With or Without Lust?

I'll let you just react to this, before I get to my point. 

A few days ago, as I was driving home from work through a lovely and very old neighborhood (Haddonfield, NJ -- site of much Revolutionary War stuff and also the place in which the world's first "nearly complete" dinosaur skeleton was discovered [which is all irrelevant to my story]), I saw, on the sidewalk, a beautiful woman, probably in her late forties, casually dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, walking her dog in the dappled sunlight beneath the trees at the roadside. 

Being a gentleman of the ilk that has always been attracted to the beauty of a woman, I was looking in appreciation of said beauty, when she "caught" me. This all happened in a few seconds. I was driving; she turned to see who was passing; I was already looking at her.

Our eyes met... (Oh, stop. That's not where I'm going.) 

She smiled at me and I smiled at her. We shared a smile -- as I see it -- between Gen X-ers. The smile of a generation that was, I think, a bit more sexually comfortable than those that went before or came after. (I'm not saying everything was perfect with us; I don't have that kind of nostalgic lens, but, all things being equal, among healthy-minded Gen X-ers, we were pretty secure in our sexuality, by comparison.) 

Her smile was playful ("Haha -- I caught you looking"); my smile was a little sheepish ("E-heh...I uh..."). 

Her smile was a just a tiny bit flirtatious, with, maybe, a sprinkle of thanks, for the wordless compliment I was giving her: "I find you attractive." This phrase, contrary to popular belief, is not synonymous with: "You are an object to me." And the "compliment" goes no further than that appreciation and it was only a compliment because it was devoid of lasciviousness. 

I think of the Bible quotation, that a man "who gazes at a woman to lust after her has committed adultery with her already in his heart." The key component is "to lust after her." It's not about the looking, but the kind of looking one is doing. The intent. 

My smile was playfully apologetic, but it carried -- I hope -- what I felt: a respectful appreciation of her beauty; a small, yet meaningful connection between two humans, rooted deeply within our ancient, natural programming.  

It's daunting to write things like this, because one misstep in wording and someone will find fault based on the standards of some variant of the modern movements regarding sexuality. I've always taught my sons that sexuality is nothing to be ashamed of, but it should be a private thing between intimately involved parties. So, to write about "attraction" can seem counter to that advice, but, I think people need to write about the grays of sexuality (and of everything else), because we are losing any sense of nuanced thinking about...everything. 

In the Age Without Subtlety, ironically, everyone is "okay with" everything except "the game of love" -- hence (dare I mention it?), the demise of Pepe LePew. Modesty is lost in both men and women. Prostitutes and porn stars are afforded the respect of being called "sex workers." Modern pop music lyrics refer to explicit acts of sexuality with demeaning atitudes with no social or economic consequences, but someone who glances at a woman because he finds her beautiful and who looks for no other reason -- and with no ulterior motive -- than to appreciate that beauty opens himself up to all sorts of criticism. 

Admittedly, it all stands on the edge of a knife, though, doesn't it? Shift the smile or perceive the smile just a bit off-center, and it becomes a leer and a leer is certainly an insult and a sign of lascivious intent...but for us two, it was, as the youngins are all saying, "all good." We made each other smile. That is what used to be the magic in the dynamics of the sexes -- the game of attraction was fun to play (as long -- and this is essential -- as the woman had the final say in the outcome). 

Speaking of the comfort of Gen X: yes, in case you are wondering, my wife will read this. But that does not matter, in the least. I already talked about this incident with her and we aleady had a philosophical conversation about it. She is neither threatened nor angry. She knows who I am. She knows I am loyal to her for life. And, under similar circumstances, she would have reacted just as this woman did. My wife appreciates being appreciated for her beauty, as well, and her day would have been brightened just a bit by the "compliment" of being respectfully "looked at" by a man. 

My final point? This, to me, was a healthy exchange -- however brief -- between two people in a similar mindset. I've gone past the point of wanting to tell people what to think, but I do wish the dynamics of the sexes these days wasn't so pre-loaded with paranoia. The safety and respect of women is paramount, but I wish raising awareness about this real issues in male predatory behavior didn't have to create immediate suspicion of the motivations of the every, kind-hearted but sexually healthy male in the world. 

Somewhere along the line, the game of love became a chess match. It's a little sad, that's all.  If you don't believe that this has happened, consider: I recently taught Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn" and some of my high school kids didn't like that the young men were in "mad pursuit" of the young women. 

They didn't see it, as Keats did, as "wild ecstasy." The best they could do was to call it "cringey."

The Hydrodynamics of Love

As I was sitting at graduation and looking at our kids about to step off into the world outside high school -- not the "real world;" we all live in the "real world," even in kindergarten* -- a thought occurred to me. I pretty accurately recalled it on Facebook last night:

Love runs into available channels, like water does. To argue that there is more value to pouring it into one place than into another is sort of a defiance of hydrodynamics.

What got me thinking this is that, as I looked at the graduating students, I realized I feel differently at graduation at this point in my life than I did when I started teaching in my small school nearly two decades ago. It is always bittersweet to see our kids go: at once, a measurable educational accomplishment and a loss. Our school is small, with graduating classes of under 100, so we know them all, whether we teach them or not. And when we teach them, we know them well. They truly become "our kids." 

But, as I said, something is different, now. I used to feel more of a gut-wrench, driving home on graduation night. I used to linger a little longer outside to say goodbye the kids. Now, although I still feel sad as they go, I have an easier time of it. I feel no need to hold on. I can sleep just fine if I didn't say good bye, face-to-face, to all of them. 

This is because, I think, my love runs into different channels, today; channels I chose to dig, myself. Today, I drive home away from my school kids toward my real kids. At twenty-eight, more of my affection ran in the direction of my students. Now, the deepest channel runs toward my kids. One still runs toward the students, but, it just doesn't compare to the one that runs toward my sons. The "student channel" used to have less competition; there were less channels pulling the water away from it...it was more full, then. 

But, here's the thing: it is fruitless to argue, as some people do, that one needs to have kids in order to experience the deepest of loves; that one is cheating one's self of a full heart if one does not start a family. I think we either choose how deep to dig channels, whatever direction they run, or we find ourselves surprised by how deep one of them runs. 

I think people have, each, a certain capacity for love; think of it as a reservoir with a certain amount of water. If a channel is dug away from the reservoir, the water flows in that direction. The love simply needs somewhere to go. The intensity of the love (the strength of the flow) doesn't come only from the thing or person to whom it is directed, but from the size of the reservoir and the depth of the channel. The water doesn't run out, it just flows where we allow it to; or, according to the channels we have dug, either on purpose or by accident. (By "accident" I mean, say, the stray animal we picked up and fell in love with; the cause we accidentally discovered and poured out heart into...) 

When I had kids, my love flowed in that direction, joining the channel that was already there for my wife and my music and the one we later dug by getting our beloved dog...and, joining the one for my students. I think we all need to (no news here) express our love according to our capacity both for love itself and for its expression. If there is only so much water in the reservoir, the water will fill the deepest channels before it goes to the shallow ones and, at some point, all the water is used up... Some channels run dry; some will run more shallow. 

How'd I do? I get the feeling I might have failed, here, in explaining this idea and that I over-stretched my metaphor to the point of ineffectiveness. Ah, whatever. No one reads this blog on Fridays anyway...
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*I hate when people tell students about "the real word." Talk about invalidating their existence up until graduation; talk about teaching them that the only reality is in the mundane treadmill of the tax bill world... HATE IT!!! Grr. 

Love and a Father's Dignity

I learned something about love.

When my sons were born, I realized (as many people do) that love makes doing even the most distasteful things (like chaging a diaper) not only possible but even pleasant -- at least insofar as doing these things brings a certain cool selflessness to the act; and the only reward is (and for me, it was an absurdly major reward) seeing your child walk or crawl off, comfortable and clean. It wasn't until having children that I learned what it really means to think of someone else first. Corny, but true.

One becomes eager to change diapers. Odd, but true. At least, it was for me. (Not that I wasn't grateful when Grandmom or Grammy offered to take one for the team.)

I have been back, a few times, on this blog, to the literal decline and fall of my own father -- his dementia and, ultimately, his passing away some six months ago, and I remembered a bit of an epiphany I had during all of that.

Albert Beirdstadt

At one point, my mother had surgery and couldn't really get around well. When I was over at their place, my dad needed to take a shower. At that point, he couldn't do it without help and he also needed a hand in dressing himself. My mother, obviously, couldn't do it for awhile.

Love and Dementia

This is one of those things I am going to write about regardless of being sure that someone, somewhere, must have said it before; sure that a hole in my education makes me an unwitting philosophical parrot. But, hey -- they say Newton and another guy simultaneously discovered the principles of gravity and motion; that Darwin and another cat came up with the theory of evolution in, like, the same year. One just published first. I'm probably about a thousand years behind with this...

Whatever the case, I was wondering what it is about a person that makes us love him or her. What is that thing -- or what is the combination of things -- that causes us to love? (I mean this in both the romantic and familial sense...)

The Truth Isn't Always Original

One of the biggest clashes of all time is the one between parents and non-parents. Non-parents hate that parents hound them about the wonders of parenthood and that those same parents "push" non-parents to have kids in order to find fulfillment in their lives. Parents get offended by non-parents who laud their freedom in not having children and they laugh at the non-parents when they complain about being "busy." It is a never-ending war.

More kids at work.

Sometimes, I feel conscious of this when I write about parenthood. I almost feel like it is offensive to non-parents to say when things are good in Dadland. Being a parent is not the life for everyone, and I can see why people choose not to be parents, especially when things are going roughly -- and, believe me, they do, sometimes. In fact, I think that more people should choose not to be parents. There's nothing worse than having kids because one feels one has to. It makes for bad results.

In short, I respect those who choose not to be parents.

Bad Love: A Valentine's Day Massacre

Alright. Yeah. Yeah. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna trash Valentine's Day. I can't help it. It drives me crazy, so I'm going to drop the box of chocolates in the mud and grind it squishingly down with the boot heel of cynicism.

I did hear guy say "Happy Singles Awareness Day," today, which I like -- but that is neither here nor there. Valentine's Day is lame. Not only is it lame, but it is a microcosm of lots of things that are wrong with the typical American perspective on life.

Call me a stick-in-the-mud. Call me a Cupid-killer. Call me Broxton Von Fleederdoingenstein. (If you want.) I'm not backing down from this.

And, no, this is not just a ploy to release me from the responsibility of getting chocolates and roses for my wife. So sheddep.

No, this is a question of (yet again) the individual versus society; it is a reaction to the constant pressure society puts on all of us to "fit in" -- to become part of the groupthinking hordes of brainwashed toe-draggers.

Which Son Do I Like Best?

Some time ago, I listened, with wrinkled brow and rankled sensibilities, to a guy being interviewed on the radio. He had written a book about parenthood and one of his contentions was that parents have a favorite child when they have multiple children. He argued this was natural. What's more, he argued it was inevitable.

"Nonsense," I barked, sitting at a red light. "Anyone who has a favorite among his children is a bad parent. Bottom line."

MC Escher

But last night, my wife and I were out for some rare grown-up time (the kids were living it up at my mom and dad's house in a wonderland of donuts and infinite video-game time) and she and I got to talking about one of my sons. We both got the warm-fuzzies about something he typically does.

Slow to Trust

I probably don't trust you completely.

Don't be offended. The fact is, whether I know you well or whether we haven't met, I'm really stingy with trust.

No, this isn't a whiny lament about the cruelties of the cold, hard world -- about how I have been let down (though I have). It's just a fact: trust is something I don't dole out lightly. Trust, next to love, is the highest praise you can give another person.

Strangely, the few I do trust, completely (there are degrees of trust, of course), might not be the closest ones to me. For instance, there is someone I know -- someone I worked with for only a few years -- whom I trust implicitly. We rarely speak anymore, but she has my complete trust. She always will.

Parental Love (A Riff)

I wonder how many incongruities and insecurities and soul-aches in life come out of the fact that none of us could possibly love our parents as much as they love us.

And I wonder how many lives have fallen short of their mark because that sort of love was never realized -- not on the superficial level that people use to say things like: "life before kids was worthless" (which it is not, whether before or completely without kids, by the way), but in a sense that the intensity and type of love that lives in the heart of a parent was never in the mix as an impetus for deeds and aspirations.

And I also wonder why we don't love our parents as intensely as they love us.

I'd hate to think it might be evolutionary, simply -- the idea that cute babies make us feel protective.

Remember Me?

(I was listening to the rain today and thinking of people in my past -- those I loved, lived with, studied with, made music with and passed by among late night shadows -- and this came out:)

Remember me? How did I come through your life?

Was I a volcano, a crater or an iceberg upon the planet surface of your brain?

Do you remember me in a chilled, leafy wind,
     sitting on a crumbling city wall, in a city smelling of city rain,
     looking like I was in need of a shave and some poetic truth?

Do you remember me singing and playing in an empty auditorium
     as you watched through the double-door windows -- or standing in the firelight
     in winter woods?

Or was I a cheek-kiss at a party or a handshake, stepping down from the stage?

Was I sweating on a field, running hard next to you among young men seeking
     glory?

Or was I your boyfriend's roomate?

"Rain," by Childe Hassam