The Things We Wanted
When I turned 40 and none of the things I had planned for my life had happened, I let them all go and made a decision to enjoy my life, exactly as it was. And it worked. I loved my life, my job, my community. Life was good. Then, out of nowhere, the universe brought me my husband; and life got a little better. But it's funny what happens on the way to getting the things you wanted, you want more.
As a woman in my 30s and 40s, I had been very cautious about wanting things and focused my life on enjoying the things I already have: my home, animals, friends, work, music. But when you get something that you thought you'd never get--a marriage--you start thinking, well, maybe it's possible to have that other thing I gave up on so long ago--a baby. But you're cautious, you don't want to seem too eager; you can't let yourself want it openly because that invites some uncomfortable consequences: strangers giving you advice, friends wanting it more than you do, and worst of the worst, pity. So you appear ambivalent as a defense mechanism between yourself and your desire, your wanting it too badly.
And then months go by and you don't get pregnant. And you realize that because you're a woman in your 40s you probably can't get pregnant, not without a lot of help, which the aforementioned ambivalence doesn't allow you to seek. So here you are stuck in the middle of wanting and not wanting and not even knowing how to talk about it because it's just too sad. And while all this is going on in the background, the life you once loved begins to grow dull; all the things you loved and enjoyed pale in comparison to this thing you weren't even sure you wanted anymore until you realized you couldn't have it.
And in the center of it all is the reality that nothing happens outside of hukam. Last week I was reading in the Akhand Path (a continuous reading of the Siri Guru Granth which we do every week here at Hacienda de Guru Ram Das) and the hukam I received was the shabad, Jamee-a Poot Bhagat Govind Ka. This is the shabad that women recite up to their 120th day to ensure a saint comes into the world. When I received it I cried. At the time I thought, that's a strange reaction from someone who "wants a baby". And when I got my period again, I realized I was crying not because I might have been pregnant but because somewhere deep inside I knew it would never be true. This week's hukam, as I read from the Akhand Path, was about liberation, which has been my life's work. Over and over again the phrase "door of liberation" kept coming up and other passages described the pain of birth and death.
I write all this only to remind myself that sometimes the things we wanted need to be left behind so that we can receive the things we're destined for. The only true happiness comes from receiving the Name of God and chanting it. Well, I have received the name (that's a whole other story) and I know how blessed I am. I have a beautiful life, a beautiful husband, meaningful work and the resources to pursue my creativity, my music. I am the luckiest woman alive; I'll just never be a mother. And today that makes just a little sad.
Fair Fight II: Three Keys to Communication
Learning to communicate in a marriage is like learning a new language. At first you listen too hard and are exhausted all the time. Then you overcompensate and don't listen closely enough and become careless, or even give up. But you're in a marriage, so you can't give up for too long, or it's no longer a marriage. It's just roommates--or worse.
The first key is to remember--and trust--that the other person always wants what's best for you. Every fiber of my being rebels against this notion, but nevertheless, despite all my subconscious resistance, it is true. So when I communicate my boundaries I always frame them in a way that let's my husband know that I know he's trying to uplift me--it's just not working. Smile. But in acknowledging that I know his intentions are good, he can hear me. Otherwise, we just go 'round and 'round defending ourselves against each other--and that's not communication.
The second key is to always remember, "the other person is you." Everything that bugs you about what their doing, you have already done--a 100 times or more! And if you take the time to look for it in yourself, you'll find it; and you'll be able to relax. Why? Because we rationalize our behavior to make what we do and why we do it okay. Once you recognize you've done it, too, then it becomes "right", right? So when your partner does it, you can't get so bent out of shape. It's the nature of the mind; so use it to your benefit.
The third key is to know that it's not always about you. When my husband is quiet, I assume I've done something to irritate him. But for the past few days I've been dealing with some internal conflict that has very little, if anything, to do with him and everything to do with my own compulsive behaviors and my shame around that. I've been moody, shut-down, agitated and inexplicably sad--and there's nothing he can do. So the next time he's quiet, I'm going to try to remember that it may not be about me at all and just let him have his space.
Anytime two people are living under the same roof, there is going to be conflict. Sometimes they will be big and sometimes they will be trivial. It's not the end of the world. You will smile again, eventually. And you may even learn that you can live with things that were once intolerable, or not. Every person's lessons are unique. But until then, don't say or do anything you can't take back; put the shovel down and just wait. Learning a new language takes time and patience; and there's all the time in the world.
Fair Fight
This morning I got "khalsa-ed", which is a way of saying to someone, "You're not doing it right; you're not Khalsa enough." Well, I've played that game before and I'm too old for it now. Self-righteousness is not attractive. I should know. Still, my reaction is to say, "Oh yeah? I'll show you not Khalsa!" and then proceed to do something stupid. Luckily, I'm conscious enough to not act from my subconscious reactions any more. But I spent many years doing just that and I know the consequences--even more pain, even more shame. And I'm too tired to go down that same route again. But I don't quite know how to respond either--to act consciously.
So, how do you learn to fight fair in a relationship? What's okay to say because it's your truth and what's just mean or shaming? And in the heat of battle, how do you discern the difference? And how do you come to trust the person enough to simply express how you feel--which is betrayed and hurt--instead of getting mad in order to mask your tears?
I don't have any answers; just a lot of questions and the fallback line given by the Master, Yogi Bhajan, "You're right, I'm sorry; it's God's will."
It tastes bitter right now; but hopefully the sweetness will come again.
