
So there I was, hating Madame Bovary for her folly, but then at the same time loving romantic comedies.Romantic comedies, which, by the way, totally skewed my own expectations for romantic love.
It starts earlyin the West. Think of Disney movies! Think of fairy tales! I was talking with a friend this past weekend and I happened to mention why I don't really have a desire to see Tangled. He asked why and I started talking to him about my values within the confines of romantic relationships. I'm not a huge fan of Disney movies–past or present–because they tend to favor the grand gestures of romance, especially at the beginning of the relationship, over healthy models of romantic relationships.
Let's take a little detour here for a second because I think that this gets at the crux of how I feel about this subject matter. I have been told, often, that I am far too practical when it comes to matters of the heart; that I need to let go and let myself be wooed. I think that people think that I'm either jaded or cynical (or both). In reality, I do get wooed! I am woo...able! It is just that what really strikes me to my core and makes me knees weak is consistency and stability. Trust. Give me those qualities, and I will be yours forever as I try to give you the same.
In the end, at my very core, I believe that it is easy to make a grand gesture. It takes far more dedication to prove yourself consistent.
Okay. Back to the point. The point. The point....what was the point again? Oh, right! Alright, here we go:
So there's this wonderful word that so wholly encapsulates my problem with how we "do" romance in the West that I am just totally bowled over by the English language.
limerence, n. The state of being romantically infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically experienced involuntarily and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship.
Thanks, OED! By the way, did you know that this word has no known etymology prior to 1977? Amazing!
Knowing what we know about eternity, marriage and the like, I have to wonder why we Latter-day Saints are so compelled to be limerent in our most important, most far-reaching decision: that of selecting a spouse. Are we, in doing so, looking for that person that will be at the most basic level consistent enough throughout the eternities that their efforts in love and in the Gospel will continue on an upward path?
More importantly–because in this life and this creation the only people that we can control are ourselves–I wonder if our goals–yours, mine and everyone's–are to be as consistent, as stable, as rational, as kind, as...real...as we possibly can be. And if that takes some time, I'm okay with it.
I'm not calling for a lack of passion in my life (or yours). The line I draw is in the definition of where I am willing to place my passionate energy. Perhaps I have redefined 'romance' in my eyes. It is interesting: the entry in the OED for 'romance' reads (in part) as follows:
A medieval narrative (originally in verse, later also in prose) relating the legendary or extraordinary adventures of some hero of chivalry.
The character or quality that makes something appeal strongly to the imagination, and sets it apart from the mundane; an air, feeling, or sense of wonder, mystery, and remoteness from everyday life; redolence or suggestion of, or association with, adventure, heroism, chivalry, etc.; mystique, glamour.
For me, I think that the idea of romance as including some grand exposition of chivalric gesture or as something glamorous and remote from my real life has the potential to be very harmful.In my loving relationships, I am not looking for an escape from my life and my reality.I am looking for a partner who has a similar reality as I do; namely one that places the Lord first and foremost.Perhaps that's the punchline here:I believe I equate consistency in romantic relationships with consistency in all relationships;family, friends and–that of absolute import–the relationship with Deity.
I hit the snooze button. Every. Single. Morning. Multiple times. Knowing this inevitable fact about myself, I actually build in time to snooze. I usually set my alarm for at least 30 minutes before the time I actually have to get out of bed. I believe this is what Jack Johnson would call "waking up slow."
The thing is, the word 'snooze' has been very disconcerting of late.
Perhaps it's the fact that I'm super groggy/in the midst of REM every time I see it. Or maybe I'm experiencing semantic satiation. Or maybe it's just a weird word.
Even now, the word seems so, so, so weird. Snooze. Snooze. Snooze. Snooze. I had to Google it to make sure I was spelling it correctly, because it just doesn't seem quite right.
Has this ever happened to you? Isn't it super disconcerting?
She told me (in a private chat during her office hours) that a married woman pursuing a career in high-level academia has to make a compromise. That compromise can be with school/work or it can be with family, but a compromise must be made. And that's for women who aren't LDS. There are all sorts of expectations and pressures placed upon LDS women that I believe would have us make a choice; there's a sense that if you're a good Mormon, you will be a wife and a stay at home mom and will delight in the raising of your children.
Hmm, not bad so far. (Really! I wouldn't mind being a wife. And kids! They're great! And I feel like I would really desire to spend as much time with my kids as I possibly could while they were young, so that could end up being my choice.)
But there's an underlying meme that makes me worry. Especially here in Provo, there seems to be a qualifier on that if-then statement above, and it's "...in the raising of your children...and nothing else." Now, while this is intensified here in Provo a million-fold, I also saw this in DC and in Florida and everywhere else that I've been. Honestly, I don't even blame the Church (well, not as much as others do) because I also saw this at home with my own mom growing up; a mom who, with a very brief exception when I was a young child, worked all while I was growing up. And then THAT made me begin to wonder. Is this just the choice women have to make?
With this, there's a tension near and dear to my heart. I feel especially called to my interest in the Ancient Near East. Called. Of God. And I just cannot find myself thinking that this calling will disappear once marriage, children and the like make themselves available. But, I also feel called to be a wife. A mother. I have always felt that I will have a unique joy therein. So, how to balance the two?
So, there's this passage in Eat, Pray, Love that was and remains particularlypoignant. Gilbert writes:
..I disappear into the person I love. I am the permeable membrane. If I love you, you can have my everything. You can have my time, my devotion, my ass, my money, my family, my dog, my dog's money, my dog's time--everything. If I love you, I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume for you all your debts (in every definition of the word), I will protect you from your own insecurity, I will project upon you all sorts of good qualities that you have never actually cultivated in yourself and I will buy Christmas presents for your entire family.
I have been this person in the past. Back when I was still developing who I wanted to be, I found myself being who others wanted me to be. It wasn't awesome. And, honestly, it wasn't awesome for the men I was with either.
But, I think that the answer to my perplexity is actually found in this idea of membranes, be they permeable or otherwise. I did a bit of Wikipedia surfing and found the following:
A semipermeable membrane, also termed a selectively-permeable membrane, a partially-permeable membrane or a differentially-permeable membrane, is a membrane that will allow certain molecules or ions to pass through it by diffusion and occasionally specialized "facilitated diffusion."
I have spent some time figuring out which parts of me are essentially and necessarily me and which parts I am more than willing to be flexible with in order to make room in my home, my heart and my self. Stated another way, I have spent a long time discerning which ions to permeate, affect and change my being. As far as where my schooling and career goes, those are bridges to cross on another day, and I feel confident that I will cross those bridges secure in how to walk the line of compromise so that I'm at peace with my decisions 5, 10, 50 years down the line. It all hinges on being differentially-permeable to those most positive, most supportive, most affirming things (and people) in my life.
So, I began to paint argyle on the mantle in the living room. And I painted the kitchen yellow (to match my KitchenAid stand mixer, mind you). I had a friend build me a drop-leaf table that is connected directly to the wall. It will be covered with Scrabble boards and coated in a thick layer of epoxy as soon as I receive them. My room will be a luxurious office, complete with Dead Sea Scroll replicas. You have no idea, there is so much more.
And, I feel really, really good about all the effort, time and money it is taking to complete this project.
Enter the Maharajess. She moved in about two months ago. And since then, I have had a (mostly) internal battle on balancing my desire, my need for clean, modern, luxurious home aesthetics with someone who self-admittedly does not care about such things. At all. At times, I have failed–utterly failed–at making this house home to both of us. I have felt really guilty about this fact. I have tried to make it right and repent of my poor behavior. At times (as with Christmas decorations), we have both been buoyed by our home's cheerful holiday decor. For the most part, though, it continues to be somewhere in between, and I'm grateful that the Maharajess is willing to make it into a joke instead of getting upset.
Take, for example, my absolute craziness over the fact that the Command hook that was placed on the back of the bathroom door for towels and bathrobes is 1) plastic (eeew!), 2) crooked and 3) not even close to being centered on the door. ACK! Every time–e.v.e.r.y. t.i.m.e.–I close that bathroom door, the evil twin inside me, Emmeline Jay, wants so badly to reposition it (or, truth be told, throw it in the trash). The Maharajess thinks it's hilarious. And I'm really grateful that's her response. Because she could very easily become rightfully indignant and tell me to shut up. But she doesn't, which is awesome.
So, I am constantly on a teeter-totter. I will continue to make our home as beautiful and as functional as I can, but I will also continue to try to make our home our home.
