first

I've never had a relationship anniversary before. Neither has John. This relationship has already lasted longer than any previous relationship for either of us, so we've had a lot to celebrate along the way, but a year is still a big milestone.

I usually lose interest after a few months. I get weirded out by the closeness, or i get jealous, or he gets jealous, or things just sort of fall apart.

I don't know what a relationship is supposed to look like at this point. I don't know how we are supposed to behave together, how i am supposed to feel, what is supposed to come next. I don't know what to expect.

I never expected that i would be happier with him every day. I never expected that simply walking down the street and holding his hand would fill me with such joy that i would start to skip. (Not hyperbole, by the way. This has actually happened.) I never expected to miss him so intensely. I never expected that the best part of my day would be falling asleep at his side.

But i'm also filled with a sense of panic and impending doom. Because i don't know what a relationship is supposed to look like at this point. I am excited to be with him in this moment, but i'm also excited for the moments to come, and shouldn't we be in the next moment already? How am i supposed to behave? How am i supposed to feel? What is supposed to come next? Are we going too fast? Are we going too slow?

Fortunately, John is patient enough and loves me enough to handle all the crazy i throw at him. And here's the thing: he doesn't know what the relationship is supposed to look like at this point, either. The difference between us is that he sees this as a time of excitement and adventure, where every day is something new and unpredictable and we get to decide what comes next. I see this as a time with enormous potential for me to screw up in a big way.

I've said it before and i'll say it again: thank God for John. He is brave enough and patient enough and loves me enough to not run in the opposite direction when i start getting freaked out about this stuff. He gently and lovingly helps me talk through my fears and concerns and reassures me in his commitment and affection. After all, i may not know what our relationship is supposed to look like at this point, but neither does he. How will he know if i'm screwing something up?

It's not so much a question of doing things "right", but more a question of making him happy. And so far, he's happy just to be around me. All he wants from me is me. I worry that the day might come when i will not be enough and i will have nothing more to give. I worry that the day might come that i will be too much. But it's been a year and there has been a lot of crazy and he's not running yet. It may be that he actually knows what he's getting himself into and really does want me. That is humbling and exciting and terrifying and awe-inspiring and very, very beautiful. Either way, he is so happy in this moment that he is content just to stay here a while longer.

I'm learning to find that contentment. I still want to run ahead, but i make sure to loop back occasionally to walk at his side for a while, to stroll in silence holding his hand. And then i take off running again, because i have faith that he will still be there when i loop back the next time.

I love everything you are with everything i am, my dearest. Here's to year two.

I Blame My Mother

Three years ago, in the cafeteria, i came up with a plan B: quit school and simply become the next Anna Nicole Smith.

I have always had a soft spot in my heart for cute little old men, with their cute little old manners and their cute little old hats and their cute little old too-short pants and everything. But what i never knew is that they also have a soft spot in each of their hearts for me.

One night, i was eating my dinner, when in came an absolutely adorable little old man, wearing a pin-striped fedora, and a sweater and jacket (despite the heat), even a bow tie. Let's call him "Carissa". He had these huge, bushy, pitch-black eyebrows that stood out against his bushy, snow-white hair. He was just too cute for words.

Because my mother raised me to be polite, as well as raising me with my soft spot for cute little old men, i smiled as he walked through the cafeteria. At that, Carissa came over to my table, leaned down next to me, and asked if i was Irish.
"No . . ." i answered, bemused.
"Oh. Are you Polish?" he continued.
"No . . ."
He asked me about six more of these before i finally said, "I'm a little bit German and a little bit French."
"Oh! Do you speak German?"
"No . . ."
"Do you speak French?"
"No . . ."
"Well, how come you are so beautiful?"

Between my amusement at the situation, my confusion at the leap from linguistics to aesthetics, and the general weirdness of the conversation, i began to blush. And giggle. Both of which are my reactions to uncomfortable situations, and one of which (the giggling) i inherited from my mother. I think i said something along the lines of, "Thank you. I don't know," and Carissa went back to his seat. (My friends assure me that my behavior was much more flirtatious than this, consisting of several "Yes, sir"s and "No, sir"s, all uttered with doe-eyed glances. I can honestly say that i remember none of this.)

After regaining control of myself (which took a considerable amount of time and effort, the giggles having escalated nearly to the point of making me fall out of my chair), i jumped up and raced across the cafeteria to my friend Steven, who had missed the action.

I filled Steven in on the events, and then returned to my seat, intending to collect my things and exit the cafeteria with what little remained of my dignity. But i was denied this escape by three of my friends who insisted that i stay put.
"Why?' i demanded.
"Because he is writing something on a napkin, and we think he's gonna give you his phone number," was the reply.

At this point, the giggles and blushing had me almost completely incapacitated. Falling back into my chair, i awaited my fate.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Carissa came over to me with his napkin.

"Since you are German and French, and you don't speak any German or French, I thought you should know a few phrases," he said. Handing me the napkin, he pointed to the first one and said, "'Ich liebe Dich!' Do you know what that means?"

I actually do know a tiny bit of both German and French, so i was able to choke out the reply: "I love you."
"Yes, very good! Now, what is this one? 'Je t'aime beaucoup'?"
Ordinarily, i would have known this one as well, but at this point all rational thought was beyond me.
"Ummmm . . . " was the best i could supply.
"It's the same thing, only French," he explained.

Carissa then asked me my major, asked if i planned to get my doctorate, told me to get my master's at ENC and then go elsewhere for my doctorate (i believe he suggested a school, but i was pretty much past the point of comprehension, let alone retention, of information), and i think he may have made another observation about my beauty before leaving me. I grabbed my dishes and wallet (and the napkin, which i later had framed), and ran. My one thought was to get out of the danger zone. But on my way, the RD for the boys' dorms stopped me.

"What was he sayin' to you?" he asked, suspicious.
"Oh, umm, he asked what my major was, and he wanted to know if i was Irish and stuff," i explained, not very coherently.
"So, everything's okay, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," i answered, still suppressing nervous giggles.
"Okay. I didn't know who he was, so i just wanted to make sure that everything was fine."
"Yes. Thank you," i managed, before bolting for the door in a fit of giggles. I think my face had surpassed red at this point and was nearly purple.

Oh, well. There's always a silver lining. I guess that if i ever decide that school is just too much for me, i can just drop out and become the next Anna Nicole Smith. I hope my mother will be proud.

vocabulary rant

I'm going to have to take some time before my rant to set up some history. Those of you who are familiar with the "four loves" can skip this part and start at the asterisk. For the rest of you, hang tight. I'll make it quick.

Much has been made in the Christian community of the different loves. It's a really cool concept that is based on two things: Greek and the complexity of human emotions.

Basically, there are four different kinds of love, each with its own word (in Greek). There is storge, or affection. It's based on familiarity and companionship, and has been compared to the love of a parent for a child, or of siblings for one another. It's not based on commonalities or shared experiences, but on becoming accustomed to another person's presence in your life.

The second type is philia, or the love of friendship. This is based on commonalities and shared experiences. In fact, Lewis himself once said that friendship is based on the moment when one person looks at another and says, "You too? I thought I was the only one!"

Eros, romantic love, is not (according to Lewis) the same as sexual love, but the distinction is meaningless for the purposes of our discussion. Eros desires a romantic connection with its object, whether you define "romantic" as sexual, emotional, or both.

And finally, we have agape, which is love pure, free, and unconditional. It is the love of God for people, and Lewis says that it is the love that all Christians should strive to show one another.

* So here's the thing: in ancient Greece, you could be hanging out with your friend and say, "Hey, buddy, I philia you" (or however the grammar works), and they would know that you meant that you loved them with the love of friendship. In modern America, we just say, "I love you!" when our friends say or do something that reminds us of why we are friends with them in the first place.

You could tell your mom that you storge her, you could tell your kids that you agape them, and you could tell your significant other that you eros them.

But what if you and your significant other (a) speak English and (b) are not at the point of saying "I love you" yet? There are moments with John where i want to say that i love (philia or storge) him, but i don't want him to misinterpret that as me saying that i am in love with (eros) him. Like isn't strong enough, but love is too strong. So usually i just kiss him, and then we end up making out, which is great. But i like to use my words.

The other part of my frustration is that i am falling in love with him. I'm falling hard and fast. And it's scary and wonderful and strange and fun and confusing and crystal clear. When i'm with him, i think, "This is right. This is how it's supposed to be." I'm not quite ready to drop the L-word (or the E-word, if we're using the Greek), but i know that it's coming.

In the meantime, i guess we can just keep making out. I just wish i had better words for what is happening to my heart when we do.

Back to Basics

Due to a string of poor relationship decisions, my romance barometer is shot all to hell. I no longer have good standards for appropriate male behavior. If a guy can muster up the energy and interest to text me to cancel a date to 7-11 instead of just standing me up, i am blown away by his consideration and effort. (Okay, that's an exaggeration. But not by much.)

Consequently, when "John" entered my life, i was not at all certain how to handle him. He actually goes out of his way to see me. And by "out of his way", i mean, "He was two minutes away from my house, he knew i was home, and he didn't have anywhere to be immediately, so he stopped by to say hello." Now, to give him full credit, i didn't know he was in the area, so it was a surprise. But the more i reflected on it later, the more i realized that that's just the foundational, basic standard of behavior. That's what you do. When your lady friend is two minutes away from where you are doing nothing at all, you stop by.

He does other things too, like buying me tissues and soup when i am sick, making my bed after he leaves in the morning (i leave earlier than he does), and checking in with me periodically throughout the day. Again, nothing special. I'm trying very hard not to rate him higher than he deserves for performing basic social interactions correctly.

But though i may be vastly overrating how awesome he is, i can't help but feel that he performs these functions in special, above-par ways. For example, not only did he make my bed, he left notes in it. This note, left on top of the pillows, refers to an inside joke. Trust me, it's cute.

The next note, i found under the covers on his side of the bed when i went to bed.

See? It's things like this that make me think he's extra special. Sure, he's mostly just doing the foundational stuff, but he does it because he knows that it's the basic, foundational stuff, and he doesn't expect any extra recognition for it. He does the basic stuff in special ways, he does the special stuff in extraordinary ways, and he does it all in a very matter-of-fact way. Because that's what you do.

Plus he's super hot.

The Other Man

When i write romantic poetry, it is often inspired by whatever guy i have been foolish enough to let into my life recently. (I promise this is not a bitter, bitchy, Vagina Monologues-style rant. In fact, i can almost guarantee that you will say "Awwww!" at least once by the end. Just keep reading.) However, my poems are never directly about that guy.

For example, in this poem, i am talking about my ex (we'll call him Casey). Most of our relationship was long distance, so we texted a lot. So that was true. And i was living through a hot, humid summer. So that part was true. But all of that beautiful, romantic crap about the text messages tethering me to reality, and feeling at home in him? Yeah. Not true about Casey.

It's never really been true about anyone. I have a highly idealized "muse" who is featured prominently in a lot of my poetry. Some of my male romantic leads are a combination of the guy i'm actually with and this "Other Man". Some of them are just him (we'll call him T.O.M. for short). In fact, i even wrote a poem where i make a sort of oblique reference to T.O.M., saying that i wrote to him because i hadn't met him yet.

Sometimes, i thought that T.O.M. was "the one", some bizzare poetic presentiment of the person i was supposed to be waiting for. Sometimes, i thought i was setting my standards too high, mooning over someone who did not and never would exist. Sometimes, i just thought i was a good writer, and had created a fully-realized male romantic lead that any girl would fall for.

I would start to write a poem about a real moment that i had actually experienced with a flesh-and-blood man who was present in my life (humid day, feeling like i'm dissolving into the atmosphere, Casey texts me, and we're off!). But then, i would begin to add or change things, thinking that the moment would have been so much better if Casey had said this, or if i had felt that, or if these particular thoughts had been in my head at the moment. I embroider reality liberally. I am a poet, after all.

I'm not saying that he's T.O.M., but my latest crush (we'll call him John) has begun to inspire poetry. And so far, i have not felt the need to embroider a single second of it. Every moment spent with John is complete as is. And while i know that there are things still unsaid and moments yet to experience, i don't feel the need to overlay reality with what could and will be.

I'm not saying that John is T.O.M. It's too early to say anything like that. I am saying that he inspires me, and that poems about and moments with him feel complete. And that's got to mean something.

Where the Heart Is

Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky. 

-- Rainer Maria Rilke

The air wraps around my skin in a heavy, smothering embrace. I feel myself dissolving into the atmosphere – the sluggish humidity absorbing my flesh effortlessly. I float free and slow through the streets of this little town, invisible.

All that tethers me to reality is you.

Even from a distance, you have a hold on me. A tiny beep from my phone, and all of my disparate parts are re-collected in you. Everything that i am is held within everything that you are – from your virtual words on my screen to the realness of you, many miles away.

If not for you, i would become lost in the world, swirling into an oblivion of color and sound, melting into nature. But you are my rock. However far my imagination may take me, you always call me home again.

They say that home is where the heart is. I find my home within every word you speak, every glance that comes my way, every touch. I am at home in the curve of your arm, in the curve of your mouth, in your curving laughter. I am at home in your thoughts, in your quirks, in the miles between us. I am at home in your heart.

You say that your heart is mine. This, then, is love: i have learned to be at home in you, and in so doing, i have found myself at home in me.

Crush

It's all so new, and i find myself blushing as i speak his name. Blushing, as if i'm back in eighth grade. That was surely the last time i blushed over a boy.

A part of me wants to tell no one, to cherish this very new (yet very old) sensation for as long as i can. It's mine, mine and his, and i want to savor it.

Another part of me wants to tell everyone, to have the awkward pleasure of blushing and laughing and being teased as i whisper the things he said about me, about my beauty and warmth, about how he blushes around me.

I feel all twirly inside.