July 12, 2006
My long-time best girlfriend, Nadine, read my blog (the whole thing) and some of my poetry last week. It has been interesting to read her reactions in the emails she has sent since then.
Nadine and I met, or at least consciously met when we were in tenth grade at the school I went to in France. I was a boarder, she was a day student. They put me in the class with the students who needed remedial work in French, since I only knew two words, bonjour, and aujourd’hui, when I got there, the latter of which I couldn’t even pronounce correctly. As it turns out, Nadine was born in New York, like me.
In post-WWII rural Brittany, where both of our families are from, conditions were particularly difficult. I refer to that part of Brittany as France’s version of Appalachia, which my father hates, but which is really a good description of the area. Central Brittany is a rugged, wild place, the site of an ancient mountain range, the Black Mountains. The area is also called Argoat, as opposed to the coastal areas of Brittany which are part of Armor, or Armorica. In Breton, Ar means ‘land,’ goat means ‘woods,’ and mor means ‘sea.’ But, I digress…
Most people in rural Brittany did not get indoor plumbing, electricity, or even cars, until the late 1960s. Between the rugged lifestyle that imposed and the economic impact of the Second World War, many people left Brittany for places like Paris, where jobs were more abundant. There are two towns in central Brittany, Roudouallec and Gourin, from which huge numbers of people immigrated to the United States. Gourin touts itself as the capital of Breton emigration to the US. Today, there are about 5,000 inhabitants of Gourin and over 20,000 people of Gourinois descent who live in New York. My grandparents came to the US when my father was about 6 or 7. My grandmother worked as a maid, and my grandfather as a chef in a French restaurant, La Grenouille (The Frog) in New York City. They worked there for about 7 or 8 years before sending for their children, my Dad, and his brother, Christian. After a total of 13 years spent working in New York City, my grandfather and my uncle returned to France. My grandfather was stabbed during a mugging, and my uncle was being deported for his juvenile delinquencies. Well, like I told you before, he had the choice of joining the US military and serving in VietNam, or being deported and permanently barred from return to the US. He chose the latter. My grandmother remained in the US until May or June of 1965, when she was called back by my grandfather.
I’ll tell the rest of that story another day. I wanted to tell you about Nadine. When we met at school in France in 1980, we discovered that, not only had she been born in NY, but her father had worked as a cook in the same restaurant as my grandfather. Having been born here, she had US citizenship, although, at that time, she did not speak any English to speak of (or in!). She and I became quite close that year, as I did with a number of other people. Most of them and I have fallen out of touch, but I still hear from a few of them, and Nadine and I are still close. We had lost contact for a couple of years, and then, when I was in college, I went to France to study for a year. Upon arrival, I tested out of the foreign-student program at the French university I had enrolled in. I still attended classes for a while, but grew bored, and, in my youthful exuberance, I kind of dropped out of school without withdrawing. I basically just stopped going to class.
I had started dating another one of my friends from high school in Brittany, and wound up moving to his family farm and working with his mother. His father had passed away the year before, and he was attending agricultural college while his mother ran the farm. She and I lived and worked together until I was a few months pregnant, and had to stop that level of physical labor. Nadine and her family lived 10 or 15 miles away, and our friendship had flourished during my time in France. But then, she was having trouble finding a job. She had gone to school to become a machinist. France’s general economy has not been good for as long as I can remember. To this day, unemployment remains well above 10%, nationwide, and even higher than that in Brittany. So, when she finished machinist school in 1985, she did not stay seeking employment in France long. Instead, she decided to immigrate to the US, or to go back to her native land, if you will, since she was born here, although she had moved back to France before the age of 2.
In 1986, she planned her departure. She wanted me to come with her, but, by then, I was pregnant with Mikaël, and I thought I was in love with his father, and that we were going to get married and live happily ever after. So Nadine came to the US by herself, at the age of not-quite 21. A few months later, before Mikaël, his father and I split up. Nadine and I lost contact for several years. She lived and worked as an au pair, and then doing other things in New York for a few years and I lived and worked in Brittany. In 1989, I decided to go back to school and finish my degree. Because of the French economy, it is very difficult to work and go to school at the same time, and so I decided to come back to the US. I went to the University of Kansas for a year, and then transferred to MIIS, as I had tested out of KU’s undergraduate French program, and that was my major. At MIIS, where you have to be essentially bilingual to be admitted, I majored in International Relations, and I wound up triple majoring in that, French and Statistics.
After MIIS, I went to the University of Iowa, where I got my first MA, in Political Science. It was while I was living there (I was there for 7 years) that the Internet came into popularity, and Nadine and I got back in touch via the Internet.
In addition to her, I have gotten in touch with many different people over the years, mostly thanks to the Internet. Or they have found me. I have numerous friends who I went to high school with. They were not necessarily my friends in high school, we hung out with different, yet peripheral crowds, but they are close friends now. Interestingly enough, the friends I was closest with in high school and I are now really only acquaintances. On the other hand, the new group of friends from high school that I have, and I, generally get together about once every year or two. Last year, a bunch of us went on a charter boat cruise on Lake Minnetonka in MN, as a joint 40th-birthday celebration. In 2003, we had our 20th high school reunion, and some private parties associated therewith. In 1999 and 2001, about 40 or so of us got together at Christmastime.
But, back to Nadine. She and I got back in touch via the Internet, and have been in regular contact, since. She was employee of the year at a resort in Orlando in 2003, and came out to visit me in San Francisco with her husband and daughter. We had not seen each other since 1986, but it was as if we had seen each other daily throughout those years.
Now she has read my blog, and she wrote to me telling me how my poetry brought tears to her eyes, how it all reminded her of the poetry I wrote in high school, etc. She also wrote an email asking me a simple question. That is, do I find it easier to write than to talk to people? And the answer is, yes. I get nervous and tongue-tied when I speak, except usually when I am teaching, then I’m fine. But, especially when the subject matter or the person is important to me, or both, I either get shy about what I am thinking or feeling, or nervous, or whatever. So it is far easier for me to write than it is for me to talk. Especially on the telephone. Now, mind you, at work, I have no problem talking, but the workplace banter is trivial, and our work-related conversations, while not trivial in the least, are not about the things that REALLY matter in life, and so I am usually fine then. The same goes for the daily conversations of home life. When it is about regular run-of-the-mill stuff, I’m fine. But when it comes to the deep or meaningful or difficult conversations that we all have in life, and then I have more trouble. I forget things, or I get nervous, or I stumble over words, or I laugh (it’s one of my defense mechanisms and ways of dealing with stress) or whatever.
And so, I still prefer to write to people, sometimes, especially to the most important people in my life.
And, in other news……
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since Saturday night. Spending time with ***** is always pleasantly thought-provoking.
About God and all that stuff…
When Morgan was born, in 1994, as I believe I have told you, I almost died. In a room full of noise and commotion, I could only hear my blood pressure, until it got to 52/38, and my neighbor lady praying. When I told her about it later, she told me that she was praying under her breath. To me, it had been as loud as if she were giving a presentation to an auditorium of noisy third-graders. Since that day, I have known two things: that God, as in, a greater omnipotent, benevolent, all-knowing, all-understanding being, exists; and, that there is nothing to fear in death.
I know that there is a God. However, I do not believe that the God that is is the God that man has created, or any one of them. On the day that Morgan was born, the experience that I had, and the feelings that I felt were such that I cannot explain them. Words do not exist, in any language to adequately convey what happened that day. I can only tell you that there was peace beyond my understanding, love beyond all human emotion, and understanding beyond language.
And, starting from a conversation of months ago, combined with my own life’s experience, things I have read, and conversations I have had since then, I still believe that God and Science are one and the same. I do not believe that the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost are necessarily a Holy Trinity. I personally think that Jesus was a prophet, and that his teachings were important, and are enduring. But I do not believe that he was any greater a prophet than Mohammed or Buddha or Confucius, or the Dalai Lama. And I do not believe he was greater a teacher than any of those men, or Mother Teresa, or Pope John Paul, or Helen Keller, or Anne Sullivan, or Albert Einstein or Kahlil Gibran, or Mitch Albom, or my mother, or Elisabeth Kuhbler-Ross, or you. I am willing to buy the concept of a Holy Father, who is God, the ultimate consciousness. And I am willing to buy into the notion of the Holy Spirit, not as a spiritual entity, but as Science. And I think that this Holy duality, like yin and yang, male and female, up and down, encompasses all that comprises existence.
About death…
This one, I have been thinking about for a very long time. For years, I was afraid of death. Hell, for years, I was afraid of life! Now, after almost 41 years’ worth of experience, good and bad, pleasure and pain, love and anger, all the in and outs of living (next week, I’ll have accomplished that!), I have boiled it all down to two or three things. And, you may be right, the motivation for everything could be survival and procreation, but that doesn’t matter. Not really. Not in this. I have come to believe that human behavior is fear; that life as we know it is fear. And, I also believe that death and the afterlife are nothing more or less than complete peace and a total lack of fear.
July 13, 2006
I don’t know about consciousness. I don’t know whether I believe it is confined to these earthly bodies or not. I tend to think that it isn’t. Logically speaking, I think that, if you can cut off various and sundry pieces of your body and still be who you are, then that which makes you you does not have a physical home. And, if we really aren’t using all of our brains for the things we have figured out that we are using our brains for, then who’s to say that the “rest” of our brain isn’t in contact with people whose bodies have died, but whose essence or spirit, or whatever you want to call it, still lives. Since my mother died, I have had at least two dreams during which she and I had the most amazing conversations. But, in the dreams, I knew she had died. She knew she had died. We talked about things that have happened since she passed. And, interestingly enough, those things have now been resolved for me. So I don’t know that I am willing to buy into the idea that this is all there is. It could well be that this is merely the product of my upbringing and of man’s desire for life to continue after death. But I don’t know. To me, it seems more reasonable that, like Picasso said, everything you can imagine is real, and that, if it weren’t real, we couldn’t conceive of it at all.
You see, it seems that, if God exists, which is a given in my scenario here, then He is ultimate and either all good or all bad. If He were all bad, then goodness would not be. Although there is evil, since we are not God, ultimately, goodness, mercy, and love always prevail. In that vein, an omnipotent, loving God of goodness would not allow for us to conceive of things or perceive that which is definitively unattainable. And so, if we can think of it, or Chantey can, or a giraffe in Africa, or whatever living being… if it can be thought of, then it must be real, just not necessarily on this particular plane of existence or reality. I have thought about this for a very long time. Since I was about 11 or 12, and, while, of course, I do not KNOW that my perception of God and reality are correct, I believe they are reasonable. Now, obviously, since this is what I believe, I would believe it reasonable. I understand the fallacy in that argument. And I could be wrong. Or this could be all that there is. I just don’t think so.
About life spans and living…
I think that ***** is correct in that we weren’t meant to live as long as we do now. At the same time, I believe that the fact that we have the technologies and medical science that we do have mean that God/Science, for lack of a better term for that “higher power,” wants us to know what we know and to be able to achieve what we can achieve. In the healthcare realm, anyway.
I agree that, environmentally speaking, humans are shirking their responsibilities, and that we are obligated to take proactive measures to rectify the damage we have done. I do not believe that we are any more entitled to life or the planet than any other being. But, I do think that we do not know of other beings’ understanding of reality, and so we cannot assume that we are superior, either in birthright or responsibility. I also think that, just like we have been allowed to develop the medical and scientific technologies that we have, so have we been allowed to understand the extent of our destructiveness. And, with understanding comes obligation.
And, although I don’t think that dying is a bad thing, I also enjoy living. Even if the reason for everything that comprises human existence, my existence, is due to the need to survive and procreate, that does not make any of that existence less valid. That neither gives me the right to just do what I want, and to hell with everybody else, nor does it mean that I should not take advantage of certain technologies in order to keep on living. At least I don’t think so. Now, I don’t believe, either, that I would do “anything” to keep on living when my life is done, whether that is at 61, or 45, or 97. But I don’t think that it will matter, and I don’t think that I must be obligated to allow myself to die, of cancer or ALS or from infection, since the technologies to cure certain things exists. It may be selfish. It may even be wrong. But I don’t think so. Without going to extremes, I think that it is alright to keep on living until it is time to die. When I delivered Morgan, and had lost all that blood, I knew that if I “fell asleep,” I would not wake up. I knew that if I did not wake up, it would be alright. And I knew that it wasn’t time yet for me to die. Not because I am special, but because I’m not. But Morgan is. And life is. And helping is. And love is. I still had loving left to do, and so, I believe that I still had living left to do. When the time comes that I am old or sick or whatever; when the time comes that I am done, then I don’t think it right to force me to keep on living, either. I believe in the right to a choice to die as much as I believe in the right to a choice to live. That thinking is part of what motivated me to write my living will and health care directives the way that I did.
What I want for the rest of this life…
I've dated a few people over the years, since I got divorced, even, and they've been alright, but I have found that I am no longer willing to compromise as far as a lot of men's BS is concerned anymore. And a LOT of men are FULL of BS! Women are, too, I know, and I’m not willing to put up with their BS, either!! So I wind up tiring of them, or being bored, or they tire of me. Or I just plain don’t like them, or vice versa. I just don't want to play the games anymore. There's not enough life or time in anybody's life to waste on games, as far as I'm concerned. In the meantime, I have some great friends I have met in the times when I venture out of my bedroom, but I really tend to isolate myself; especially since my Mom died (it will be one year in 17 days, oalready). I don't want to have to put on a front for anybody, to play any games, or to put up with other people's crap - if it's legitimate stuff, that's different, that's what friends are for, but if it's crap, it's crap, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to tolerate crap anymore. From anybody.
I was seeing a counselor for a while before my Mom died. She encouraged me to go out and do things, to spend time with people, or, at least among them, and I know she's right. Because it does help to have people to care about and all of that, and they don't tend to go knocking on random bedroom doors looking for friends and companionship!! Sometimes, I bet it would be nice to have somebody here waiting for when I come home, besides Morgan. Although she's the greatest daughter in the world, she has her own life to lead. In my heart, I don't believe that anybody would really prefer to be alone. Now, I would rather be by myself than be with someone who is not respectful, intelligent, etc. But I would rather be with someone, the right someone, than alone.
I didn't really care for my mother's husband from the get-go, but over time, especially between her breast cancer and then the ALS, I came to respect and appreciate him. He did, or does, truly, love my mother. He took care of her. And she, him. She deserved that after putting up with bullshit for all those years. Alcoholism, and physical and mental/emotional abuse destroy so many lives. I am glad she found someone who truly cared for and about her, even if I didn't get along with him so well.
That's what I want. Someone who I love, and who loves me; who I can share things, anything, with, and who is intelligent enough to understand them; someone who shares his life, in all of its complexities, good and bad, ups and downs, laughter and tears – because that’s what living is, it’s all of it, and it is wonderful and terrible and glorious and sad, but it’s worth it, and I keep hoping for that someone who will share with me the way I want to share with him… Someone who understands the intricate balance between being involved with someone and letting them be who they are. And, if I can't have that, if I have to compromise what is really important to me, then I would rather be alone. But, since I wouldn't rather be alone forever, I hold on to the belief that there is such a man out there, but that I either haven't met him, or something...
I hate to say this, but what I am talking about is what Ronald and Nancy Reagan had. I despised him as a person, in general, although I still believe he was actually a hologram, and not a man; that is, as a politician and as a president, or non-president. But, apparently, he was good husband and he and Nancy truly loved one another. That is what I want to have.
At times I think that men are afraid of me, or afraid that there is something between us that neither one of us is brave or strong enough to acknowledge. Sometimes I tell myself that I am full of shit and imagining that there is something where there really is nothing. Every time I think I am figuring things out, the guy disappears, or leaves the country, or stops calling and writing, or whatever. And sometimes I do it…
A wise old (well she's not old, she's just been my friend for a long time) friend of mine says that, in these things, you need to know what few characteristics are most important, the "deal breakers," if you will, and ignore the rest. I think she's on to something there.
In Tuesdays With Morrie, Mitch Albom said,
"Take any emotion--love for a woman, or grief for a loved one, or [...] fear and pain from a deadly illness. If you hold back on the emotions--if you don't allow yourself to go all the way through them--you can never get to being detached, you're too busy being afraid. You're afraid of the pain, you're afraid of the grief. You're afraid of the vulnerability that loving entails."
Another thing he said is that "dying is only one thing to be sad over [...]. Living unhappily is something else." Or that, "the culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it. [...] So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they're busy doing things they think are important. That is because they are chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning."
I think he might have been right. He (Albom) ended the book with these thoughts:
“I look back sometimes at the person I was before I rediscovered my old professor. I want to talk to that person. I want to tell him what to look out for, what mistakes to avoid. I want to tell him to be more open, to ignore the lure of advertised values, to pay attention when your loved ones are speaking, as if it were the last time you might hear them.
Mostly I want to tell that person to get on an airplane and visit a gentle old man in West Newton, Massachisetts, sooner rather than later, before that old man gets sick and loses his ability to dance.
I know I cannot do this. None of us can undo what we've done, or relive a life already recorded. But if Professor Morris Schwartz taught me anything at all, it was this: there is no such thing as "too late" in life. He was changing until the day he said goodbye.”
Saturday night ***** was telling me about people’s greatest fears. I used to be afraid of talking in front of groups of people. Teaching has helped that. But sometimes that still scares me, when the subject is important to me, or the people are. Or when they know more than me!! I can see that that is a big fear in mankind, in general. But, the fear of dying in front of people, that is something I never thought of. Except for the bowel and bladder muscle relaxation, that I am afraid of, I never really thought that it would be particularly horrible to die in front of people. Actually, I think it would be far worse to die alone. Especially so alone that you wind up like my uncle.
I would rather be like my mother, living, loving, and feeling my feelings, in her own obsessive-compulsive way, than like my uncle, fearing his own fear, drinking to drown it, and dying alone.
My mother loved Pope John Paul II, and had adopted his habit of telling people to "be not afraid," from the Bible. The day my mother died, their parish priest was visiting. As he got up to leave, he sensed something was happening in her, turned around, and went back to her, as if to stay, after all. My mother, who could no longer speak, and used a talking keyboard to “speak” for her, looked at him. He could see in her eyes that she knew her time had come. I'm sure she was glad, as she'd wanted it to be done for a while. She was tired. She wanted an audience with John Paul II. She wanted to be freed from the prison her body had become. She really wanted to pass away. She had lived the life she had to live, and had nothing left to do. Nothing important, anyway, except maybe love a little longer. But I am not convinced she has stopped doing that, and I know that I haven’t stopped loving her. She could see in the priest's eyes that he knew that she knew it was time. He offered to stay. She spelled out in the air (even though she had the machine that would speak whatever she typed) "Be not afraid." The priest said goodbye and left. Within 15 minutes, she was dead. My mother died in her husband’s arms. He called my sisters as he felt her leaving, and told them that he thought that was it, and that they’d better hurry if they wanted to see her alive, again. She sort of fainted, then began foaming at the mouth. Then her breathing became labored, and then it stopped. My sisters did not make it in time. I was here in CA. But she wasn’t alone. She died in the arms of the man she loved, and who loved her more than anyone…
I am far more afraid of dying alone and unloved, than of dying in front of people.
About fear…
Fear motivates us. It's what keeps us in relationships that are unhealthy. It's what keeps us from being with the ones we love, or from letting them know we love them. That's what keeps the mass of men leading their lives of quiet desperation.
I don't want to do that. I want to live my life, help others, and do the things that interest me, with someone, a companion, who lives his life, shares with me, and does the things that interest him, with or without me. And no matter what, without fearing fear.
I have slowly been forming a plan in my mind, of how to live the rest of my life in a manner that interests me and allows me to love the people who matter to me, and to make some difference in the world.
Unless something changes, my tentative "5-year plan" is to stay here in California, work, save some money, and then do something else. Pretty specific, huh? Seriously, I love working with numbers, and researching, and helping people learn (sometimes known as "teaching"). There isn't much call for French teachers down here in Monterey, though. But, I adore my job at DLI. I could do this kind of stuff forever. It is intellectually and personally stimulating, both in terms of language and the arts and stuff and in terms of analysis and logistics. And I love doing taxes, too. I am going to stay in Monterey at least for a while.
Then, I might consider moving up to the Bay Area somewhere, preferably San Francisco, or toward San Francisco. I like San Francisco. There are more jobs up there that are more tailored to my skills, education and interests. There are more Francophones up there. Silicon Valley is okay, too, but I would personally rather be on that end of the valley that is closer to San Francisco. I hate to drive, as everyone knows, so I'd rather live where there is BART or something of the sort, so that I could keep my driving to a minimum.
Ultimately, though, I want to live somewhere where I can do work that I like to do, that I am good at, and that helps people in some way, shape, or form. And, someday I want to live somewhere where I can have a horse, maybe even a cow, and a couple other animals, preferably with a river or stream. It’d be even better on the ocean, but those places are harder to come by. Carmel Valley would be nice. Or Saratoga. Or France. LOL, the three are often compared when people are trying to figure out shwere to live, doncha' know!! Carmel Valley, Saratoga, France - six of one, half a dozen of the other!!
I want to have a horse, maybe a cow, my dogs, my kiddies, and the kitties. If I were to go back to France, it wouldn't be for at least 3 years. Probably not for 7.
I want to work and save money, and then buy a place where it isn't too cold or rainy in the winter (or any other time of year, for that matter!), and teach, do research, write, take pictures, and make art. Whether here or there, wherever, the ultimate goal remains the same.
I have had depression for a lot of years. It runs in both sides of my family. That said, I have never been happier than I am now. I know myself and I like who I am. I have good, solid friendships, good kids, work that I am passionate about, and I live in a place that I love.
My depression is horrible in the Midwest. I need a relatively temperate climate to keep that somewhat at bay. I am seriously considering retiring somewhere in the south of France, or at least having a second home there while staying here. I can always visit Brittany in the summertime. I love eastern France as well, but fear the winters there are too similar to Minnesota winters for my taste and my health.
If it worked out financially, or if I actually met someone who was "strong enough to be my man," I might reconsider the matter of geographical location, but the basic plan is the same. I want to do research, work with numbers, be it in taxes or statistics, teach, write, draw, take pictures, love people, garden a little, hike, take care of the people I love, ride a horse, maybe have one cow (I LOVE cows since my years on the dairy farms in Brittany), and "live in a house by the side of the road, and be a friend to man."
I don't think my dream is so extraordinary. And I don't believe it is undoable.
