Complaints Are Like Sparks: Give Me Your Fire
Events and themes of this post:
Negativity, complaints & anger
Dancing & connection with oneself
Dance event at The Root
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It was a Saturday - Hibiscus's second-last day at Silverstag before he departed for another ten-day work trip. I wanted to cherish my time with him, and play in his consciousness. I wanted to serve him, please him, and impress him. And yet it seemed impossible.
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Why is Hibiscus always so irritable? I thought. He wasn't like that when I met him.
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So I'd been thinking, more and more frequently. He would curse at a drop of hot sauce spilled on the cutting board. He would yell at every passing driver who made even the slightest indiscretion.
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That could be me, I thought. I'm no fantastic, amazing driver. That could be you too, come to think of it. You're not always having a good day, or completely focused. Why such anger at a stranger who you know nothing about? It wasn't personal. They're not trying to hurt you.
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I didn't comment. I had lost my impetus to comment on his behavior. He seemed to easily hurt by it, or defensive.
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And you, my dear, have ranted twice about Willow. Hibiscus had said, "I feel that Willow is so fragile that I can't just tell her how angry her behavior is making me, which makes me hedge a lot when I talk to her." And so it is with you, Hibiscus. And Paladin too. If I express my anger, it will be too crushing.
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And yet, how to reconcile that with my own belief that repressing anger was harmful?
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That afternoon, after Hibiscus and I got back from errands - dropping off recycling, picking up a new smoke detector from the hardware store, and returning a book to the library - I wrote:
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. . .
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There comes a certain point where other people's anger, disappointment, frustration . . . becomes more than I feel I deserve. I'm just trying to play peace-maker. I'm just trying to be of use, to be pleasing, to do as my own programming bids - to be a subservient, gracious wife who puts the health and wellbeing of her partner above all else.
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And yet I cannot do it. My own needs manifest powerfully as pain. All I need to do is put Hibiscus's and Paladin's needs before my own to create pain in my body. For shame, Nuria. For shame.
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I feel my mother's presence inside me, telling me about putting my father first. Before herself.
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Now I'm trying to learn to do otherwise and simply let my partners be guided by their own intuition, desires and guidance. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt and disappointed. Hibiscus believes that if anything has energized him since meeting me, it's me, and it's unrelated to a change in diet. It is possible, but I doubt just being around me is responsible for losing weight.
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. . .
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I was tremendously hurt by both Paladin's and Hibiscus's attachment to eating "ethnic" foods, and "complex" meals in general. It conflicted with my desire to live simply, my desire to follow the highest calling I could muster, my desire to treat my own body as a temple, my desire for my partners to be my inspiration.
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If I had my druthers, I wouldn't even own a stove, an oven, a pressure cooker or a toaster, I thought, and not at all for the first time. I wouldn't invite such temptation into my life at all.
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And yet I was bending under the pressure. I have two of them now, and while their feelings are not identical, they're more like each other than like me. And if and when metamours entered the picture, I would be further "outnumbered" in my desires. The thought was so depressing it felt like lead within me.
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I feel like lead when I think about that . . . And so how must they feel when they think about it?
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I had the same complaint about Paladin, and had for years - the constant grumpiness that didn't have an obvious cause. I'd prefer an angry bout, or a cry, followed by some exuberant joy than this constant annoyance at every little thing.
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It made me wonder what I was like. If these are my reflections, what am I missing? Am I so angry, deep inside? I didn't feel like I was - not until I was constantly exposed to someone else's unreconcilably sour mood.
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It was easier at first, I thought. I remembered the long evenings talking to Hibiscus and not hearing a word of complaint. Now it seemed we could go hours where I might not hear more than a passing remark that wasn't a critique of himself, someone else, me, or a piece of equipment.
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I'm so sorry my love. I'm so sorry you're hurting, I thought. Hibiscus prickled about the availability of various products at the hardware store, and he prickled about the amount of recycling we dropped off, and he prickled about what to eat, and prickled about the mail, and he prickled about his phone ringing, and about every little thing he could.
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Just to match his vibration as thoroughly as I could, I managed to bang his car-door into his mail box, scratching the paint on his car. Ironically, he seemed less prickled about that. He probably repressed how much that bothered him to protect me. I'll see his frustration about that in the form of anger toward something else.
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Was it any wonder I preferred anger during sex? There, in the game of power struggle, I could find uses for anger. I could repress my own and alchemize it into despair and fear. The despair was a comfortable place to wallow, and a beautiful place to be pulled from with orgasm. Fear was another familiar place to wallow, and when aggression was the cause of it, Mordred could surface within me, the fear-eating, inner-rapist. Mordred could empathize with my aggressor. An aggressor who loved to hurt me, reveled in it, would feed Mordred candies with his every sadistic word or deed.
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Angry sex is hot. Frustrated day-to-day grind is not, not, not at all hot.
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I flounced down on my bed and laid there for a while, bitching and bitching in my own head. Paladin came in with my clean laundry from the day before. I gave him a haunted look. He halted, then slowly came to me, setting down the laundry basket and sitting beside me.
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I let out a torrent of angry words, including, "You're always despairing and he's always grumping. And what the hell am I saying? I want my space to despair and grump, but by god, I wish you'd just cry already. I wish he'd just have a hissy-cow! And then be done with it for a little while. I'll be having a good day, right up until you let me know you're in too much pain and too depressed to want to go dancing tonight, and until he spends an hour or two letting off angry sparks at every little thing that crosses his path.
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"Who is going to inspire me? Why do I carry all the weight of being the inspiring one? For once I'd like someone to come along and light a fire under my ass!" I was gesticulating wildly as I spoke, laying on my back on my bed. Paladin sat on the edge of my bed, quietly listening, touching my shoulder. "And I guess Oryx did," I continued. "And it is no wonder I felt so betrayed when she has been the only one who ever came along and lit a fire under my ass like that."
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I shook my head sadly. "I need to get out and be around people I can inspire. I can't be responsible for pulling you or him out of your crap constantly. It is too draining. It spills over onto me. I can't maintain my own equilibrium. Oh god," I paused. "Look at me. I'm laying here groaning and despairing. I should just be better. If I want more and better then instead of laying here bitching and moaning about it, I should be running."
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The thought pushed me over the edge and I sobbed for a while, my arm flung over my face. I wiped my tears with my hands but left the snot there.
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"Pass me a tissue, would you?" I said to Paladin. He did. I wiped my nose and put the tissue in my little paper bag for composting. "Maybe," I said softly, "I really should go for a run."
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And then I started moving, building speed as I went. I grabbed a hoodie and pulled it on. I grabbed my socks and pulled them on. I grabbed a second pair of socks to put over the first pair. Paladin noticed what I was about and silently left the room. I added another hoodie and a hat. I pulled on a third pair of pants over the two pairs of leggings I was already wearing. I grabbed my sneakers and put them on at the front door to the house.
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I didn't see Hibiscus on the way. I wonder where he is or what he is up to, I thought. I saw Paladin behind me, dressed in more layers, including a black scarf I had given him. He sat down to change his boots. I delayed for a moment for him, but then I shrugged and decided I wanted my run now, and I wasn't about to wait for anyone.
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I opened the door and closed it behind me. I hesitated for another moment and then set off with purpose. I started to run, avoiding the muddy patches as best as I could. Melting snow is really messy, I thought. The cold air in my lungs burned a bit, but overall it seemed a good temperature to be running in. The grip and impact of my sneakers on the gravel felt satisfying. The pumping motion of my legs felt gratifying. Paladin caught up with me. We finished the run together.
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When I opened the door Hibiscus was in the kitchen. He commented about us panting. The smell of the smoke from the woodstove was hard on my lungs and I quickly retired back to my room.
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I removed my excess layers and turned down my space heater. I laid on my cushy purple yoga mat. I found myself singing - "Tired of being what you want me to be, feeling so faithless, lost under the surface. Don't know what you're expecting of me, put under the pressure, of walking in your shoes . . . Every step that I take is another mistake to you . . . And every second I waste is more than I can take . . . I've become so numb. I can't feel you there. I've become so tired. So much more aware. I'm becoming this. All I want to do, is be more like me . . ." And there I stopped, holding the "me" much longer than Chester of Linkin Park does in the song Numb.
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"Me, me, me, me, me," I repeated to myself. And suddenly I had myself again. I was there with me. High-pitched and true, my younger, less-inhibited, more care-free self came forward singing her own lyrics, her own heart-song.
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"I want to show you the golden fields where I reside," she sang. "Take my hand and walk beside . . . me as I show you the crystal-covered reality, this magical extremity . . . Magic is here inside of me, magic is there inside of you, magic is everywhere, waiting for you."
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In my mind's eye I saw a shining field where plants made of golden light rose upward to a shimmering sunless sky. There were no shadows, and yet each plant was clearly defined against the other shimmering beauties. Beside me I reached out my hand, hoping Hibiscus would take it, hoping Paladin would see it.
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"Magic rises from within," I sang. "There are no shadows, only light and the perfect patterns on a butterfly's wing." I felt my yearning to show, to teach, to give others the exalting glimpse of what pure, golden love felt like.
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. . .
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That night, Paladin did come along to the dance. Hibiscus went separately since he was meeting his friend, Drosophilidae, beforehand. I'd met her once before. I liked her well enough.
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Paladin and I arrived at the The Root, which I'd never been to before. I walked in first while Paladin found parking. The music was trance-like, tranquil, the lighting was dim. Attractive forms flitted this way and that. I like it here, I thought.
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I found a closet to hang up my coat and changed from my boots to sneakers. I found a place for my water and kombucha. I was set.
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I drifted to the center of the dance floor and closed my eyes. I felt the music flow over me, around me, pushing me slightly. I relented under its push, feeling myself sway slightly. I started to move with it a little, but felt I wasn't quite in tune with it yet so I let myself still again, letting the music push me.
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After a while I wondered where Paladin was and I wandered around to see if he had arrived. I poked my head outdoors to see if I saw him. I did not. He'll be fine, I thought. I went back down the stairs into The Root and looked at the people around the bar. There were a few people who were alone. I considered approaching someone and starting a conversation, but I felt more drawn to the dance floor. I wandered back there and let myself find the feeling of the music again.
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Paladin, when he did join me, was glorious. You dance so very differently than you did when I met you, I thought. So free, creative, uninhibited, beautiful and in touch.
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He left after an hour, tired and worn out from the volume and exertion. I hugged him goodbye and stayed on with Hibiscus, who had - by then - long since arrived with Drosophilidae.
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I danced alone most of the time I danced. I wasn't drawn to dance with anyone else the way I was drawn to dance with Paladin. For most, dancing with someone else seemed to be a courting, a sexual encounter. For others, dancing was a way of being friendly. For Paladin and I, dancing had become a venue for self-expression in the most spiritual and connecting of ways.
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I could thank Dancing Chef and her Dancing Freedom events where there was a "partner dance" where you paired with someone and then watched each other dance. After the first dance, the first dance laid down or sat and harvested three medicine words for themselves. Meanwhile, you harvested three medicine words for them. Then you joined each other and shared the words and your experiences. Then you switched who was the dancer and who was the observer.
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This "partner dance" practice had given me a part of myself and a part of Paladin which I had never experienced so deeply before. The dance was entirely solo, and the observing was concentrated. It wasn't like usual dance parties where you kinda-danced and kinda-watched while you kinda-partnered with someone. There was no posing or posturing. There was no facade, mask or ulterior motive. It was purely about expressing, feeling and witnessing.
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The first time I'd watched Paladin I'd cried. I felt like I was truly seeing him for the first time. It stuck with me powerfully, and from then on, when I danced with him I looked deeper, sought that connection and expression we had during the "partner dances."
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At The Root, with Paladin gone, there was nothing left to do but love myself, feel myself, connect with myself . . . and network. I did plenty of each.
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I learned the names of three men and more than seven women, including a black woman named Jaguar. I noticed her on the dance floor, how she felt the music and moved to it with confidence, subtlety and precision. I was impressed and delighted. Later, when I saw her on her own I approached her and complimented her dancing. This turned into a full-blown conversation.
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The following Thursday, (January 14th), Paladin and I ended up picking Jaguar up for another dance event I had been invited to on facebook. My efforts at networking at The Root had been a huge success - not only was it leading to invites to local events, but I already knew the names of half the people at the Sanctuary of Dance event.
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Connecting with myself had also been a success. I found myself incredibly charged, loving the feel of the music, and my own hands against my skin. Later, when talking to Hibiscus about it, I described it as "having sex with myself on the dance floor."
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The Root's atmosphere combined with such fantastic music choice aligned to give me that feeling of being integrated, in love with myself, and in love with every aspect of my life. At one point I danced over to Hibiscus and said into his ear, "I love my life!"
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To my dismay, his response was, "I hate my sock." He said it with a smile, but still, my heart sank and I danced myself away from him and tried to shake his vibe from my being.
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Am I supposed to teach him and show him his own inner workings? I wondered, feeling frustrated and helpless. He took even the most spiritual occasions as distractions. When I told him that he would connect best with himself if he danced with his eyes closed and really felt the music, he said, "Watching people is the best part. If it is a choice between being a good dancer and watching other people dance, I'd choose watching."
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Oh Hibiscus, I thought wearily. Being a good dancer is a byproduct of internal workings, not the end-goal. How can I show you it isn't all about productivity, goals, and means to ends? He was so much like myself, but lacking in the regular spiritual experiences I'd grown up with. I'd had tastes of zen, right-brained states my entire life with swimming, with writing, with cleaning, with meditation, with gardening, with showering . . . But had he? He picked up a book the moment I left the room. He read on the toilet. He listened to the radio in the shower and in the car. He focused on efficiency when it came to menial tasks, seemingly leaving no room for the zen experience of being, narrowing the task only down to what he was doing.
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Am I really meant to teach and show? I wondered again and again. Or shall I just live my life in parallel to his, accepting that sexuality will always be as deep as the pool goes with him?
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How did I broach his attitude, his own hidden suffering, his consciousness itself with him? How could I even ask what he wanted of me when he didn't grasp what I thought I ought to be offering?
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It is okay if you're burning up inside. Take me into the fire with you, I thought as Hibiscus cursed at a passing driver, as he complained of his socks bothering him, as he made snide remarks about society, companies, people, technology and systems. Let me experience the flames with you. Give me your hand and lead me along the paths you walk within yourself. I will be there.
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I took a deep breath - Sunday, the morning after the dance - steadying my own anger. But don't . . . Don't let me sit in the cold, hit by sparks, and expect me to be able to pace you, understand you, love you, and honor you. That I don't believe I can do.
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I was sitting on the couch in the living room. It was clear that he and I needed to talk, but I wasn't sure I could speak. It was his last day before he went overseas on another work-related trip.
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I almost walked away as he did something on his phone. A spider hanging from the banister on the stairwell stopped me. I turned and walked back and sat beside him. I have to confront him. I have to confront myself and these feelings.
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And so I began speaking.
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Later, I reflected that it seemed that Hibiscus's major take-away from my long, angry rant was that he was "too negative." Perhaps this was also what his ex had said, and so he deemed all negativity to be the problem. But that wasn't what I had said, nor what I had meant.
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On Monday, January 11th, 2016, he texted me from the airport, "On board flight. Boeing 767-300 is a stupid plane. No one's carryon will fit, so they are standing in the aisles waiting for people to figure that out and gate check or whatever. Or maybe it's the whole you-get-what-you-pay-for system that's broken. I realize I'm being negative again."
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Oh Hibiscus. I don't mean for you to sit there worrying about being negative all the time. I sighed. I was happy to dig with him in his shadows, and I was happy to hear his opinions - even his negative ones. My objection was more to the lack of positive comments in between, more about his timing, more about his avoidance of his deeper fears, deeper wounds.