Isn't it "unromantic"?

By the time yesterday rolled around, I was exhausted.

"How are you?" asked someone in roughly my situation.  She's a woman who has been tough sometimes because she's had to be.

"Hanging in there" I told her. "I wish I didn't have to be so strong sometimes."

Single mom.

Mom of a teen with special needs.

Student. Intern.  Journalist.

When I read about the "women in binders" meme that went Twitter-wild after candidate  Romney get his words mixed up on Tuesday night, I just chuckled.

 Strange, is it not, the way our culture magnifies slips of the tongue into big deals.

But then I started to think about the rest of his answer to that question -- and his assumption that he should support a woman so she could be home to feed her family.

We women do a lot more than rush home to cook dinner.

Oftentimes I bet my little family wishes someone else would feed them -- a diet of steamed veggies, tofu and Trader Joe's Halloween (orange-colored) generic oreo cookies may not be what the dream-mom would make.

But without my dream-guy chef around to pick up the crepe pan, I do the best I can.

Over the years, I've worked hard to  stay as resilient and emotionally healthy as possible. But I wish I didn't have to make a consistent effort.

Not that I'm complaining.

O.K., I'm complaining.

Today.  So bear with me.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll be a bit more gracious and forgiving.

The fact is, that I'm often more willing to call it like it is than many of the guys that first appear appealing. I don't know if this is a "guy" thing -- I think it might be a human thing.

I didn't inherit the white lie gene. In my family, I don'd think we HAD a prevarication gene --  you might be stunned by what Uncle Si said, but you didn't doubt his sincerity in saying it.

Some of these men just don't get it - how could I NOT want to hook up with them, since they are clearly such studs?

I don't seem to share a common vocabulary with others -- and sadly, that does make a difference. Perhaps it wouldn't have in our twenties, but it does in middle-age.

 I've been on the losing end of a few tentative steps towards friendships, if not something different -- and it's made quite the impression on me.  One man, an (initially) charming Frenchman, told me, after a few dates, that he would probably leave me for a younger woman -- because that's what usually happens.

Then there have been men who clearly saw me as a back-up if their "dream girl" didn't work out.  Falling fast and easy into what sure appears to be fantasy, they drove through the flashing yellow lights and out of my life.

I have to admit that, even though I could see what was going on, it still stung.

Frequently I am asked if I am a "dominant" or a "submissive."  Conceivably these fellas need more of a specialist female -- one who can cook, clean, and seduce in chains -- or with a whip.

I have much to be meek about.  It's not a case of being "better than" the guys with whom I chat online.

And it's most surely not a case of most women being better than, or even, perhaps stronger than most men. There are lots of guys who do roughly what we do -- and do it so well.

Like a lot of my sisters, I'm the resilient and direct person I am because I've had to be so that my kids grow up in a relatively sane environment.  But there are times I long to share these burdens with someone else -- or to act completely irresponsible.

I find, however, that when I cut loose, whether it be with a moment of mischief or a cutting comment, it boomerangs on me.

Responsible female seeks mature male for collaboration, creativity, good works, and perhaps, on a night with a blue moon, some fun.

What a concept.

Ignoring the "stop" signs...

Recently a battle royal with my son's band director over the stress his schedule imposes on my kid (and other people's children) made me pause and ponder the values we teach our children in their endless quest for success -- whether it be in music or the sports arena.

Sometimes it pays to stop, breathe deep, and be present to the world. 

If not for you, then for the next generation.

Do you want them to grow up to become harried, driven, anxious folks? 

Do you want to be that person for them? 

How about taking the time to make some changes...right now?

http://lancasteronline.com/article/local/755947_Column--Sabbath-time--where-has-it-all-gone-.html

Boyz 2 Men

I want a man.

And I don't mean a play partner, someone to fill the seat next to me at the theater, or a crush object.

What I mean is -- take away the boys, please.

Boys move seamlessly from crush to crush.

Men realize that it take a lot more than flirtation and a pretty face to make a relationship that lasts.

Boys mistake loneliness for love.

Men "get" the idea that love and trust takes time.

Boys say they want someone who will make them crazy with desire.

Men? Well, they want someone who will help them become saner (though a little eye-lock and pulse-pounding never hurt anyone).

Again and again, I see profiles written by guys who are looking to rekindle the excitement they think they might have experienced in high school.  I bet a lot of women also bring the same breathy romanticism to their profiles -- which may explain the high internet relationship mortality rate.

A born contrarian, the more I see this kind of naivete, the more prosaic I become. It's going to take a lot, after having practiced compassion so many times, to entice me out of my cave.

A man could do that.

I don't do "ruthless" well.

In fact, when it comes to the hard-headed female persona, I'm batting less than .500.

But I'm working on it.

I've canceled a few dates this week.

I don't have a lot of patience for listening to someone who doesn't express interest in what I think, dealing with desperation, or speaking to a guy who has never stumbled across the lower, public-radio part of the dial -- or heard a debate.

I am not your mother, my dear sir.

Nor your counselor.

Not your gal pal.

Or your cougar.

When I roar, it will be with a full-throated embrace of a mature relationship -- complete with revealed scars, honest tears, guffaws of laughter, and whole-hearted, lusty arguments.

Save the crush, the stardust, and the moon in June malarkey (thanks, Joe).

Man up.  

Then we've got something to talk about.

Found out

People attend church for numerous reasons.

Some come because they need their weekly dose of spiritual caffeine  -- inspiring sermons, a great choir, the  band playing a rockin' Casting Crowns song.

Others may make the Sunday visit to see their old friends or hear the liturgy that has soothed them since they were ten, and growing up in a hamlet in Nebraska or a Massachusetts city.

Others, like my kids when they were a bit younger, came for the Veggie Tales movies and the coffee hour.

Or, of course, because dad and mom buckled them into their car seats, drove them and delivered them safe into the arms of the baby sitter.

I go to be found out -- and to find.

The finding part is relatively simple -- because I was a pastor once at the church where me and my family now worship, people still sometimes confide in me.  While I generally try to avoid getting too involved in pastoral care (it's a big boundary issue), I do try to practice listening.  It's becoming a lost art in a world in which multitasking rules.

As I got out of the pew this morning to receive communion, I realized one chief reason I returned to this large parish was that many of those who attend come to find -- and to be found out.

When I am present to the experience of worship, I find that often emotions I have managed to discipline in other situations bubble to the surface.  

Recently it's been tears, partly prompted by the realization that my decision to return to the church I love hasn't solved all of the problems that were present when I left.  

Tears impelled by knowing that there have been few places where I have felt the weight of both sin and redemption so powerfully.

Tears because I'm so darned tired.

I still can't explain an experience I had today -- and I'm comfortable with that.

Did God find me out where I was hiding?

Of course, there is no hiding from God.

But if I'm going to be discovered,  church is not a bad place to be. 

That's because, often, I find myself in the company of others who also come to be found out.

Many, but not all, expose their scars.

They let the strain of the week or the months or years of struggle show on their faces. They put their arms around the person next to them (sometimes, but not always, a spouse).

They cry in worship, wave their arms in joy, applaud.

There's a rawness to this Episcopal church,  sometimes at outs with its denomination, with parishioners that are sometimes at odds with one another,  that reflects the rawness of experience itself.

And that's a huge part of what brings me back, Sunday after Sunday.

For if we are to truly know God, we need to be able to lean on one another - - to trust that it's o.k. to break now and then. Not to patronize, or condescend, or pretend everything is alright when it isn't.

There is freedom in our brokenness.  

And so I arrive, if not prepared to be found, then willing, at least in spirit, to be found out. 

Because it's going to happen, whether we like it or not. 

The question then becomes, not solely for me, but for all of us -- what's the take-away? What have we learned? What have we surrendered? What do we want now?

I leave it to you to come up with your own questions -- if you can name the questions, then healing in those broken places becomes all that more possible.

Let God, and your sisters and brothers, find you out.  

As they do, you may start to find yourself.

Wait, wait, don't date me

I don't know if I'm a realist.

Avoidant.

Wise about my limits.

Burned too often when I thought I was way brighter.

Or just really, really tired.

But I find myself trying to convince men -- often -- that there are many good reasons why they shouldn't go out with me.

Distance is a big one.

Kids at home another.

I've been having a spirited conversation with a man online about the fact (true, that) that I wouldn't spend a lot of time at his house because his (older) children are living there. I am not sure he understands my scruples. I'm not sure I understand why he had to find this out before we met.

Religion.

Politics.

My complete and total lack of fetishes.

It  doesn't matter -- I'll find a reason to push someone away.

It may be that I want to see if they are strong enough to resist -- or at least to raise some questions.

I am aware that I have been hurt by callous behavior often enough that I make the bar for getting to know me very high.

Once a man, woman or kid gets past that, I am very forgiving and patient -- perhaps too patient. You are so kind, a man said to me (and about me) once -- as if  the word "kindness" was an epithet.

Now that I am engaged in a learning experience that is so demanding I am both keyed up and tired almost all of the time,  I am more willing to send the dragons into the moat than I was before. So, of course there are more men interested in getting to know me.

Even though, you know, I am such a poor risk, an unusual choice, a quirk they will regret, their soon to be favorite mistake.

It's the way of the world.  Be slightly unavailable, and the world wants you.

I find myself saying "noli me tangere" more often -- and waiting to see who runs, and who decides to walk towards me, instead.

The friend she needs

If he were
Friend indeed
He would note
Her teeter-totter
Unsteady gait
Dutch courage against
doubt.
It oft seems
Unending
Night's thief
If not pledged himself
To forgetfulness
He would ask
Walk
Confront
See there she is
 The spiral
Up and down
Straight path unseen
Wait
Just over that hill hope lies
Dungeons, dragons, moats
in vivid reds and pale whites
She builds
Leaving afterwards the bitter taste
The same body count
Her war against the enemy inside
If he would look
Not wiser
He could reach out
As she once did when he lay crushed
But he walks on
Chooses oblivion
As his companion
While she
Wars against the darkness
Sometimes nimble
Often sliding
Unbalanced
Defiant
Brave
He turns away
He will not see.

She does not wait

Hand outstretched
Shy grin
Then blush reveals
More
More than she wishes
He reddens too
But not more than she dreams
No mistress of the game of love
No expert with honeyed phrase
She
Is straight lines
Her gaze true
His, perhaps, opaque
A dark pool
Reflection refracted, blurred.
In that moment after
Hasty words
A shrug
Resignation, frustration, questions.
All the daring hers?
Not to be
Like fruit spilling out of farmer's cart
Luscious, ripe, unique.
She knows.
More
More than he will say
Less than she dreams
No one her master
Someday she will be thankful
For this
A weave that races like quicksilver
Across tapestry of her days.
Once a woman pined for someone long gone.
Not her.
That girl no longer
She does not wait.