Goodybe, Old Buddy

I lost a 14 year friend last night. Held his head in my hands as the doctor injected an overdose of anasthetic into his veins, watched as his eyes became still and that ineffable spark of life in his body went out. I was staring too hard at his face to notice when he finally stopped breathing. Even then, at 11:30 pm on a Friday night in the 24-hour emergency pet hospital in Berkeley, lightheaded from not having eaten enough and slightly nauseous from what I had to decide, I wondered at how one second, he was there, and the next, he wasn’t. It wasn’t just the breath, it was something else, some heat, some bit of life, that faded away like the image at the end of a movie. Blink. Something was gone, and then he was just a still, lifeless mound of black on a pile of blankets in a room at midnight.

The cute-in-a-scruffy-way young vet who had a hard time looking me in the eyes was pretty sure it was a blood clot that had cut off the circulation to Merlin’s hind legs. The prognosis was bad – any treatment would have been expensive, painful, and not likely to work. Most cats throw another clot soon after the first, which is incredibly painful. So, I signed the paper and sat with Merlin for the last five minutes of his life stroking his sweet face like black velvet, and feeling myself letting him go.

I think the loneliest feeling in the world must be to be in a stark, sterile room, alone, close to midnight, on a Friday, having to decide between the life and death of your closest companion. I can’t imagine the feeling of having to make that decision for a child or partner.

Merlin was a fat, cantankerous cat. He snored. He bit and scratched – not from meanness, but because he didn’t know his own capabilities for causing pain. He was lazy, and never caught anything but a tossed stuffed mouse toy. Any interaction was on his terms alone. Sometimes he gave me a look that, if it were a person, would have withered me in my tracks. As it was, I knew him for a big softie who loved to curl up with his back against me at night, loved his chin to be scratched, and hated it when I pulled on his tail (which I did anyway, just to hear that cute, cranky sound he made when I did it.)

Merlin and I were very close, probably too close. I sometimes joked to him that he was my real boyfriend; the most consistent, present, and affectionate male in my life who wasn’t related to me. He was the one I came home to at night, the one I missed when I was out of town, the one who shared my bed, the one I reached out for in the night when I had a bad dream or couldn’t sleep. I remember once, on a particularly bad night when I had had a fight with a boyfriend and was feeling low, I accidentally stepped on Merlin and he ran to hide from me. When I couldn’t coax him out to eat, I started sobbing uncontrollably. His withholding of love seemed to me the last straw, that night.

I got Merlin from the Berkeley animal shelter when he was 4 weeks old. He wasn’t that much bigger than a tennis ball. I had just moved into my first “adult” apartment – the first apartment where I had to pay the rent myself, the first place I moved into after college. He ‘s been with me my entire grownup life.

Waking up this morning, every little sound seemed to me to be Merlin, and after every sound, I remembered anew that he was no longer there with me. That wasn’t him jumping onto his favorite sunning spot in the window of my office, or him pawing food bits out of his food bowl so he could eat them on the floor (I always thought that was a weird thing to do, but hey, he was quirky.) He wouldn’t pad into my room, take his normal circuitous path to the bed, then sit and stare at me for a bit before curling up and going back to sleep. Or reach out his paw as I got out of bed, trying to snag some part of me with one long claw.

This has been a summer of loss for me, a summer that started out so promising. I’ve lost a friend, gained and lost a lover, lost a long-time animal companion. I know these losses don’t account for much on the spectrum of losses, and I’m grateful that I’m being taught my lessons in impermanence in such a mild way. Not that those losses haven’t hurt, but I know people who have lost more, much more, this summer. But you can’t compare grief, I guess. And grief and loss are necessary complements to love. You can’t have one without the other. The flip side of all the grief this summer is that in order to feel it, I must have the capacity to love, also.

I’m sitting here drinking strong, bittersweet coffee. That’s appropriate, I think. The weather is fabulous, the sky blue and sun strong. In awhile I’ll go pick up Merlin’s body from the vet and bury him along with Xochi, the other kitty spirit in my life, and think of how much he loved the sun.

When the Heart Breaks

Heartbreak again. I know it so well, and it never fails to knock me to my knees like a sucker punch. Standing at the bus stop, walking in circles to keep myself from collapse, hoping against hope that the person who could take that pain away might appear out of the blue, seeing him in a car parked on the street, in a color, in a pair of stranger’s sunglasses, barely bothering to hold back the tears, I vaguely wonder what the other girl waiting there is thinking. I wonder what her heartbreak has been. On the bus, I wonder what sorrows the other passengers have seen. The woman in her wheelchair, talking softly to her companion; the teenaged couple – she black, he white – huddled with heads together, her eyes darting everywhere but never focusing on him; the older people who have probably loved and lost more than I could ever imagine; the young girl arguing with her mom on her cell phone.


Something funny happens when my heart breaks. I noticed it the last few times I’ve felt like this, and maybe – hopefully - it means that all my struggles in love haven’t been in vain. It’s this: when my heart breaks, just when I think I can’t take the pain anymore, it breaks further – and opens up. I let go, I feel warmth in my solar plexus, and I can see everything in the eyes of the people around me. The joy, the pain, the struggle, the universal human wish to be really, truly, at home and at peace.

When my heart breaks, I feel empathy where there was antipathy, love where there was ambivalence. I feel connected to the universe in a way I don’t when things are going “right”, when I feel so confident and in control.

When my heart breaks, my fear and judgment fade, and the people around me are all just people struggling, the way I struggle; wanting love the way I want love; mostly doing their best, often saying or doing the wrong thing, and all wanting the same things: to be seen, heard, understood, to be loved, and to give love.

When my heart breaks, it’s like I can feel all the pain in the world and can take it into myself, the way the Buddhists do in tonglen practice. I want to relieve suffering, because I suffer. Rather than hardening into resentment and anger, when my heart breaks, I soften into love.

Isn’t that strange?

Today, on my way home from work, I found myself analyzing the pain. What does it feel like? It’s a gaping wound in my gut, it’s a weird shifting sensation, like there’s no center to hold on to, it’s grief, it’s wanting, and, what’s so odd: it’s pure love. And just like that, I knew the answer to the pain. I knew that the answer wasn’t resentment, or anger, or hatred, or demanding answers, or lashing out, or crying (well, maybe just a little) or drinking, or mindless sex with someone else to take away the loneliness. The answer was so easy and simple: it’s love.

So, I walked home, and the mantra that popped into my head, that I kept saying over and over to myself, that seemed to ease the aching in my heart was “I send all my love; I send all my love.”

So I send all love to you, C, I hope you find your happiness. I want nothing more than to feel your arms around me right now. But if that can’t be, then go with peace. You deserve it.
I send all love to J, who taught me what unconditional love feels like, and what it feels like to really let go.
I send all love to R, because I hurt you and I didn’t know how not to.
I send all love to F because I should have treasured your love and instead I threw it away like trash. I think of you often, and wish things had turned out differently. I think you’re happy now, and I’m so glad.

I send all love to all the people I’ve disappointed and hurt. I caused hurt not because I was mean, but because I was clumsy.
I send all love to the people who have disappointed me. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, and even if you did, you did it from your own struggle.
I send all love to the people who I’ve judged harshly.
I send all love to the people who reached out to me and who I rebuffed or ignored. I don’t always see or appreciate the love that’s offered. Heartbreak reminds me to be more careful of others’ hearts.

I send all love to M, my closest and best friend, who has been so patient and loving to me and who taught me what it means to be a friend.
I send all love to my friend JN, he of insight and humor, who keeps me laughing and thinking, both.

I send all love to the people who are fighting the flames right now; the red sun and my burning nose remind me to keep you in my thoughts.
I send all love to the people who are fighting the floods right now; may you stem the tide and find peace again.

I send all love to all beings who struggle and hope. My heartbreak reminds me of the essential truth that we’re all in this together, and that there is no enemy.

I’ve been reading about this new book “The Paradox of Choice” by Barry Schwartz (hear him speak here, especially the part about buying jeans) about – and I’m sure I’m oversimplifying this, because I haven’t read the actual book yet – how too many choices can actually make us unhappy. And one thing has been running through my head ever since I heard about it: that’s what the problem is with dating.

I’ve been dating for about 10 years. Mostly online (heck, Craig Newmark and I should just get married) , but also in the “normal” way (meeting people in dorm rooms, at work, at bars, in social groups, on the hiking trail, on the train). I’ve developed several relationships with men I met online and with men I met in “real” life, so I know the various sides of the coin. I’ve probably been on first dates with upwards of 50 men, some of whom I rejected for various reasons, some of whom rejected me, and most of whom just faded out of my life as I faded out of theirs. No drama, no discussion, no follow-up calls.

Most of those 50 guys were just not going to cut it; I knew from the first ten minutes. I wasn’t attracted, I didn’t feel like he listened to me or cared what I had to say, he wasn’t funny, he didn’t laugh at my jokes, he had a weird rash, or too many kids, or was too charismatic (or not charismatic enough). He invited me over to his hot tub too soon – or not soon enough. He tried to make moves on me. Or he didn’t. There have been as many reasons as there have been guys. The most common reason, of course, the default justification for not seeking a second date: there was no spark. And I’m sure, to the guys who never bothered to call me after the first date, there were reasons I didn’t make the cut: not the right coloring or body type, didn’t laugh often enough, didn’t come with my own rock-climbing gear. Who knows. There’s always a reason.

And I’ve been thinking recently how different it would if we really didn’t have that many choices of people to date; if Craigslist and Yahoo and the plethora of dating sites didn’t offer a daily selection of hundreds and hundreds of people, like some kind of human Berkeley Bowl (seriously, who needs 10 varieties of oranges to choose from?). What if we really couldn’t afford to be so choosy? If we knew the three available and dateable people in our town and knew we had to either choose one of them or move to a different town? Wouldn’t we be happier with the one we chose? Wouldn’t we be more forgiving of his foibles, think him more attractive, consider that we had made the right choice when compared to the other two? I think so.

I’ve actually often thought of how nice it would be, on some level, to just not really have that much of a choice. To have my parents steer me towards somebody, or to live somewhere where there just weren’t that many guys to go around, and so if I wanted one, I had to choose what was available. The way I feel more comfortable shopping at Whole Foods simply because there are only 4 types of apples and not 17. There’s something comforting in this idea that I wouldn’t have to choose from an infinite number of variables. I mean a choice of three is hard enough, but how can you choose between infinity? It’s impossible!

No matter who I’m with, there will always be the possibility of someone “better” out there. I know this is wrong, and unfair, but it’s still true. And then I wonder if this is why I’m still single, and why so many people are still single, not marrying until later, and generally seem disaffected by the whole dating experience. It’s because too many choices are making us unhappy – unhappy being single, unhappy with the dates we find, unhappy with the one we “end up with”, which more and more often means the one we date for two or three years and then break up with. We’re unforgiving of each other because we can always find someone else. We’re a culture of people with dating ADD.

I can see this in how my own mind struggles with the whole bullshit romantic ideal thing: the “soul mate” myth, the “don’t settle” myth. That’s all crap. We’re all humans, and no human is going to be perfect. Holding out for the perfect mate is nothing more than romantic idealization of a very normal and human situation that’s about as far from a myth as it can possible get. Yet I can’t seem to get past it, this idea that there’s some perfect man out there for me, one who will make me shake with desire at the same time that I intellectually admire his value system and commitment to those values; one who knows exactly what to say and when to say it. Sometimes I just wish God or Craig Newmark would just drop down from heaven, plop a man in front of me and tell me to forget all the bullshit and make it work.

Then again, like the joke about God saying "I sent you two boats and a helicopter, what more do you want?" maybe I've already had that chance. Maybe I missed it. Or maybe it's right here in front of me.

Oh, Boo Hoo

OK, I know I'm not being very nice by laughing so hard at the current "gas crisis." I shouldn't be laughing, I just got my first car, and now gas prices are nearing $5 a gallon!

But I just clicked on CNN.com and saw an item they have on there which was described thusly: "The record-high price of gasoline is putting a strain on American motorists - and spurring some to shift their habits. Here are their stories." Oh good lord. Their stories about finally thinking about their consumption habits?? The photo spot next to the item shows a running slidehow of presumably normal (white) Americans, some with rosy-cheeked kids in tow, staring poignantly into the camera. "Gas is so expensive!" They seem to be saying, "How could you do this to me, God??!!"

All I could think was: It's about time, sheesh.

Now, I understand that the U.S. is a car culture , and it's not most peoples' fault that they drive so much. There aren't many options, unless you live in a big city, for getting around without a car, and even in most cities, the options aren't very welcoming. I mean I should know, I've taken the bus at 11:30 at night from events in San Francisco; I know the discomfort of waiting in the cold for a bus that may or may not arrive, when all you want to do is be home and warm and in bed. I know the shady characters that you seek to avoid by staring at your shoes as you take your seat, knowing, just knowing, that they'll choose you to sit next to.

I know that people need to work, and buy food, and have a social life. And because we don't have the infrastructure that most countries have, of a decent public transportation system, and that though we have the technology to make cars that pollute less, for various reasons such cars are not available for the majority of Americans, and that we have to rely on the options we have, which in most cases, are gas-fueled cars.

I know all this. But I still find myself thinking "It's about time. Sheesh."

Maybe because I know there are options out there for ways to get around without a car, and those options don't scare me, I don't find gas prices an issue. And I have to admit that my self-righteousness kicks in when I see these overwrought news items about how people are finding ways to get around by driving less. It's about time!

Another item I saw reported that the ridership on Caltrain has jumped by something like 7%, and that there's standing-room-only on some commuter trains. It's about time!

Because these ways have been around for years! These are not new options! In the 24 years that I have been taking public transportation, nothing has changed. There are still the same BART and bus lines that I have been taking since I was 14 years old. And why has ridership been down in recent years? Because people haven't been thinking about the gas they're consuming. Even with a pointless, bloody war over oil, most people haven't cut back on their driving. But when it hits the pocketbook: Oh My.

I'm hoping that gas prices stay high because I finally see people paying attention. In my ideal world, this will mean that whoah, we might see some efficient public transportation being developed! And amazing, we might see alternative-fueled vehicles that actually come to fruition, and might actually be affordable for more people. And my lord, we might see more development of sustainable live/work communities that include easy walking or biking access to the places that humans frequent. Oh, and, wonder of wonders, we might even see people developing communities around sharing: sharing cars, sharing food, sharing knowledge, sharing lives. Wouldn't it be wonderful? And it might all be because dammit, we can't afford to drive everywhere anymore.

It's about time!

Happy Birthday to Me!
or
Thanks, Universe!

I've never been the kind of person to complain about getting older. Heck, my 70-year-old mother says she's happier than she's ever been. I admit that as the first number of my age gets higher, I get slightly more anxious about each birthday, but I'd be hard-pressed to admit it. And I do have to say that my thirties have certainly been the most...interesting...years I've had. Not that they're over. Quite.

So here's another one coming my way, and I've found myself musing more than is normal for me about just how good things are at the moment. That being the case, I thought I'd send out some gratitude for not only the good things in my life right now, but all the lessons I've learned this past year (and previously) without which I wouldn't be who I am today, and most certainly wouldn't be wise enough to realize when things are good.

First off, I'd like the thank the powers-that-be for landing a very affectionate friend in my lap (and I do mean that literally). It's been a very long, very frustrating dry spell for me (maybe for both of us), one that I was pretty sure would never end, so I'm drinking this up like a person wandering in the desert would drink a bottle of cool water. With a chaser of really good tequila. Yum.

It is scary and somewhat exhilarating (depending on my mood) to realize how much I've learned about being intimate with someone, and how much more I have to learn.

Also, my loving, forgiving, just-nutty-enough-to-be-interesting family, without whom not only would I not have my car or my house, but I probably wouldn't have my ability to laugh at anything and everything, my love of the written word (and hence my career) and my curiosity about the world.

Then there are my loving, forgiving, trusting, listening friends who both indulge me and kick my ass, sometimes in the same conversation. I hope I do as much for them.

Finally, I'd like to thank the universe for (not quite literally) landing a free car in my lap. I know, I know, it's a material possession, but I've never owned a car in my 30-cough years, and though not having a car has taught me much (patience, problem-solving abilities), I'm now ready to see what having a car will teach me (Don't tell me: patience, problem-solving abilities, how to spend money like it's water). I'm still not used to being able to go somewhere else at the drop of a hat without having to have two hours' lead time. Luckily, the price of gas and my environmental activist soul prevent me from driving the two blocks to the mini-mart when I'm out of toilet paper.

There's lots more: a stable job with great coworkers (I sometimes grumble about work, but damn, I'm lucky to be somewhere where I'm part of a team and not a cog in a wheel!), a little house to call my own, good health, and a nice ass. What more could I ask for?

As for my life lessons this year, here are some choice ones:

• When in doubt, say 'yes'
• It's only money
• Act as if you feel the way you want to feel, and you will
• Being your true self with others is the best gift you can give them
• And a related corollary: to accept another's gift is in itself a gift

So happy birthday everyone, and thanks for everything, universe!