Grappling With Gratitude

Thanksgiving dinner sits in my refrigerator. A huge turkey awaits its stuffing. Sweet potatoes lounge in luxury on the bottom shelf. Apples, oranges, grapes and pears align themselves in the crisper. Cans of green beans and crunchy onions slumber for a few more days in the cupboard. Yukon golds and onions patiently watch our passings, knowing that in a few more days, it will be their turn to adorn the tabletops of bounty.

I like a houseful of people on Thanksgiving. I enjoy sharing my joy of cooking most anytime, but especially on Turkey Day. I like listening to others list their blessings as we go around the table each year, my sons attempting to outdo each other in silliness and trivial pursuits of thanks. My list is mostly simple. I give thanks for my ability to be my own boss, for my sons, for my computer’s holding of the words I lovingly tip tap into her, albeit not as often as I’d like. I give thanks that I am a woman of passion and that, for the most part, I am able to fulfill those passions on a regular basis through my writing, my reading, my flowering. I am grateful for my friends, for the empathetic ears they turn towards me during my times of trouble. I am grateful for my own trusting heart, and my ability to share my heart openly and willingly.

The heart thing is a double edged sword, though.

I have had two dates in the past week…one with a first timer, and one with a man I dated seven years ago. In addition, New Guy still occupies a chunk of my time as we struggle, struggle, struggle to discern a clear path in our relationship. We love each other, but in decidedly different ways. He does not feel as romantic towards me as he thinks he should, but is drawn to my empathy and wisdom like a starving man to a country buffet. He shakes his head in sadness that something inside him refuses him permission to gorge himself in Betty’s candy store, despite his body’s most vigorous protests.

I feel a similar sadness, and a similar protest.

Acknowledging that romance is complicated and mystical and subject not to command performances is difficult. Once the truth became clear, I accepted the above mentioned invitations out.

The first timer was last Wednesday. He was very tall, and I have to admit, I had trouble taking my eyes off his hands; very large hands, long fingers…beautiful hands. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way, and very tall has an exceedingly sensual appeal to me. We had a discussion, during the course of our three hour talkfest, over a myriad of topics including movies, Woody Allen in particular. I told him about Vicky Cristina Barcelona, and the conflict between the characters played by Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem. Penelope Cruz’ character insists that the only true love is unrequited love, because reciprocal love goes through the standard stages of lust, infatuation, contentment and resentment. Unrequited love is the only love that retains its original shape and passion.

“Do you agree with that, Betty?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

I laughed. “Well, if I love a man and he doesn’t love me back, it’s a guarantee that I will love that man for the rest of my life.”

“What if you love the man and he loves you back?”

“Well then, usually, we have a few weeks or months of amazingly erotic and aerobic sex, and then I find something about him that doesn’t meet my pillar of perfection and I send him on his way with a kiss, a hug and an offer of undying friendship.” I smile sadly at him, lowering my eyes to stare intently at my almost empty martini glass. I fiddle with the lime, resist the urge to stroke the stem, or circle the edge of the glass with my finger.

“That sounds pretty immature. That sounds like something a thirteen year old would say.”

I gulped. Whoa. This guy is so not into the normal methods of charming a woman, but the, perhaps I’m not either.

I smile at him.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I may be emotionally immature. On the other hand, perhaps I simply haven’t met the right man for me, and those who are lucky enough to be loved by me, are loved unconditionally. Perhaps my love is simply of the pure variety, dependent only upon what is in my heart, not external factors such as fairness or returned sentiments. Perhaps I am simply honest about my feelings, and exceptionally loyal.”

He looked at me strangely.

When the clock struck ten and we realized that we had been sitting on the bar stools for three hours, he walked me to my car, kissed me goodnight, a careful and innocuous peck on the lips and asked me if I’d like to do this again. I nodded emphatically, but I haven’t heard from him since.

I don’t blame him. Sometimes, I scare myself. And, I guess he wasn't as intrigued by my tiny little hands as I was by his huge ones.

Last night, I had a drink with a man I dated seven years ago. I hadn’t seen him in a couple years, and he has since moved to South Carolina. Trumpet Guy still carries a torch for me, the same kind of torch I carry for men who haven’t returned my affections. He tried three times to hold my hand, told me I was ravishingly beautiful, asked if he could stop and get a bottle of wine and follow me home. I think he has very fond memories of Betty’s candy store, and his sweet tooth was bothering him.

I said no.

The compliments and desire were nice to hear, especially in the wake of the last few weeks with New Guy.

I needed reassurance of my physical appeal to men. New Guy acknowledges my beauty, but basically says it affects him only in his penis, and not in his heart. Of course, he uses different words to express this, kinder, gentler words, but they mean the same thing.

Sometimes I think that continuing the saga with him is slightly masochistic. The reason I’m still here is because I feel a strong need to journey with him during this very painful period of his life. He brings me great joy, along with the frustration. He is a truly good and decent person, one with a soul that I think mirrors my own. I have never been able to blame men for not loving me. I’ve never been able to summon anger at them for not returning my affection. I know that others are capable of such feelings, but I’ve always thought that one cannot control or dictate the direction of one’s heart, so why be angry about something outside of one’s control? Perhaps it’s simply because I feel as if I don’t deserve to be loved, which would also answer why I turn away every man that does love me.

Ok, now I feel really awful.

This post started out as one about blessings. Perhaps this is a blessing, too…the ability to always see the good.

I guess I’m grateful for that, too.

Three Passions

As I have mentioned, a new novel rumbles in my head. Unfortunately, it has not tumbled out onto the page since vacation, but for half a page early one morning a few weeks later, and since then, nothing. It churns inside my brain fairly frequently, however, and perhaps it is simply percolating, waiting for the right brew before seeping down into my fingertips.

In the novel, the main character is a woman with a shop called Three Passions. In her shop, she sells cookies she bakes, books and music that she has loved, and plants that she has raised herself. Her shop is a boutique of lovemaking, of nurture at its finest.

As the holiday season approaches, and the economy collapses, I have given a great deal of thought to my gift giving responsibilities. My boys, I will not disappoint, my friends are integral to my happiness and I wouldn’t think of not sharing my appreciation of them, as I am not one of those wont to gift for no reason. I need the holiday season to show my love because I forget the rest of the year.

Practical Betty seeks more meaning to gift giving this year. More meaning, less money. Funds are tight across the country, and I know that what I plan is not necessarily the best way to solve the economic crisis, but it made my heart beat faster when I thought of it, and perhaps it’s the best way to show my affection.
This year, my gifts to my friends will come from the heart. They will cost me almost nothing but time…and a little packaging. I will share my passions this year…seeds and tubers from my garden, jars of homemade Christmas Cookies, music and books selected specifically to fit the personalities of my friends, perhaps a poem or a story embossed at Kinkos to memorialize how much they mean to me forever. I will give gifts from my soul this year, instead of from my pocketbook.

And perhaps, the Universe will then take pity on me and guide my hands through the sometimes painful process of getting my story out of my head and onto the page.

Hopes and Dreams

I planted 200 tulip bulbs the day before the election. I loosened soil, spread bone meal and blood meal, and cleared away the remnants of the fall flowers. I prepared the beds where the bulbs would lay, arranged them on top of the soil and then, I plunged them into the earth.

I cannot predict what will happen to them now. It is not my job to worry, to coax or to protect them. I gave them the best start I could, complete with organic garlic, rosemary and cinnamon spray to keep away the groundhogs, but whether or not it works is out of my hands. I've done all I can.

Now is the time to exercise patience, the zen art of gardening.

The fall planting of bulbs is the ultimate expression of hope...and faith. Walking away from the nest of next spring's flowers requires trust that the sun will rise for the next four months, that the earth will turn, the seasons will act as predicted, that the world will continue as it has for eons. It also requires a level of faith that the gardener will still abide in the place of the planted flowers, to admire their beauty and persistence through the cold. It requires acknowledgement that sometimes, things don't happen as planned, and even if the gardener never sees the end result, there's faith that the beauty planted will be just as vibrant.

The election last week had a profound effect on me. I spent the day with my family. My boys and I voted together, lunched together, visited my mother together. I watched the election results with hundreds of like minded people Tuesday night. The rainbow of ethnicities at the Cadillac Ranch, I hope, is an indication of things to come. In the grocery store, on the streets, people nodded and smiled, people of different colors and socioeconomic backgrounds congratulated each other and held their collective breaths.

Yesterday, I went to an African American Baptist Church to provide some pro-bono accounting software training. Posted to the wall were laminated clippings from the election aftermath, including the text of Obama's victory speech. I read those words again, as my client smiled at my enthusiasm.

The bulbs we have planted this fall have sprouted, even as we speak. Their energies are coiled within their depths, hungry for the sunshine of the days to come. In the end, as with any new beginning, only the passage of time can determine the actual outcome.

So much in my heart, crying to fly across the page, and so little time to make that happen. Children grow and mature and change roles in my life, becoming friends. Lovers wend their way into my heart and my life and my psyche, some through distance and friendship, some through closeness and touch. I am stepping lightly through the romance minefield, on pillowed toe shoes, wary of unwelcome explosions.

It's all good, though. The holiday season approaches and I have someone to think about, someone wandering through my mind as I watch the seasonal advertising. New Guy and I have plans to rake leaves this weekend, if it's not too cold, and nothing sounds more romantic to me. I'm hoping that he will help me bake cookies the weekend after Thanksgiving. His attentions are tender and heartfelt and kind.

Have I mentioned how sexy he is? How handsome and sweet? He drove all the way from Columbus last night to spend the evening with me. We cooked together, and watched the Daily Show and just hung out with my son and his girlfriend. He entertained Lexi and cooed to the kittens. Then he went home, leaving just after midnight for the long trek back to Columbus.

We are taking a slower journey. It feels right and respectful. I'm hoping that I am finally learning the patience lesson that the Universe has been trying so desperately to teach me.

Roller Coaster Romance

Ok, I lied on that last entry, although I didn’t know it at the time. The date from Sunday went well, I thought. I arrived at Glenwood Gardens before him, and sat on a bench to read while I waited. A male voice said my name as I was deep into the plotline. I looked up and almost dropped my book, because before me was one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen. I scurried to shake his hand, traversed with him around the 3.5 mile garden walk, then dined at the Grande Finale, voted the most romantic dining experience by Cincinnati Magazine.

They weren’t wrong, although New Guy didn’t kiss me as he said goodbye. His email the next day was not terribly encouraging, noting that he wondered if we really had the right amount of chemistry. Through the week, the emails and phone calls became more friendly, interspersed with back pedaling, seeking a balance between romance and friendship. It was a roller coaster. I invited him to dinner on Friday, expecting him at 9:00, after Halloween pursuits were complete.

I typically plan events down to the minute, and Friday, I was in my usual procrastinatory mode. I had such plans to have everything complete, to be lounging with a glass of wine, all shimmeried up and shining, having chosen just the right mix of sexy and proper attire, smelling sweetly, make up just right.

He arrived an hour and a half early.

I was in an old blue sweat suit of my mother’s, not a speck of makeup on my face, my hair clean, but uncurled. Flour decorated the front of my top as I was in the midst of pie making when the doorbell rang. Silly me, I thought it was just another group of trick or treaters.

I opened the door in dismay. All my plans, all my plans to be as beautiful as I could be, to be relaxed and funny, to have sipped a glass of wine beforehand to loosen my inhibitions, enhance my humor, all those plans swept out the door like so many fallen leaves.

He pulled me into a hug as he stepped through the door. He held me, rubbed my back, didn’t let go for a long, long while, and when he did, it was just to get his face close enough to kiss me. Softly. Sweetly. Tenderly. And then, he kissed me again. And again. Or did I kiss him? It’s all a blur, now.

I pulled away in confusion. No chemistry? It sure felt like chemistry, but I’ve found before that the chemistry test is often unbalanced. I finished the pie making process, putting him to work, apologizing for my appearance. I pulled the rest of dinner out of the refrigeration, put the meat on the grill, grabbed the bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and suggested that we retire to the fishpond.

I was confused, during the pie making process. I couldn’t read him. We had forged a friendship over the month that we had been corresponding, had talked for hours, long into the night. We had unearthed many commonalities, and a few differences, which, when held to the light, shimmered into very similar hues.

As we stood by the pond and he expressed his wonder and admiration, his arm encircled my waist. I smiled to myself, took his hand and lead him to the bench. We sat for a few minutes talking about the water music, the nature music, the sanctuary in my back yard. We ran out of words and looked into each other’s eyes, and he kissed me again.

We didn’t stop kissing for three hours.

I burned the pork chops, almost burned the pumpkin pie, rising from my reverie with a deep gulp of air long enough to rescue them from the oven, before settling back to the man with magnets in his lips.

We never ate dinner.

We discussed my two month rule, and he slyly asked when the two months began, suggesting that we start the clock from the beginning of our correspondence.

I have never been treated so tenderly by a man, almost reverently.

I’m not holding my breath. I’m not counting any chickens, not even checking to see if they’ve hatched. I’m taking this one day at a time. What I am doing, is holding on tight, because the one thing I know for certain about romance, is that it’s a roller coaster ride.