IT COMES CRASHING DOWN

We all know people see through their own lens and process based on their own experience.  Just ask five people in the same room what happened and you will likely get five different stories.  The interesting thing about relationships is not that we observe and process with our unique filters.  What is more interesting is what we WANT to see.  When she wants him to be brave, she seems to notice the actions that hint at courage.  When she wants him to be a nice guy, she will give him the benefit of the doubt, at least a few times, when the “asshole” warning goes off.  When she wants him to be badass, she will focus on his moments of defiance.  When he wants her to be a player, he thinks she must be sleeping with every man she talks to.  When he wants her to be a saint, he will come up with a reasonable explanation for every wrongdoing.  What is the point?  Be who you are because everyone—and I truly mean everyone—will see you as they want you to be rather than as you are.  They will believe their story, and they will interact with you based on their story.  We WANT our desires to be true, so we lay the foundation of belief that becomes our reality; it is not necessarily the other person’s reality, but our own illusion.  

True, we are different things to different people.  While I may be different things to my family, friends, lovers, acquaintances, neighbors or colleagues, I will fundamentally still be the same core person.  Some may see my tenderness and others may know my temper, but it does not change who I am.  The trouble in interpersonal relationships starts when we want someone to be something they are not.  Sometimes the other person may even help perpetuate the problem because they want to be the illusion.  Ultimately, though, these fantasies make a person delusional about who they are with and the relationship is doomed to come crashing down to a painful reality.  Are we capable of seeing people for who they truly are rather than what we, or they, want them to be?  

FAILING

He walks over to me, smiles and says, “I haven’t seen you fall.”  Although I do not know him, his demeanor is friendly and I hear kindness in his voice.  Instantly I know, like most of the guys who ride remarkably, he is trying to teach me something.  This man, I would later learn, is a local legend. 

“I fall all the time!”  I proclaim, as I reply with a smile and a slightly defiant look.

“I haven’t seen you fall even once,” he persists.  He knows I have a lot more to give.  I know he is right.  I am not pushing myself.  I am being apprehensive.  So I begin to put effort into it and actually try.  I start to have a lot of fun and begin taking risks.  I run faster, I try to go farther and I try to stay on longer.  Sure enough, I am now flying off my board and I fall splat into the water.  I smash down into the sand, face first.  I stand up and, as I bend my head to the left and then to the right to stretch my neck, I assess I am OK.  I adjust my wetsuit jacket as I walk over to pick-up my board, and then I look over at him.  He is smiling again. 

I smile and humbly say to him, “Free sand exfoliation.”

He responds, apparently proud of my effort, “If you don’t fall, you’re not trying hard enough.”

This type of encouragement is one of the things I love about the skim community: they want you to succeed.  To succeed in this sport, though, you have to first fail.  You have to fall—a lot—to learn how to do it right. Just as in life and with relationships, you have to fail in order to succeed.  Why?  Because failing means you are trying; failing means you are learning.  When you learn from failure, you gain perspective and an understanding of what you can do better.  Failing also provides motivation to succeed.  Do you stop because you were not successful the first time, or do you get your ass back up and try again?

Let me be clear, when I talk about failing, I am talking about moments of failure.  Michael Jordan famously talks about how many times he failed, but he failed in making specific shots—he succeeded as the greatest basketball player.  Even in interpersonal relationships, when you learn from a moment of failure, you make the relationship more successful.  When you persevere through trials and improve yourself, you can relish in success.     

WHAT WAS I THINKING?!

Do you ever look back and wonder, “What was I thinking?”  I frequently amuse myself with the thought.  Sometimes, it is about something I have done.  Something that was, perhaps, not the wisest decision I could have made.  Other times, it is about something I wanted to have or wanted to do, but I could not have or did not get.  Reflecting back on these moments is not about playing Monday morning quarterback.  Rather, it is about living in the moment and recognizing I might not be on the path I had wanted, but I am on the path I need to be on.  It is as simple as it sounds.  What happened is over and done; and what did not happen, well, that moment is over and done too.   Did you really miss an opportunity to do something, or were you actually fortunate enough to have avoided it?  Whichever course I actively or passively decide to take, I will end-up where I need to be.  Though it might not always be where I want to be, it is where I am and, accordingly, exactly where I need to be.

It is easy to feed fear and dwell on analysis.  It is just as easy to feed fantasy and dwell on desire.  All that is needed, though, is a pause for reflection.  It is healthy to learn from our choices and understand our decisions.  It is not useful to live with regret, and it is not productive to live in the past or the future.  I am more peaceful when I remember, where I have been and where I am right now is my journey.  I might sprint straight ahead sometimes, and other times I might take a more circuitous path by going up, around and down.  Loved ones might provide a helping hand when I falter, companionship when I am lonely, encouragement when I am unsure and love whether I fail or succeed.  They will travel on various parts of my journey with me, but ultimately, I am responsible for making my journey—as it is.     

A HERO TO THE RESCUE

As soon as the engine stopped and the “fasten seat belt” light was turned off, she unbuckled her seat belt and stood-up.  She casually, but deliberately, played with her blond hair.  She fluttered her dark eyelashes, heavy with black mascara, and spread her lips, painted perfectly in a deep shade of red, into a broad smile.  She made eye contact with her target, and instantly realized it was going to be easy.  He had clearly noticed her and wanted to be her hero long before her entirely unnecessary display of charm.  If he had been a dog, his tail would have been wagging back and forth so hard it would have made a very audible thump with each smack of the seat. 

“It’s the black one,” she purred.

The wrinkles around his eyes merely provided an illusion of wisdom.  The man eagerly proceeded, like a silly little boy, to remove her carry-on bag from the storage compartment above his head.  As he handed her bag to her, he pulled his shoulders back, sucked in his gut and pushed his chest out. 

“Thanks,” she sweetly said to him, and turned away.  Her mission was accomplished:  she had been saved.  She knew I was watching, turned to me and gave me a, “That’s how it’s done!” look.  I smiled back at her, but it was not a congratulatory smile. 

I looked at the man.  He was giddy with a foolish sense of accomplishment—he had, after all, just come to the rescue of a helpless woman.  She had needed him to help her.  He was a hero for assisting her.

A few minutes later at the baggage carousel, another woman flipped her long, silky, straight black hair behind her left shoulder and turned her body toward the man near her.  With theatrical expertise, she made just enough of a movement toward her luggage to let the hero by her side know it was time for him to spring to action.  As she feigned her attempt to retrieve her luggage; she looked, for just a moment, directly at her hero and offered him a sweet, shy smile.  Dutifully, he moved faster than her, and with speed and precision had the woman’s suitcase next to her.  He had the same smug look of accomplishment as the man with the carry-on bag.  Another hero saved the day.

Why does society teach women they need to be rescued, and tell men they need to rescue women?   I do not need to be rescued.   I do not need a man to save me.  If I need any fucking saving, I will do it myself.  

Often, men see me using all 5’7” of my height to lift and leverage my 10’6” long paddleboard onto the roof of my SUV, and they offer to help me.  I am strong, which I clearly have to be to get my board on and off my car.  Nothing about me says I cannot do this, yet the passing hero wants to save the woman.  Why does his manliness have to be defined by his ability to save a woman? 

Once, I let a friend quietly help me with my board because he was simply helping an exhausted person.  He knew I was returning from a very long paddle, and he understood I was spent and hypoglycemic.  When he offered to help, I said, “Thanks, I’ve got it.”  However, when I stopped with my board partially and precariously on the roof, to gather strength to push it completely onto the roof, he noticed I was struggling.  Without a word, from behind, he placed his hand on the nose of my board and gently pushed once I had resumed my pushing.   

I accepted the help because this man was not trying to be a hero; rather, he was just being empathetic and kind.  I turned to him before I secured the straps and admitted gratitude with a softly spoken, “thanks.”  Without pride, he looked at me and politely nodded before resuming rinsing the salt and sand off his board.  No hero, no rescue, no roles to play, no picket fences, nothing to prove.  Just two people, as they were.

JUST FRIENDS?

Can a woman and a man just be friends?  I am talking about a true friendship with confidence that neither person wants to get into the other person’s pants.  It is indeed possible.  I have close male friends—men I can trust to be my friends.  They are men with depth and character, who do not view all women as sexual objects. 

I was discussing the subject with one of my cherished male friends over a spicy Mexican lunch.  I savored the flavors of the Spanish rice, as the small salty grains extinguished the jalapeno-induced fire on my tongue, while my friend tried to help me better understand the typical male thought process.   I had expressed my annoyance with men who misinterpret a woman’s friendliness as romantic or sexual interest, when it is absolutely nothing other than friendliness; and with men who are seemingly nice guys, but not interested in just being friends. 

My friend explained sometimes men are simply on missions.  Whether the mission is finding a wife, a girlfriend or just getting laid, man tends to focus on his mission only.   “So an otherwise nice guy cannot just be friends with a woman who is not interested in him because he is on a mission to get laid?”  Correct.  Apparently, a man on a mission is, well, on a mission.  It would be nice if these men had a sign on their forehead indicating their mission, similar to the sign on the front of a bus showing its destination.  Or perhaps like a parking lot sign; but instead of, “Lot Full” their sign could read, “Friendships Full, Space Only for Girlfriend.”

What is the solution for women?  Do not be friendly to any men you are not interested in?  First of all, being generally unfriendly to men would be sexist and amount to acting just like the above mentioned narrow-minded men on their missions.  Secondly, if I had not been open to becoming friends with another human, regardless of gender, I would never have met some great friends.  The friendships I do have with male friends are worth having to deal with the annoying, and occasionally amusing, men on their missions.  

THE RIGHT PERSON

When someone surprisingly gave me a glimpse into “the other side of the story” about a friend of mine, I listened very carefully.  Initially, I was shocked.  How did this kind, enthusiastic person act so cold and careless?  How could this great guy have been such a crappy husband?  We are who we are, but who we are with does impact how we behave.  When a person is happy, she/he is free to be involved and intimate.  When a person is unhappy, she/he might be more detached and distant.  Cheating and beating aside, a person is not necessarily a bad person because she/he was not a good match for another person. 

The same friend, who was not going to win a husband-of-the-year award in his first marriage, has been pretty impressive in his second marriage.  Sure, he has matured and changed; but he has also found a woman who is a much better partner for him, allowing him to thrive in the second relationship. 

Whether it has been nine months or 19 years, when you realize you are with someone you are not best suited to be with, what do you do?  Can you stay content in the plush and secure, but unimpassioned life you have?  Will resentment set in for you, or the other person?  Do you reluctantly stay because of the family?  What are you teaching your child?  Is happiness worth the journey away from comfort?  What makes you happy?

THE UPSIDE OF VULNERABLE

What does it mean to make oneself vulnerable?  Exposing oneself to the possibility of being hurt, of feeling pain?  Obviously, I want to protect myself from pain.  Sometimes, though, allowing myself to be vulnerable and accepting the risk of suffering allows for new possibilities that might include pain, but also provide tremendous joy. 

It is not always easy to do what one wants to do, specially when others think you should not or cannot do it.  I am unwilling, though, to let anyone tell me what I should or should not do.  So when the opportunity presented itself, on the eve of my forty-first birthday, I hopped onto a skimboard—something I had been dying to do.  Of course, I was immediately on my ass.  My leg twisted, testing the stability of the ligaments and tendons supporting my knee joint.  I felt girly, which caused me more suffering than the sand exfoliation or the severe pain in my leg.

I limped back up the beach with the pro skimboarder, who was being kind and politely patient about my obvious inability to put any weight on my left leg without excruciating pain.  I took a deep breath, exhaled and shook-out my leg before my rapidly tightening knee became too stiff.  I looked him in the eye and responded, “Yeah, I’m O.K.  I’m ready to go again.”  Focusing on executing the technical instruction I had just received, I forgot all about the pain and experienced the thrill of skimming. 

Skimming is dominated by strong and brave twenty-something year old men.  I was the only woman on the beach, clearly past twenty-something, learning how to skim.  I was allowing myself to be vulnerable.  It was very scary.  For every look of disbelief, I had complete strangers come up and commend my effort.  A “friend” made a negative comment that stung, but actual friends encouraged me.  During the first week, as I practiced, I felt insecure and conscious; yet, the fun of skimming, the challenge and the support of friends kept me going.

After a few days of experiencing the risk and accompanying moments of embarrassment, anger and frustration, I overcame the feeling of vulnerability.  Now, I truly do not care who sees me and what he or she thinks.  I laugh when I find my face planted in the sand.  I shake it off when I hurt, and much of my body hurts.  Every single time I fall, I get up and try again.

This afternoon, as the first wave of the set receded, I started running across the sand.  I felt the traction pad under my right foot, then under my left foot.  In position on the board, I crouched down.  The sore muscles in my lower back, quads and glutes let me know I had hit my sweet spot.  As I glided on the surface of the water, I delighted in the feeling of riding my board, liberated from the confines of fear and expectation.

WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN?

Driving south on Pacific Coast Highway, I am lost in my thoughts. The music on the radio is pulsing in the background, but I have no idea what is playing.  I feel the cool breeze on my brown skin and take a deep breath, inhaling the salty smell of the ocean.  I look west and smile as I notice the bright sunlight bursting against the rapidly retreating marine layer.  Suddenly, the music in the background catches my attention.  I hear one line from a song, “Just praying to a God that I don’t believe in.”  My smile broadens.

In the white picket fenced world, you are supposed to believe in God and marriage.  If you believe in God, is it because you truly have faith?  Do you believe just because you are supposed to?  Do you, perhaps, believe out of fear?  Is it easier to be rescued, than to face your demons on your own?  We all have our own pickets to tear down. 

My personal path to freedom from the confines of the white picket fenced world included admitting I was praying to a God I did not believe in, and realizing I have tremendous faith in Love.  What do you believe in?

MY SECRET DRUG

Too many times, I have found myself being kind to people I did not want to be kind to—people who excelled in earning my ire.  I found myself displaying kindness and understanding in situations I did not want to be kind and understanding about.

The asshole should not have been treated kindly.  Was my kindness an acceptance of the futility of trying to correct someone else’s behavior?   Maybe, but I realized there was more.  A quick list of unwanted kind behavior exposed a pattern.

When I should have been asking, “Why the fuck are you talking to me?” instead of answering, “I’m fine thanks.  How are you?” and making polite conversation; when I returned a high-five instead of turning away;  or when I chose to ignore a comment, rather than land a right hook; I had just finished a high-intensity work-out.  There lies the secret: endorphins!  Endorphins, we all know, are our very own, personally manufactured, natural narcotic.  Endorphins make us happy, they numb us to pain, and apparently they cause us to be kind.   

Being kind is uncontrollable when I am high on endorphins.  My physiology is peace.  In the moment endorphins are surging through my body, I simply do not give a shit about how I had been wronged or what a jackass the person in front of me is.  Rather, I am all Buddha-like with compassion for all sentient beings.  One Love is ringing in my ears, and is all I know.

How do you practice kindness when you seriously dislike your in-laws, but are headed over to their house for a family dinner?  Easy answer now that we know the secret.  Do sprints immediately before heading over.  You do not want to be kind to the lying sack of shit?  No problem.  Completely avoid him or her immediately after your endorphin fix.

Be warned, though, some acts of kindness under the influence of your post-work-out high will sometimes result in delayed disbelief and annoyance.  Our mind creates uproar because it was left out.  “Why didn’t I say this or that instead?  What the hell was I thinking?”  Kindness does not come from thinking.  Kindness comes from feeling.  So go have a fun, intense work-out.  Run, climb, bike, swim, surf, fight, jump, pull, push until your heart feels like it will pound out of your chest, or until you puke, and practice kindness.  

ACROBATS & DANCERS

I sit on my cushiony red velvet seat, ten rows from the center of the Mystere stage, with my eyes fixed on every fascinating movement displayed before me.  The artists performing these feats remind me almost anything is possible with hard work and determination.

In an incredible demonstration of strength and balance, two male acrobats hold each other in mind-boggling positions.  The larger man is always on the ground, holding the smaller man, providing a counter-balance for his partner, or simply providing an interesting platform.  As I watch these two men in their carefully choreographed routine, I realize they have created the perfect visual for what I used to think relationships were all about.  I used to think a relationship meant balancing each other by intertwining into one, just like the acrobats.  How many cheesy love songs go on about, “two hearts beat as one?”  Living within the white picket fence and blaming the irrationality of romantic love, I had believed 1 + 1 = 1.  

Relationships are not a Cirque Du Soleil act.  A much better visual than acrobatics is dancing.  Dancers are responsible for their own balance in their own space.  When dancing together, a dancer allows her partner into her space.  She connects with him, but she does not hold him up.  They dance together as two distinct people—they dance with each other.   A healthy relationship does not require assimilation.  1 + 1 = 2.