The Nail in the Coffin

Tao Te Ching: Chapter 11
translated by Stephen Mitchell (1988)

We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it is the center hole
that makes the wagon move.

We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we want.

We hammer wood for a house,
but it is the inner space
that makes it livable.

We work with being
but non-being is what we use. 

* * *

In the summer we walked to the beach every day.  But now that I think about it, back then it was always summer no matter what month of the year.

I had a theory about men and women in California who always wanted plastic surgery -- in paradise you can't tell that time is moving forward. And one day you wake up and suddenly you're 50 and wrinkled and panic sets in.

But back then our skin was still taut and dewy. We glowed with a sunny optimism and the assumption of invincibility.

Every day my boyfriend and I walked to the beach. We'd walk down the steep hill from the house, hit the beach, run a few kilometers and then drag our tired asses back up the hill. During the walks down and back we had interesting discussions about life, work, politics, psychology, whatever.

One day in particular our talk was quite heated.  It was about men and women and the differences between them. My boyfriend was smart, opinionated, conversationally aggressive. His assumption was that he was always right unless it was proven otherwise. And there was never an "agree to disagree" -- in a debate with him it was either win or lose.  There was no such thing as a draw.

The sidewalk we followed was populated by snails.  They were a terrible blight on the landscape and ate everything in their path. We poisoned them, or picked them off and threw them down into the canyon. But it never seemed to matter.  There were as many the next day as the last.

At the bottom of the hill, my boyfriend huffed passionately and said, "You want to know the real difference between men and women? Do you?"

Punctuating his question he raised his foot and stomped it down hard on the snail in his path, then stepped back.

"That," he said, pointing to the slimy broken mess in front of us. "That is what men can do."

I stood in silence staring at the obliterated snail. I could feel my boyfriend staring at me, holding his breath in anticipation of celebrating his impending triumph at having made his point so powerfully.

There is no doubt it was a powerful moment. But not in the way he hoped. The argument about men and women -- who is stronger, who is dominant, who knows how to seize power and who doesn't -- shattered and the silence that followed was filled with the heavy realization that he had soundly driven the last nail into the coffin of our relationship.

And it wasn't the snail, I suppose. The snail was an unfortunate bystander in an age-old debate about men and women. It was ground zero of a blast that blew away any wisps of illusion, a blast that revealed the raw and naked character I hadn't paid attention to for all the charm, the beautiful words, the clever and impressive jousting.

I turned and began walking and he followed, mistaking my silence for surrender, maybe. He continued on, summing up his proposition in a tidy and logical manner as I thought about how much stuff I needed to pack, where I would go, how I would explain something he would never understand.

Because it was a small thing, a tiny moment, the slamming of a door. Nothing. But also everything.

 

Across the Way

My youngest son started Kindergarten this year. Kindergarten is the start of many new things, but one significant thing in particular is that Mom doesn't walk her "baby" to class any more.

I ease up the hill in the car and back down the other side to wait in line with a gazillion other parents who wait sometimes patiently, sometimes not. The boys like to go early so they can eat breakfast at school, mostly because of the chocolate milk they don't always get at home.

We sit in line, facing the sun and I watch the dispatching of various sized children in various styles of clothing. I like watching how the parents and grandparents send the kids off. Some drop off and drive away. Some open the doors and help the kids out. Sometimes there is hugging and kissing and sometimes not.

For the last two years I've dropped my oldest son off here and he doesn't want the hugging and kissing. He slides out of the car and trudges off, never looking back even though I wave vigorously out the window like I'm a tourist heading off on an exciting cruise vacation. My other son would yell from the back seat, "Bye Brubby!" And then we'd drive to his school building where he'd hang on to the back of my shirt until two teachers wrestle him down so I can make my escape.

But on this particular day, this first day of dropping him off it will be different.  I don't know how it will be, but I know it will be different.  I glance over my shoulder to see if he seems concerned or excited. He seems neither, merely interested.

"I'm just dropping you off today. You'll go up to the cafeteria with your brother. You okay with that?"

A flicker of worry crosses his face and he nods. He puts his head down and looks up at me from under his beautiful black lashes.

"You'll be fine," I remind him. "This is an exciting day!"  I wonder for a second who I'm trying harder to convince, me or him.

Under my breath I say, "You'll take him up, right? You'll walk him in to the cafeteria and show him what to do? You'll stay with him until someone takes charge of him. You will, right?"

My oldest boy nods, not looking at me. "I will."

We sit in silence while the car rolls ahead a few feet as another car pulls away.

At the front finally, I ask, "Do you want to just get out or do you want a goodbye hug?"

"Will you hug me?"

"Of course, Sugar Face. How could I not hug you?"

I got out on the driver's side and he got out on the passenger's side. I thought about the long line of cars behind me and how they were waiting for me to move along so it would be their turn. I quickly dashed around the front of the car, but my youngest had already moved around the back to the other side. I turned and ran the other way thinking how ridiculous it now seemed to be chasing this child around the car for a hug. I imagined foot-tapping and sighing.

When we finally met up on the other side of the car I wrapped my arms around him, half of his mass a too-big backpack that crinkled noisily as I squeezed him to me. I straightened and smoothed his hair, my hands moving down to cup his cheeks. "I love you and I want you to have a GREAT day, okay?"

"Kissy me."

I thought of the cars waiting. Waiting.  I smiled and decided I didn't care how long they waited. I bent down to kiss his cheek and he kissed mine, pressing hard into my face.  He smiled and turned to walk with his big brother up the stairs and I turned to smile at the car behind me by way of polite apology.

Across the way a man sat in his truck with his son. He had a certain look on his face, the look I imagine I have when I watch something beautiful or moving, a sweet parent and child. His face was serene and he had a soft smile. Our eyes met and he nodded. I smiled and nodded back. His look said, "Take all the time you need because what you're doing is the most important thing you'll do all day."

And, as it turns out, it was.

What Women Want, Spilling the Secrets of the Sisterhood

It's election time and inevitably women's rights are always served up on the political table. It has started me thinking about what it is women want.

It seems like men are always trying to figure it out, as if women are complicated.  Maybe it's because I'm a woman -- but it doesn't seem complicated to me.  I will admit women are more demonstrative so we sometimes express ourselves openly, maybe more openly than men who have been socialized not to express themselves in certain ways. (Which I think is unfortunate and repressive.)  I don't think we feel our feelings bigger or stronger, we've just not been conditioned to restrain ourselves in any gender-specified way.

What We Want

Love. We want to be loved. Cherished. Valued. We want to feel, now and again, like the sun rises and sets on us. Even if it's just for a moment. Like right after we do the dishes. Or while we brush our teeth while you're using up all the hot water. Or in that moment before we take our last conscious breath before we drift off to sleep.

Beauty. We want to feel beautiful, desired. We aren't always. And beauty is relative. But in some way, to some one we are beautiful. If you are that person, we'd love to know you think that.  Perhaps in our daily lives, in the grind of minutia we can't identify those moments easily. But if you see that glimpse it's okay to say something about it. It doesn't obligate you beyond that moment. It's not foreplay. It's not an apology for being a jerk yesterday. It's not an admission or giving ground. It's you seeing us and we dig that. (See also: any love sonnet by Pablo Neruda)

Security. We want to feel safe. We want to have room to spread our wings and be confident.  We love solid ground. We want to trust and be open.  We want to tell you secrets and dreams and know you won't laugh.  We can kill our own spiders because we are grown-up girls, but it's sort of really cool if you kill them for us.  Sometimes that even seems sexy and brave.

Sex. We want sex. Various kinds. Definitely we differ in this regard. Apparently a lot of us are intrigued by Fifty Shades of Grey. When my own book came out my mother chastised me for the little bit of sexy stuff that was in there (which was minimal) and said I shouldn't be so base, that women want "princess sex."  I have no idea what "princess sex" is and I can tell you right now if I ever wanted that in my life I definitely do not want it now. Ever. Simply because that phrase came out of my mother's mouth. Learn about our bodies, ask questions, try things, get suggestions. Don't be afraid. And certainly don't apologize for wanting it too. (See also: Jaiya)

Men. (Lesbians, this is the only paragraph that probably won't work for you. You can skip it or white it out and write in your own stuff here.) We want men that act like men even when we tell you we want you to be sensitive and nice and caring and all that other stuff.  You can still do those things and be men. Don't let us convince you otherwise. If we wanted women we'd be with women.  And, well, some of us are. And that's no reflection on you. (See also: The Art of Manliness)

Respect. We are not vessels to be filled, nor are we baby-making machines. We are not less than you. We are not better than you. We are sometimes different, but in a lot of ways we are the same. We want your insides to relate to our insides on a deep soul level. And sometimes we just want you to help us unload the dishwasher and talk about what movie we'll watch tonight. Please don't belittle us, ridicule us or derride us because we are just as important to the running of the world as you are.

The Caveat

There are women in the world who are not nice. They are greedy. They are bitches. They don't care about you. They are in it for themselves. They will not take care of you when you are puking in the toilet. They will berate you into keeping a job you hate because it gives you a bigger paycheck. I could go on, but you know those women. Those women are not us and those women are not for you.  Those women are for the dickhead men who deserve them, the men that are not you.  Run. Run from them like your life depends on it. Because it does. Those raging zombie brain-eating women will suck out your life force and leave you lying in the dirt like a dessicated husk of former man-meat that is good for little but being bitter for the really nice woman who follows in her attractive perfume-scented wake.

What Men Want

The joke around the water cooler is that men want sex and beer and TV and that it's silly to make it any more complicated than that. I could be wrong, but I think our lists aren't that much different.

What Else Do You Want?

Add to my list.  Leave me a comment (men and women) and add anything I've missed!