Lean on me (if I can lean back)

I've been pondering an email exchange I had with a fellow in transition, who isn't sure where he wants to go with regard to dating.

The exchange wasn't about whether he should date me in particular.

As I recall, he was hesitant about his readiness to date.

Wise man.

Would many other men (and probably women) be so confused.

So often, I have heard stories, seen wounds, wondered at how much one soul can bear, unresolved.

In a secular version of incarnation, I see the same issues lived out, over and over again -- as though making the same mistake for the third or fourth time could heal the old ones.

Where are our equal partners?

Not seeking domination, I -- just a fellow pilgrim -- dreaming of a man who has bled, and fallen, and gone to find a physician.

I am no such alchemist.

Just a chance-met quixotic quester on the same road.

Or maybe not.

Comfort is to be found in collaboration.

I am not the answer -- but I don't mind embracing the mystery together.

As long as I don't turn around, and find out that I am alone.

Or discover, with perplexity and incredulity, that I am carrying you.

It's just lunch (no, it's not).

It's early in the morning, and I'm a zombie.

I'm almost always one of the undead until around 8:00, when the spell dissipates and I return to the land of the truly alive.

But even a zombie would notice that there's something odd about what's going into Mr. C's lunchbox.

Some redolent, and rather exotic cheese from Trader Joes.

A chopped up apple from the organic food aisle.

Multigrain chips.

Healthy mom is on the march -- winning the battle against junk foodies everywhere.

But wait, wait...what is THAT?

Oh, no, not a juice box? Dr. Lustig, who blames sugary drinks for our national obesity epidemic, would be disgusted.

And what is this? Oh no, not the chocolate chip cookies (and they aren't even homemade -- Michael Pollan would be revolted).

Go away, guys. It's just lunch, for goodness sake.

I realize, however, that the problem isn't Lustig or Pollan.

It's about the internal war raging within me.

A few weeks ago, I began a semi-serious attempt to grapple with my sugar jones.

That doesn't mean going cold turkey, by any means -- taming, not renunciation, is the name of the game.

Problem is, like many of you, I'm inundated by advice about food, and how toxic some of our habits are.

In the case of sugar, I really want to know -- how poisonous is that white stuff?

Isn't it enough to embrace the often weird-tasting whole grain breads? To pay extra for organic? Serve up veggies every night?

(While my vegetarian son loyally struggles through his helpings, my daughter needs to be bribed with ice cream before she will give in -- truth is, I'm not an inspired chef.)

You mean we have to give up COOKIES too?

Good mom -- bad mom. Healthy mother -- lazy mother. I'm so confused.

It may be easier to go back to being a zombie.

Z-ya.

Get that man a spine

Recently, upon reflection, I had to face some inconvenient truths.

Broadly speaking (and I can speak only from the broadly point-of-view), I'm stronger than eighty or ninety percent of the men I encountered online.

I'm saner.

Less deluded, happier, and generally more flexible.

And you know what? I really, really, wish that wasn't the case.

For it's not that I am perfect, by any means. Introverted, self-questioning, sometimes clumsy, I have many traits that I'd like to change. I don't even know where I fall on the neurosis spectrum.

More or less, on any given day.

So I have to believe that the guys I've met, or with whom I've talked, aren't representative, statistically speaking, of the male population in America as a whole.

Because, really, the alternative is just too scary.

Weed out the cads (not that it's easy), the men looking to score, for a moment.

There seem to be a lot of men who just can't find the intestinal fortitude to speak for themselves, forge their own path, get a backbone.

Instead, they seem to lean, heavily, on the women around them.

And who is to say that some of these women aren't as wifty as they are?

I found myself getting more and more exhausted by the sheer need out there.

Sometimes I felt, not just like the adult, but like the schoolmarm in "the room."

"Something's happening to the men out there" said a friend of mine who is a counselor.

If so, what is it?

Is our culture somehow emusculating our boys so that they never learn how to be strong men (and being strong doesn't mean taking down the girls around them)?

Why is there so much dependence -- vulnerability to manipulation?

Does it feel safer to be bound in cords of velvet than learn to stand up for the magnificent persons you are?

I have no idea what's shaping this wave. And who knows, the women may be as sad and as much in a state of denial.

But I do hope that younger men can claim their own authority, grace and tenderness before the bad habits of years take over.

For the older guys, the ones I run into?

There's always time.

But only if you check your watch, and get crackin.'

When a child dies

A day after a young man in our school district died (his family doesn't want to release details of his death), the tributes continue to show up on the Facebook page his friends set up in his honor.

Tony (not his real name) went to a small school, and his death echoed through the halls, with grief counselors waiting to talk to students.

The students who attended the high school where he was a freshman speak of his sense of humor, his gentleness, his many interests, and his generosity.

As the parent of a fourteen-year old, I am riven by the heartbroken voices of this teenagers on the journey to becoming young men and women -- struggling to understand something that no one should ever have to understand.

They don't know their own beauty yet -- they don't know the light they shine in dark places.

To this middle-aged mom, they are still so very young.

When a friend at the district told me about his death, my thoughts went to the counselors and teachers at the school -- who, inevitably, wiill be asking themselves what they missed, and if they could have done more.

I know those questions all too well -- only time will heal. The pain this young man was in must have been, as one of his friends put it, unbearable.

Why do some of our children have to deal with so much -- and others live in comfort and stability?

Why? Why? Why? I thought as I pruned the bushes in my backyard, outside the newly renovated house, my vision blurred by tears.

Rest in peace, dear child. You were one of us -- you were, and are loved by those who knew you, and who grieve for who you were, and might have become.

And we, who didn't know you, pray that when the next child in pain walks into our lives, we will be there at the right time.

In two weeks, Tony would have been fifteen years old.

She who has been left

Touching his hand

Hinting only at grip

Doe-eyed she glistens

Never the betrayer

Not stop to wonder

Does she ever look inside to the why and who

Choosing

Chosen

Choking on the truth

The terror not the other woman

But that inside of her

Truth be told there could always be another

If freedom is not to become cuffed

Meek

Afield only in fantasies

Silent in life

Ramblings with the boy

When is he going to rebel?

I ask myself that sometimes, when it seems as though my son and I are living in our own eccentric universe of conversation, books and dialogue on all creatures small (our cats) and great (the stars and planets).

Hard to tell how we got to this place, where anything is fair game, from conversation about politics to that about his relationship with his girlfriend (she's moving back to NYC this summer, which is hard on him).

Yesterday he was running a fever, and so we decided he should stay home. Fretting over missing the PSSA's (do you think there's money in serving as a potential poster boy for the tests?) he was happy to go back to school this morning.

But I put aside work yesterday so that we could go out for a walk, and talk about subjects of interest to both of us -- Syria, Amnesty International, his Boy Scour trip, God, baseball (go Yankees) and his middle school pals.

He'll be gone a lot this summer, and I'm working to finish my degree, so we don't have that much time to hang out together and share that easy companionship. For all of our deep bond, he is very independent and doesn't mind taking up the mantle of leadership.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if we are too close and if he needs to establish his own identity -- against mine. I am guessing that other moms have the same question as their sons grow into young adults.

Do I need to help him push me away? Do I have to?

Or, if I am giving him enough space, will it just happen by itself at some point?

I find that I'm not eager to propel him. Achievement and idealism have their own trajectories.

But I'll still be on the sidelines, in his corner. Always..

When "naughty" isn't nice

I first learned that the word "naughty" had sexual connotations a few years ago from an acquaintance of mine high up in the entertainment industry (and no, I'm not talking adult entertainment).

His activities, including the dressing up at a Catholic priest variety, could safely be described as naughty.

Yes, I found them a bit offensive. But even more than offensive, I found them silly. Maybe I've seen too many priests to get a charge out of guys wearing black shirts and white collars.

I've even dressed up as a priest myself.

As I heard more about alternative lifestyles, I began to understand that "naughty" covered a lot of territory, from kink like bondage to other things I will not describe to spare the sensibililties of my readers.

And what I began to realize was that the word "naughty" was a cover ( pretty funny when you think about it, as uncovering things is so much a part of the lifestyle.)

The word reduces adult choices, and adult aftermaths, to something a child might do on a playground.

This became apparent to me when guys would write me and say that they had "naughty" streaks (which usually seemed to mean that they were a bit consumed with anatomy).

What they do with their private time is their own business. I had no wish for it to become mine....

But it really began to tick me off when married men would describe themselves as seeking women for "naughty" activities.

There's another word for that, losers.

The kink world is welcome to use the word to describe what they do -- not that I could stop them, anyway.

But I'm going to continue to save it for times when I want to cause a little trouble (usually linguistically) and be able to take the consequences -- like a woman.