Butterflies Are Meant to Fly

One of the saddest memories I have from childhood was when I was about four years old.   I was visiting my grandmother Chaké who lived on Berendo Avenue in Hollywood.  She lived with my great grandmother Azniv on the second floor of a semi-run-down building, in a small, dark two bedroom apartment.  They were both from Egypt, and based on my age I can figure they had only lived in the states for a few years at that point in my life.  I loved my Grandma Chaké.  She was an upbeat and positive person, and had a witch of a side that would emerge only occasionally.  Azniv on the other hand always had a hard edge to her.  Neither Chaké nor Azniv had much sentimentality, hardened as they were by their disappointments.  These are the disappointments that shape us, I suppose.

That back drop doesn’t have much to do with this story, except for the part about my grandmother lacking sentimentality.

I was on the tiny balcony of this apartment that overlooked the car park behind their building when I saw some butterflies fluttering around the flowering weeds that grew through the cracks in the driveway.  I was so drawn to butterflies then, and I still am.  I love how they fly and how wind pushes them around, but only slightly, as they fly.  I love how they right themselves on their flight paths with a little grace and determination.  I imagine them as joyful, if they were to have feelings.  When I was young all I wanted to do was hold one in my hand and enjoy its delicate beauty.  So pretty and resilient.  As I watched these butterflies air dance in the weeds, I decided to sneak out the kitchen door, climb down the stairs and try to catch one.  Somehow this afternoon, one springtime Monarch was a little slower than I was and I caught her gently in my four year-old hands.  My heart was racing with joy!  I was so excited I finally had a butterfly in my hands, but also terrified I might injure this lovely little fairy of the alley while preventing her escape.  Cupping her in my little hands, I ran upstairs to show my grandmother that I had indeed captured magic.

With great pride I showed my grandmother my little butterfly, and she was as delighted as I was with my prize.  I imagined keeping her in our apartment for awhile just to enjoy her at close range, but I knew keeping her in captivity would only be temporary.  I hadn’t thought much beyond that, I was so overwhelmed with happiness for having her so close.  But soon my joy would turn to horror.  I mean, at age four this was horror.  My grandmother admiringly took my butterfly, congratulated me on my good luck and then stuck a large pink-tipped straight pin right though her gut and pinned her to the doorpost of her bedroom.  I watched my precious catch flap her wings and slowly die on that doorpost.  I don’t remember what I said or did, but I must have vehemently and tearfully protested her premature death because I remember my grandmother telling me what a stupid little girl I was for shedding tears for a dumb butterfly.  The betrayal was worse because the heartless killer was my grandmother, someone I loved and trusted and who shared my joys, just not in the way I hoped.  She told be there were thousands more like her, and that at least pinned to a wall I could enjoy how pretty she was.  This was a useless argument on me.  I knew it wasn’t right for a butterfly to be pinned to a doorpost, and that a butterfly is only fully a butterfly when she is in flight.

Today, over 40 years later I find myself shedding tears for that butterfly, and for the girl I was then who died a little bit when her butterfly died. I still wish I could have freed her before she died.  I knew exactly how the butterfly felt, hopelessly pinned to the doorpost imagining her better days aloft in the breeze. 

I think I relate to this butterfly because I’ve spent my recent years getting unpinned myself, or really just letting go of the people and things that make me feel pinned down.  My marriage, some overbearing friends, certain family obligations, my boyfriend’s boat, a broken down car, half the contents of my garage, the false belief that I am responsible for everything and everyone.  These were all pins through my gut, and now they’re gone and I’m mostly free except for the scar tissue from being pinned.   This scar tissue keeps me running from everything that might be a pin, and when I find myself close to a pin, I feel it in my gut just like that butterfly. That’s the fate that terrifies me, losing my magic by the hands of another person who wants to pin me down.  I can’t shake that fear because all I want to do in this lifetime is fly.  

IKEA Therapy

These six IKEA patio chairs surfaced some of my deepest issues today.  I struggled to get the six flat-pack boxes and 12 giant cushions into my car, with two discontented and hungry children at my side. But I did it, then fed them and thanked them for their unflagging support.  I then drove home, unpacked my car and started assembly in the blazing sun.  As I fumbled with the million screws and Allen wrench, all of my self-loathing about my inability to negotiate the men in my life emerged.  Why didn’t I have someone in my life to help me with this?  Who would I even ask?  Why do I think I always have to do everything myself? What is wrong with me that I ended up without a husband who would take care of me, support me and my children and build IKEA furniture for me in the happy home we’d joyfully share into our retirement years?  I’m cute, I’m fit, I’m funny, I’m smart.  Isn’t that enough?

It always comes down to, “what is wrong with me?”  Bleck, sometimes I hate me.  This competent, capable and “strong” person I’ve become.  That shit is kryptonite to dudes, I say to myself.  More than one of my uber macho male friends has told me that I am intimidating.  One even said that I scare him to death.  It is worth noting that I am 5’2” and he’s at least 6’3” and about double my weight.  He’s punched police officers and brawled with gang members solo and survived.  But I scare him to death.  Yes, what is wrong with me?

By chair five, I was in tears.  None of this was hard mind you, just tedious, but in my frail mental state it was more than I could handle. I took a break, hid in my bedroom and ruminated on the matter of my inner vulnerability and seeming lack of outer feminine appeal.  I simply lack the skills involved in exuding an air of vulnerability that I think guys want in the needy fragile birds they adore.  I once tried to pretend to be needy with a guy I was dating and it made him snortle.  He said, “yeah right, I don’t buy that from you.”  So I am a bad actress too.

The truth is, I don’t really know how let myself be vulnerable.  I have carried the weight of a ton of shit in my lifetime, much more in recent years, and I know how to focus on the finish line and muscle through.  That makes me a badass, and badasses generally don’t get the attention of the chivalrous testosterone-y “let me do that for you” types I’ve read about in the unicorn chronicles.

After a brief period of moping, my neighbor-friend Dan came over and saved me from my self-flagellation.  He helped me finish chair six, unpacked all the cushions, put the chairs into place, moved some planters around and threw the trash out.  He also mentioned his wife never lets him help with these kinds of things so he was glad to lend a hand.  (She’s obviously an ungrateful shit-head.)  I did not feel entirely comfortable with Dan’s help, but I got the fuck out of his way and let him do it all.   I let myself be in a surrendered state for a few moments and I kind of liked it.  I’d like to imagine myself being that way more, but I find myself fighting it every day.  I’m better about it when I’m not sober, but that’s no way to live. 

Most people struggle with being strong an empowered in their lives.  I struggle with being vulnerable and surrendered.  I want to believe there’s someone I’d be willing to give up some of my power to.  But I fight it every day.  Maybe I’ll try to stop fighting it tomorrow.  In the meantime, I have a new lovely seating area in my garden in which to reflect upon such matters. 

Losing My Virginity

I went to my first big music festival last weekend and it became an amazing experience once I got out of my own way.  I was invited by my friend James, a seasoned Burning Man veteran, a self-described Lothario of music festivals for whom this event was barely foreplay.  He toted me around the expansive festival grounds, introducing me to his seemingly countless friends as a “festival virgin.”  This bothered me just a little bit because I hate to be seen as inexperienced in anything, the virgin who “might not do it right.”  Furthermore, the loathed virgin gets the wrong kind of attention.  She is the one everyone is worried about so people either hover over her or ignore her, neither of which is the kind of attention the virgin wants.

In addition to James’ countless festival friends, there were thousands of people decades younger than me who seem to fit into the experience effortlessly. I was surrounded by all these fortunate not-virgins who were experts at having fun and being in the moment.  I felt like I had been left behind somehow and needed to get caught up with everyone else in the crowd who were way ahead of me.  The fact is I married a bit young in life to an old soul, which pulled me off the conveyor belt of life experiences most of my peers had during their younger single years.  This young marriage ended after 16 years, catapulting me into my youth in my 40s.

Fortunately, the electricity of the event helped me transcend the sting of the label my friend James playfully slapped on me. I let go of the judgment of my inexperience, joined the present moment and devoured what was on offer.  I also realized people probably couldn’t see my inexperience nor did they care about my age, so I danced and let myself be enveloped in the music. Nothing could make me not a virgin other than surrendering to the experience.  This is why I came, to be myself, to feel the experience, to be consumed.  To the throngs of non-virgins, I am just another joyful face in the crowd and that gave me permission to let go.  So I danced as I am and forgot the virgin I was.

In my deferred youth, I’ve discovered a lot of experiences years after my peers.  One night stands, electronic music, marathons, the freedom to choose what I want when I want it. I love it all.  I realize as I reflect on this that I approach each of these new experiences with the energy of a virgin— rabidly enthusiastic, unsure of myself, a little uncomfortable in my skin but ready to cross the chasm.  And in this reflection I realize I love losing my virginity in all experiences.  Like a virgin, I need to get the first time out of the way so there can be a second and a third time so I can eventually emerge into the expanse of just being surrendered in the moment.  When I get out of my own way, I am a Lothario of life, with endless newness before me. 

Hitachi: RIP

Seriously, this isn’t cool.  My vibrator broke, ahem, mid session.  So rude.  Strange feelings arose from this incident, reminiscent of the feeling of men letting me down in my life.  In the middle of something that felt really good, the momentum just stopped.

Rather than figure out what the problem may be, I decided to go shopping for a new one.  I didn’t event try to see if a cord was frayed or if the plug just came out of its socket. My immediate solution was REPLACE IMMEDIATELY.  There are some new models out there that are really interesting.  Some have interesting features, like a vibrating rhythm that connects to my iPod that mimics the music I’m playing (this is the front runner). Others look like they should be part of the industrial design collection at MoMA.  Most of the models under consideration seem way better than what I have, however at a very high price.  Spiritual perspective that I have about all things large and small in my life, I’m sure this isn’t just about the vibrator.

My pattern in dissatisfying jobs, friendships, and men is to replace immediately, without consideration for what might be worth salvaging.  I abandon, I flee, I shut down.  I blame it on lack of time… no time to reflect, to mend, to consider the other player in a dynamic that feels broken.

With this reflection in mind, I’m going to give my Hitachi another chance and see if I just over-heated her.  She’s been with me for a long time, over ten years, which is a long time for any appliance.  And maybe I’ll stick to my man for a while too.  Sometimes he’s not plugged in, sometimes his cords are frayed, but I think I’m going to give him some time too.  On the whole, he’s been a really good companion and he hits the spot on the reg.  He also knows how important my Hitachi is to me.  When I told him about it, he replied: "OMG, worse than the Holocaust." He gets me, so he gets me.

Baby Steps

I want to be a writer, whatever that means.  I haven't really written anything for years.  Someone more quotable than me said that the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, but I haven’t been in the mood to take any steps in recent years.

My biggest problem with this whole writing thing is that it takes so much darn EFFORT.  The words can only be expressed as fast as I can type, which isn't all that fast.  It is time consuming, requires thought and consideration.  It is tedious.  My preference for most tedious tasks is to outsource them.  I can outsource most of the tedium I have in my life for $10-15 an hour, a sum I can readily afford at the moment.  But the writing, no one can do that for me.  So today I’ll take a first step.  A tiny, 150 word step.  Hooray me.