Please remove this post from all RSS feeds.

Please remove this post from all RSS feeds. It's ok if you're reading it, but unlike my other posts, I can't take my usual position of saying "those who are reading this are either close enough to know me well, or distant enough so as to be altogether anonymous." In fact, could I ask that you not read this, but still give me the comfort of being able to post it?

One of the funny aspects of this journal is that it's been reserved for such a select audience. Over the years, I've become comfortable knowing that it's hardly read by anybody anymore, but since it's still public, in a sense, I'm still held accountable to being articulate with what I say, and generalizing my experiences in a manner that could prove useful for somebody else someday. I can't exactly call myself N.W. Clerk, but I'm constantly amazed at how useful it's been for me to frame my writing in this manner.

This one's for me, though. I don't know if I can be articulate, or if I should even try. Remember that you are not here. If you are reading this, I only see the back of your head. I ask this of you, and the handful of other people whom I have cautiously given access to these words of mine over the years.

I'm kind of surprised, reading back on the last five posts, that they all revolve around the same theme. Part of me's glad that I'm wrestling with the issue, since it is one worth addressing. Another part of me's heartbroken, though, because just as I thought I was getting closer to an answer, the game changed again, and I can't tell if I'm any farther along than when I started--even farther away, perhaps.


* * *

I'm listening to the playlist I set up for March 23, 2008. It's soothing. Reminds me of the drive that I made that day, through rolling green hills on a lazy afternoon, under warm sunshine and blue skies.

I'm thinking about what I've been writing these last few months, what I've been wrestling with. I think part of the reason I'm writing is to keep my hands busy and not let my mind wander too far.

I've had a fun last few days. Free dancing at my favorite venue in the world, with many acquaintances whom I haven't seen in a whole year coming back from college. It doesn't compare with the joy of being back Home at church, where I know I'll find old friends and meet new ones every time, but it was nice. As was sitting in the hills on the Fourth of July, playing poker, sharing a fine Orange Muskat, watching five fireworks shows at once in the distance, and having fun with lasers, cameras and plastic cups. These are pleasant memories that are getting me through a difficult time.

I love that I have a Lewisian friend, who knows me well enough to summon me for a grand feast of a meal the day after, but also that we share the same struggle--precisely the sort of yearning, the same sort of ache that makes both of us go, "really? I thought I was the only one!"

I am going through the five stages of grief. I don't want to go through some of the more dangerous ones. I don't want to be angry. I don't want to bargain. I don't want to be in despair. I went through it all once, at the most inopportune time. I most certainly don't want my decision-making ability to go down the drain, the way it's supposed to in times like this.

Ok, J., are you done? Time to write what you wanted to write. And reader, you are not here. The only reason this is posted here is so that I can plead my case upwards, instead of bottling it up or going in for another long, unproductive conversation that will probably just do harm. There's a part of me that actually wants for it to be read, but I can't help it. Maybe this is the bargaining stage.

Who should I address this to, though? Malcolm, I guess. Better him than Screwtape.

* * *

My good friend,

I cannot come at this letter from a position of strength, the way I usually try to. I have nothing to teach, nothing to give. All I have is a story, and I can't be sure that it's all that interesting, admittedly. But since you have asked me for it, here it is, as best as I can tell it.

We became a couple on Easter Sunday, after a month or so of peculiar encounters, conversations, whatnot. In a twisted way, I still feel like I was drawn reluctantly into this relationship. I saw chinks in her armor, flaws that would normally be dealbreakers. I knew my senses weren't functioning properly, for my heart was drawn to multiple people at once. I'm amused that I offered my time as a listening ear one night, seeing how I wasn't even all that close to her at the time, and I didn't really think that she would take me up on the offer. I was coming back from helping friends move house, in preparation for their wedding, and I still don't understand what made me do what I did. Perhaps I was subconsciously reading the tone in her voice that suggested that I could indeed be of service. I don't know. She did call, though, and I am very glad that I was able to serve that night. Times like that are the ones that make me feel gifted...times when I feel I do live up to the name I have been given.

I muttered to myself a lot later that night, while driving to go buy flowers and a card and write words of encouragement. By my own account, I was acting irrationally. I knew that they would be well-received, and they served the very purpose that I wanted for them--to brighten her day--but why was I doing all of that? I don't know. I don't feel like it was my choice.

And so it went for the next month. I surprised myself a lot during that time, all the while amused at how naturally it all came to me. I would imagine myself being very deliberate with my actions if I were pursuing something, someone that I want, but it all felt very out of my hands. I found myself asking God what the hell was going on a lot. I imagine he was smirking, in a playful, loving sort of way.

I was kind of happy about all of it, actually. After too many conversations with friends about the "rules" of wooing somebody, about all the tactics (manipulations, in my mind), I was fascinated to find that I could do everything wrong, do everything in a manner that felt right, felt just, to me, and feel free. She didn't feel like a want, so to speak--more like somebody I was supposed to know. Somebody I was supposed to know, for whatever reason that should come in the future.

So it went on. I would be going about my daily work, thinking about how to stop myself, and by lunchtime, I'd committed to a 50 mile drive northwards to share with her one of my little joys, the best gelato in the world. What's that? An opportunity for her to go visit well-missed high school friends who were at school there? Sure. And so we went, and when she reunited with them, I was happy to see the joy that they were sharing. I even got a video of the moment when they saw each other and ran up for a big hug.

Oh, what a peculiar night, that it should include a drive up to the hills to see the city lights (another of my little joys), and not end until 3:30 in the morning. She slept as we crossed the Bay Bridge, seat pulled back, feet on the dashboard. I think I gave her the fleece blanket to use as a pillow. Uncle Joe was the soundtrack for the night.

And so, three turns away from home, I found myself consciously resolving not to do that oh-so-ridiculed DTR, to just let the night end and drop the whole thing. I'd already stumbled my way in quite deep, and it felt like I would be foolhardy to keep fumbling my way any further.

Hah. "I would like to continue exploring where this could go." Oh, what a line. Sounds like it should come from a prim and proper Englishman, accompanied by a briefcase of brochures and a blue and purple striped tie. Stammering, and an "I'll think about it" later, the night was over. Seemed to me, at the time, like she bolted out of the car and ran as fast as she could. I laughed, and, oddly enough, felt an amazing sense of lightness. I slept well that night, perhaps because everything was already so out of my hands that I couldn't possibly say I'd screwed up or whatever.

So the next night, I'm trotted out for a walk, and I'm told, basically, 'no.' Not at this point in time. Not that she'd ruled out dating me anytime in the future, but not now. I was wearing my tweed jacket and a black T-shirt underneath. Usually, it's an outfit that makes me very happy and comfortable...a nice, quasi-rebellious blend that says, to me, "you do, in fact, fit in this world...but yes, you're still subversive enough to tweak it a little bit...and that's ok." That night, though, I felt very odd wearing it. But once again, that lightness of being was upon me, and I kind of laughed about it all that night.

A few days later, on yet another peculiar impulse, we're up in the hills near school, looking out at the bay. It's a spot that has a lot of memories for me, some joyful, others bittersweet. While we're standing atop a dry little embankment by the road, having to flex our ankles slightly and maintain our balance, I ask her why she keeps taking me up on my crazy invitations. She wagers it's because--I can't actually remember clearly right now, so I probably shouldn't make a record of it, lest I get it wrong. But that night I learned about her family. Also that she doesn't like windy roads. And that she knows how to laugh through peculiar situations.

Again, what a peculiar courtship. One night I find myself muttering to myself again as I drive over to deliver a monologue that again, doesn't feel like my own. I brought over a roll of Cadbury's milk digestives. I was happy to be able to put an entire one in my mouth and have it melt amidst the milk. It brought a peculiar sort of joy, sort of contentment that small, rationed bites could not offer. Oh, abundances! But perhaps I digress. She endeared herself more to me that night, by the things she said, by the audacious questions she could ask.

We became a couple on Easter Sunday. I met her family for the first time that day. They were wonderful people. Her home was...warm. Welcoming. Neither ornate nor austere. It felt like a home. We worshipped together that night, too. Reminded me of Mark and his dad, and the warmth of that home of theirs in Wales...books of jokes in the bathroom, photos of joyous moments on the walls (with a little Marky Mark catching his fish), and booming, jovial voices singing, "every blessing you pour out."

It was all kind of peculiar, really. The only thing that had changed from one day to the next was that she now put her head on my shoulder. And as she did so, she would sigh in a manner that said, "this is a good place for me to rest." It made me smile.

Our three months together brought me many joys. She was not perfect; many of the initial readings I'd had of her before were shown to be valid. But something peculiar happened--instead of growing disenchanted with them, I found myself getting more comfortable with them. People would ask me how things were going, perhaps expecting to hear a fairytale of sorts. I always found myself answering that we had our challenges. But odd as it may sound, I said so with a small sense of joy inside of me, fascinated that none of those challenges actually seemed insurmountable--indeed, that they were, in their subtle way, a blessing: a way to learn, a chance to grow.

That is not to say, though, that I didn't have my doubts. One of the most difficult aspects of being with someone in moments of frailty is that deep fears are exposed. When they seem to be assessments of you, they are not pleasant. They are, ultimately, mere fears. It took a while for me to be at peace with what I heard, but again, I was fascinated that I could be. The words tapped into an insecurity of my own, but strangely, they could do no damage; a look at the bigger picture told me that I had something far more special in me that made up for what I wanted for myself. And so what could have torn me apart instead became a source of strength.

But our time together has indeed ended. I want to add the words "for now," but that would be cheating, wouldn't it? I cannot know what the scripter has planned anymore, and so I now must concern myself with being comfortable saying again, "thy will be done." It's always harder in the times of loss than in the seasons of abundance.

So here I am, five days removed, still feeling like there are still questions I need to ask. It's a little bit peculiar to be reading G. Polya's How to Solve it right now, for it reminds me only all too well that I still don't have a clear definition of the problem. I haven't been privy to that information, and all I have is my own interpretation. The journalist in me is screaming out for an eyewitness to take the place of the political theorist.

Yet another part of me is, as with last time, concerned that I have been misinterpreted; it wants to speak in my defense. Of course, how will I know if I have been misinterpreted if I do not know the premises and the steps that were taken to reach the conclusion? But just as God will leave us hungry on these matters, so I am hungry now. Perhaps I should continue fasting.

May I ask something of you, friend? May I ask that you allow me to list out what I believe might have happened? You need not opine on them; I just need to lay them out on the tapestry so that I may perhaps let them go. They have been a burden on me. I don't ask that you understand them, given how poorly I will probably be at articulating them, but I hope that you do. If not, then take peace in knowing that the deficiency lies with me and my writing, not with your understanding.

1...I fear that I cannot continue living life as I am. That human beings are not actually supposed to live in gracious outpouring, and will naturally rebel against such acts. This is a generalization. It is one built on my own pride, my own audacity in thinking that I am some model for that sort of gracious outpouring. But still, it hurts me, in light of what I have learnt about human behavior. I do not want to believe in reciprocity--not, at least, in the ways that I see it manifested. I don't want to believe that relationships need to be symmetrical.

But moreover, I don't want to believe that I lost her--oh, what terminology...I wish I could just keep saying "that we could not last," but that wouldn't reflect my current predicament very well. I do, in fact, feel as if I have had something taken away from me)--that I lost her because she didn't feel like she could give back to me on the same level that she had received. What crap.

I don't know--I can't know exactly what's going on. Perhaps she felt that she would have to grow in order to care for me in the ways that I need care, and concluded, reluctantly, that she wasn't growing as "was needed" of her.

It's a fair position, admittedly, and one that has some form of love embodied within it. I cannot imagine that the conclusion was an easy one to reach, and I believe I saw elements of that grief in her as she wrestled with it. Nor am I happy with it. Far better would it be if, when she says "find somebody who can truly love you (more than I do)," I could simply reply that I would much rather it be her, and that I have all the time in the world to wait. But that's not fair to her. It's a challenge, and if we are to believe that human beings can be fundamentally incompatible, then it's not something that one can overcome with hard work.

So where does that leave me, though? With the same old preposterous "what if" that perhaps if I loved less, things would be different. There wouldn't be that uncomfortable asymmetry at work. I certainly find no comfort in the more worldly views of relationships, that speak of the ways in which you need to not love in order to preserve that sense of mutual desire. I am known, in their language, as an AFC. Someone who has no understanding of the rules of the game. By their prediction, I will either continue fumbling through relationships, loving too much, and losing out to more pragmatic types as I console myself with the gullible faith that I'm just being stretched and prepared for when the right person actually comes along.

But I should leave that last paragraph behind...lay it down. Cynical though I may be, I would like to believe that I see evidence to the contrary in my life, that the best of the men I know have, in fact, been paired with the women that are right for them. And that they got there by following God's path, and not settling for anything less.

2...I fear that I cannot continue living life as I am (again!). This one is a bit more paradoxical than the last. You have known me long enough to hear all my talk about doing something fantastic in my lifetime. You know that fire that burns in me, and you know why it does. Perhaps, by chance, you have faith that I will, indeed. Certainly I have been through stages where my friends believed in me far more than I believed in myself.

I would like to believe that it is a noble aspiration, and one that I should never abandon. But what if it is one that is easily misinterpreted? I speak of such great things in the abstract, still; I speak of them in the terms that I converged upon because I had to write a paper on where I wanted to go in life, and, knowing that I should put down something, constructed the most audacious, improbable path that I could, so that if I were to fall short of the summit, I would still have a pretty good view.

The first time I spoke of such plans publicly was at a dinner table, one quarter later, at my professor's house. My project partner later told me that I seemed to have it all together, and that he felt lost in comparison. I wish I had the right words to give him then. The only thing I knew then, the only thing I still know now, is that I can continue praying "not my will but thine be done."

Even now, they still seem kind of bizarre--a mover of wealth, a maker of movements. Grand, inflated language that inspire some and drive others nuts. But the reason I am so vague is precisely because I don't know what scope these aspirations will take. And the greatest struggle within me is coming to terms that the scope itself is outside of my control. That all I can do, at the close and start of every day, is say "use me", and make sure my heart is open in the ways that allow those works to be carried out through me.

Perhaps I come across as someone who aspires to be a King, a Farmer, a Skoll or a Gates. Yes, those are all noble pursuits, but I would want nothing more than to be a Lewis--someone who is there for his friends and family, yet also someone who truly is used to change people's hearts, all the while living out a humble, quiet life amongst kin for many years.

Have you noticed the subtle condition that I have placed upon that last aspiration? I appear to be laying down my ambition, naming off all the big, grand changemakers and then contrasting them against the one that never leaves his home, but instead welcomes people in. What I didn't lay down, though, was that desire to be known. Perhaps that, too, is an insecurity of mine--one that keeps me from knowing that I'm doing God's work unless I see how it's changing people's lives. It's a dissatisfaction within me, and one that I know will have to be healed if I am to truly do good work.

So...what if I have misrepresented myself? I still don't understand what she meant when she said that our visions for the future differed. How can I, when I don't know what future other people have envisioned for me? Part of me wants to find out, to hope that the grounds for this dissolution is nothing more than a misunderstanding. But while i write this, I cannot know. And in times like this, I find myself hating those "grand" visions. I would much rather be joyful.

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."
--Howard Thurman

There you have it, friend. These were the two reasons why the relationship was ended, and both of them still eat at me. I keep reminding myself that I am to learn from this, I am to grow from this, I am to, perhaps, finally come to peace with where I am and what I have been given. So I'll try. Pray for me.