Open Swim

I’m Diving in…

One of the Boys

Jun 16

Posted by Kristen in Choice, Gender Bending

Katy PerryI’m one of those psychoanalysis junkies who never really believed in penis envy—until now. In college, my feminism professors made gender politics seem so clear-cut, as if there existed a definable, external war and I merely needed to choose a side. And if I chose the right side—the side protecting women’s rights—I’d never have to choose again. I could have it all: a fast-track career, motherhood, myself. Really, there was no need for a penis, because the vagina was much more comprehensive. I was still a girl then—a million years away from becoming a mother—and the world seemed my (vaginal) oyster. Remember that song, “What It Feels Like for a Girl?” In it, Madonna never mentions what it’s like to be a woman.

A decade later, I’ve been knocked up, wrung through labor, and delivered into motherhood. I know what it feels like to become a human milk machine and a radio transmitter of baby cries. Gone are the gender-neutral schoolbooks and notepads, and here to stay (for a while, at least) are the mothering blogs and grocery lists. The capacity to give birth is extraordinarily empowering. It’s also equally disempowering. Unlike men, I can give birth. Unlike the gods, I can’t control most things about that birth or about the baby who is born.

Lately, consumed by this role of Mother, I find myself craving some of the things I see displayed on the other side of the fence. As evidenced by this blog, I’ve been gravitating toward male role models and masculine movies. For the first time in my life, I feel drugged by masculine energy. I’m as thrilled as my son to spot the latest digger truck, and I’d give anything to trade my apron for a suit, briefcase and cigar. My experience is especially polarized because my particular offspring happens to be a boy. Through my intense identification with him, I seem to be losing track of my internal girl. What do girls like? God, if I remember. The only world I see is the one of cars, trains, balls, and the occasional dinosaur.

It’s not exactly that I want a penis. And honestly, I think the cigar would get old after one puff. Really, I’m just a little tired of having a vagina. My womb—long tied up with the birth of Jack and now overcome by the birth of a new self—is a little worn-out. More than anything, I’m desperate for a little balance. Even the male role models I’ve recently lionized—Adam Lambert and Roger Federer—are androgynous figures more similar to Madonna than they are to Rambo. Adam Lambert, from his sexuality to his style of dress, celebrates all things ambiguous, and Roger Federer swiftly puddles into a flood of tears—joyful or anguished—every time he steps on the court. Secretly, I wish to be like these feminine men: powerful and potent masculine forces who embrace every ounce of their feminine selves. Honestly, I’d even ditch the masculine dynamics if I could just get the feminine ones straight; although I’m the one with the vagina, Adam Lambert more proficiently applies make-up, and Roger Federer more comfortably transmits his deepest emotions.

After all of these years, I’m still looking for tidy answers to complex problems. The world I’ve graduated into isn’t nearly as simple as the one I read about in college. The truth—terrible and painful and sometimes downright intolerable—is that I can’t have it all. I have to choose. If I have another child, I will have to castrate (at least temporarily) the potency of my writing. If, on the other hand, I pursue my writing to the exclusion of another child, I will lose the opportunity to enjoy the full power of that beautiful womb a second time. Even if I find a way to balance both roles, each will be a compromised version of a more complete experience. All just isn’t a choice. I cannot be a woman and a man, a mother and a father, a full-time writer and a full-time mom.

I’m not sure what kind of woman and mother (and man) I will eventually evolve into. I’m not sure what choices I will make. In the mean time, I think I will try to find some female mentors—androgynous gals who sometimes feel like one of the boys. Katy Perry is a good start. Of course, she’s not a mother. I guess I’ll just have to forgive her for that. It’s so hard to find everything in one person, in one body, in one lifetime.

One of the Boys

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Eye on the Ball

Jun 10

Posted by Kristen in Roger Federer

federer-wins-frenchMy husband said it would never happen. Last year, I began to worry he was right. And then the unthinkable became thinkable. On Sunday, closeted optimists around the world (or at least the ones in my house) won an enormous victory: Roger Federer clinched the French Open title. With that title—so elusive to him these last five years—he becomes the only man to achieve the combination of two herculean feats: 14 Grand Slam titles and a Career Grand Slam. By most accounts, this accomplishment solidifies Roger Federer’s designation as the greatest tennis player of all time.

I’ve been a longtime Federer disciple—so much so, Jon and I even entertained burdening our son as his namesake for one delirious Wimbledon Sunday during Jack’s gestation. It’s not that we hoped Jack would one day follow Federer into the Tennis Hall of Fame (my sister-in-law briefly competed on the Women’s Pro Tour, so we know the tariff exacted by that beast), but many of the qualities that so enamor us to Federer are the exact gifts we’d wish to impart to Jack: exuberance, grace, confidence, heart. In fact, most of the values I’d most want to teach Jack have come to me while watching Roger Federer smack a yellow ball over a net.

In the beginning, I most envied Federer’s poise. On or off the court, he embraced the entirety of his self (genius, drive, heart) with a kind of equanimity I’ve known in only the briefest flashes. And of course there was the expansivity of all that talent. He’s transformed the sport of tennis into a graceful dance that makes human flight seem possible. Later, I came to value his ability to evolve. Indeed, his ability to surpass the heights of his own greatness makes him often seem like the forebearer of some distant era in human evolution. Always, he seems one step ahead, confident that he will unlock the next wave of immortality even as his critics post his obituary.

With this latest victory, I now recognize a skill that surpasses the others: Roger Federer, as high as he soars in the realm of superheroes, knows his own human limits. Considering Federer’s enormous potential, he could certainly rack up even more titles if he played harder in more events. Instead, Federer consistently evaluates his current physical and emotional state in the context of his most prized goals. Every year, he narrows his sights on the four big tournaments—an exercise in self-discipline that has earned him a spot in an extraordinary 20 consecutive Grand Slam semi-finals—and whenever he senses a need for rest, he confidently and politely withdraws from minor tournaments. Even within the big tournaments, he knows when to peak. I routinely bite my nails during the second set of early matches, because I know Federer’s greatness is about to dip. And yet, where I see fragility, Federer senses respite. He takes a breather and then surges forward, reaching yet another height only he envisions.

Sadly, my game doesn’t resemble Federer’s in either fluency or self-discipline. Instead, I share greater kinship with his fiercest rival, Rafa Nadal. I’m gutsy, scrappy and overly ambitious. I work even when I’m not working. Like Nadal, I enter too many tournaments, because—well hell, why not? Why sprint one mile when you can sprint twenty-six? And like Nadal, whose five-year French Open winning streak ended with a crushing loss in the fourth round, I’m prone to burnout. In Federer and Nadal’s world, this is an example of being over-tennised. For me, it means that I often feel over-mothered, over-wifed, over-me. I just can’t seem to help myself. I run when there’s no race and jump when there’s no hurdle.

For a long time, I’ve felt frustrated by my inability to change my game. I try to soften like Federer, but every time I step on this court that is life, I’m back to grunting and gritting. Lately, as I come to terms with the limits of my game, I’m trying to face the question of pacing. If I can’t play softer, maybe I need to play fewer matches. Concretely, this means facing down very painful choice points. Which matches do I play and which do I give up? I love my role as mother. I also love my role as writer. To feel fulfilled, I need my time on both courts. What if playing both games means spending less time on each court? Specifically, it could mean giving up that vision of child number two—a vision I’m honestly not ready to give up yet.

The people who know and love me best commonly tell me I need to mother more like Federer plays tennis. But can I do it? Is it in my constitution to play a different way? What if it’s Federer’s pacing I need to emulate and not his style of play? One thing is certain, if I want to set my own records—if I want any meaningful longevity—I must discover my pace and stick to it. That means, first and foremost, that I must figure out who I am. On the court, Roger Federer makes it look so easy. Off the court—for me, anyway—the challenge never feels quite so transcendent.

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Pregnant Pause

Jun 4

Posted by Kristen in Pregnancy

690785270_e72ff52e23I’m pregnant—oh, but not with a second child, as so many of my friends currently are or intend to be. Growing in that space Jack once inhabited (and which I always imagined would soon be home to his sibling) is some altogether different being. Like Jack in those very early weeks, this life form is still undifferentiated, loved and yet not always wanted. At my most optimistic, I think this new being might actually be a more passionate and alive version of myself.

As a writer, I’m used to these symbolic pregnancies; every major writing project is a magical and excruciating labor and delivery. Psychoanalysis is a similar journey, and considering the deep imprint I’ve made on my analyst’s couch, I’m used to birthing new versions of the old. And yet, as familiar as I am with the art of conceiving and delivering, I’m equally prone to miscarrying. Over the years, I’ve spent just as much time shrinking as I have growing.

With this particular pregnancy, I’m at an important crossroads. In my evolution as both a woman and a writer, I can feel the accumulation of energy—a certain escape velocity—necessary for flight. Typically, this energy builds, reaches a peak, and then somewhere around the third tri, I panic and abort the whole process. This time, though, I’m deep in the final weeks and feel the potency of a life ready to be born. This time, I think I might actually give birth.

But what is it that I’m birthing? I’ve come to realize lately that my newfound humility—the acceptance, finally, that nature can and will kick my ass—is what allows this most recent pregnancy to thrive. I’ve quit trying to shape or manage evolution; finally, I’m not strangling the life out of every opportunity for genuine change. Still, surrender is threatening. What if I can’t stand the very thing I bear? What if this new life destroys the old life I already love?

At the top of my list of fears is the worry that my womb will remain permanently occupied with emotional strivings. All of that maternal hunger that went into imagining Jack is now channeled into giving birth to something that can’t be spotted on an ultrasound screen or nursed to sleep in my arms. What if that baby fever I felt so acutely with Jack (and which I still feel toward all things toddler) never returns? What if the womb that biology intended for human procreation always remains filled up with other endeavors? Can I call myself truly maternal if I choose to mother only one child?

In place of the fever, I feel loss. Upstairs in our attic, Jack’s old toys and clothes wait for another little boy or girl whose name I’ve already imagined. I’ve envisioned the necessary renovations to our home and what a new nursery might look like. I’ve rehearsed the talk I’d have with Jack to prepare him, ready him, for this new adventure we’d be taking on as a family. Twenty years—more—roll forward like footage already taped. Is it murder if that child, already so close to life, is never conceived?

In the midst of so much living, I feel like I’m also at a point of death: a pregnant pause, as some have termed abortion. I can’t know what the future will bring, or what it won’t. I do know that I’m at this crossroads, though: pregnant and waiting. Waiting for what? To know the reason for choices I’ve already made, I suppose. Or not. First comes this birth. And then…?

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The Big Moon

May 28

Posted by Kristen in Moon

blue_moonWe recently took Jack to the new space show, Cosmic Collisions, at the planetarium at the American Museum of Natural History. I’ve always been a huge astronomy geek, and considering Jack’s latest infatuation with all things big and loud (rock music, race cars and airplanes) I thought he might get a kick out of watching large celestial bodies collide. His affection lasted exactly five minutes. As soon as the ceiling-sized moon threatened to descend on the audience, Jack began to scream. For the rest of the day, nothing could compete with that moon; towering dinosaurs and razor-toothed fish couldn’t elicit even a squeak from Jack. Enemy number one was that “Big Moon” and the only day’s hero was the man who opened the planetarium doors and let Jack escape.

For me, those planetarium doors represent the hardest sacrifice I’ve had to make in becoming a mother. I am someone who thrives on big moons and deep oceans. As a writer, most of these depths and heights are internal ones, which I descend or climb at the whim of the creative process. That creative process is like a drug; it thrills, hooks, and transforms me. But drugs and the role of mother don’t often combine well. If I take off to explore the ocean’s depths or let myself enjoy the rush of cosmic collisions, Jack will likely drown in water too deep or lose himself in a space that’s too big. He needs me to be his container, his guide, his protector of all things small. He needs me to save him from big moons and rough surf. Sometimes, he needs me to save him from the very nourishment I crave.

Mothering any young child requires swimming in the shallow end of most pools, and Jack in particular needs a small, contained harbor in which to roam and a reliable lifeguard at the ready in case he loses his feet. This is not to say that Jack is especially small. In fact, considering his size and limited time on earth, Jack is a remarkably big personality. Like me, he seems to prefer to swim in the deepest pools he can handle. He’s independent, passionate, and always opinionated. I have no doubt that as he grows into his own sense of bigness, he will scale heights much greater than I can even imagine. But he’s still two years old. He’s a toddler, a munchkin—a relative shrimp in a world of sharks. And whether it’s the Aquarius in him or a heavy genetic load from his writer mom and shrink dad, Jack senses emotional currents with as much acuity as dolphins sense oceanic shifts. He can tell whether or not a song is going to be sad by its first introductory notes, and he can read the subtlest emotional nuances in the face of a stranger across a room. With this kind of sensitivity comes great potential and also great need. Jack requires extra protecting, often when he doesn’t even realize he’s in trouble of drowning. The bigger Jack gets, the more he needs me to keep life small.

Ever since Jack wandered into contact with that Big Moon at the planetarium, he’s been looking for the more familiar and less daunting Little Moon. I know that moon well. It sits up high in the evening sky, small and round like a distant coin. For now, that version of the moon is his best friend, and because it’s his friend, it needs to be mine. One day, he might prefer the bigger one, and when that time comes, we’ll have a lot to talk about. He is, after all, the reason I crave big moons and rough surf. He inspires me to dream big, live big, and love big. And if I’m being really honest, I have to admit that just as I serve as a container for him, Jack serves as a container for me. I know that as his mother I can only stray so far; always, the cord reigns me in. Always, that moon—big or small—pulls me back. Perhaps this gravitational force—and the safety it provides—is what allows me to crave the very biggest regions life has to offer. The craving is hard, though. Sometimes, I just want the Big Moon.

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Sirens

May 20

Posted by Kristen in Choice, Skinny Dipping

SirensWhen Jack was four months old, I developed a very intense and frightening fantasy. I imagined myself in the middle of the ocean, swallowed by endless fathoms of water. My feet firmly rooted on land, I longed to drown.

At the time, I assumed I was suicidal. After all, I was sleep deprived, overwhelmed, and sucked dry; if I was so desperate to drown, it could only mean that I was already drowning. The idea that I might want to die—especially now that I was a mother to an infant whose entire life would be shaped by my desires for life or for death—panicked me to the bone. I felt like Odysseus lured by the mellifluous Sirens; I needed to be tied up for my own good. Eagerly, I accepted the diagnosis of postpartum depression, plunged even deeper into my therapy, and began to climb out of all that water with my writing.

Two years later, rested and reasonably sane, I find myself drawn once again to water. The fantasy is more detailed this time and in these details, more compelling. I am on the beach, at the very edge of land and water. I stand with my arms outstretched so that I form a cross. I know I will dive in, and when I do, the currents will overtake me. I will be sucked under and tossed around like an ordinary shell. It will hurt—maybe maddeningly so—and I won’t know if I’ll ever come up for air. I will be alone, I will be helpless, and I will be blind. It will be exactly like being born.

If I’m able to surrender to this fantasy, it will be the first time I’ve ever experienced birth. I’ve raged against life since the womb, when I obstinately refused to enter the birth canal and had to be surgically removed through my mother’s belly. A part of me has always remained behind, waiting for the game to be over. And then Jack came along and urgently dove into life so hard and fast I thought I was going to die. Now, I’m standing at the most important crossroads of my life. I can choose birth or one of several forms of death. My parents chose death. Their parents chose death. Jack, so far, seems to be choosing life. What will I choose?

I think I already know. After all, there is all that water and it’s very close now. But diving in means leaving the beach and there are certain things I’m not yet ready to give up. There are my parents who will never know the feel of water on their skin even when they’re right up next to it. There is the rage of all that is not just and right. There is the guilt of surviving the unsurvivable. Eventually, I’ll have to let all of these things drift away, because that water keeps coming back, even when I will it away. Eventually, I’ll have to untie the ropes and surrender to all those screaming Sirens.

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Out

May 13

Posted by Kristen in Adam Lambert, Choice

adam-lambert21My recent fascination with Adam Lambert has made me think a lot about what it means to come out. While there remains a lot of debate about his sexual orientation, I’m not sure there’s much ambiguity. Adam has stated publicly that kissing girls is not his thing, has referred to past relationships with boyfriends, and when asked about photographs that show him making out with men said that he’s “an honest guy” and “has nothing to hide.” While he certainly hasn’t held a press conference declaring his sexual orientation (and to my understanding, none of the other contestants have either), he declares Harvey Milk—a huge proponent of the power of coming out—as his personal idol, and when a TMZ reporter recently made a most humiliating attempt to stammer through the topic of Adam’s sexual orientation, Adam practically dared him to ask the question. If Adam is at all reluctant to discuss the subject, I am confident that it is not out of insecurity or shame—quite the opposite. I think he is so confident in his identity that he doesn’t feel the urgency to indulge a question that shouldn’t have been asked in the first place.

While I don’t think that it is appropriate to ask a singing contestant about his or her sexual preferences when the same question (or related ones) aren’t asked of every other contestant, I do have to admit that I find a lot of inspiration in the fact that I do believe Adam to be gay and—more to the point—proud of it. I would even go so far as to argue that a large degree of the intrigue about his identity is born less from bigotry and more from envy. Adam exudes more unconditional love toward himself than most of us can muster toward another person, let alone ourselves—this, all while being a self-proclaimed misfit. Considering his role as oddball nonconformist, shouldn’t he be topping off a song like Mad World with a swan dive off a tall bridge? Instead, he stands firm in weathered cowboy boots, looks Simon in the eye without blinking, and humbly laughs off the suggestion that his non-country take on Ring of Fire is “pure rubbish.” That kind of self-love is a gift of indescribable proportions, and I envy it.

Adam inspires me not because he is openly gay, but because he is open. The immensity of his self-love comes from owning every aspect of his identity—nuances that extend far beyond whether he’s turned on by girls or guys, blondes or brunettes. Typically, coming out refers exclusively to the issue of sexual orientation, and yet sexuality is obviously just one component of anyone’s total self. Yes, Adam is out as a gay man, but he’s also out as a person confidently embracing every aspect of his mainstream and non-mainstream identity. Perhaps this is why there remains so much buzz about whether or not the guy is officially out. Whenever we hear that someone is coming out, we prepare the microphone. We expect a statement, a stand—maybe even an apology. With Adam, all of this hoopla seems sort of unnecessary. After all, he spends every moment in front of the microphone; his life is the statement.

Whether it’s from Adam’s example or just the arrival of the next big wave, I’ve been feeling an urgency to come out, too. Certainly, what I have to proclaim isn’t nearly as news-worthy as Adam’s ascent into the epicenter of pop culture, or nearly as defined as an issue of sexual orientation. But like Adam, I’m trying to get a hold on what it means to be me in this world I inhabit. As always, it comes down to issues of choice—not the kind that we check off on paper ballots, but the kind that emerge from such great depths they sometimes don’t feel like they’re up to us to make. They’re the choices we do not select so much as own. They’re the choices that at once change everything and—if we’re honest with ourselves—remain as irrefutable as destiny. Who am I and what do I prefer? Can I accept these choices? Can I accept and love myself?

Mad World

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Red Pill

May 8

Posted by Kristen in Choice, The Matrix

poi_circlesI’m a huge fan of The Matrix, especially when it comes to its take on choice. Early in the movie, Morpheus presents Neo with an irreversible decision: take the red pill and learn the truth about the Matrix, or take the blue pill and remain blissfully ignorant. For Neo, who has been searching for the truth about the Matrix his whole life, it’s an easy decision, and he makes it quickly—perhaps a little too quickly. Morpheus warns him, “Remember, all I’m offering is the truth. Nothing more.” As soon as Neo chooses the red pill, his body begins a dangerous and painful transition out of the Matrix. The world he knows dissolves, and an entirely new (and bleak) one emerges.

Like Neo, I’m often very quick to choose the red pill. I’m curious by nature and just a little too quick to assume that the truth will set me free. As a result, I’ve spent a lot of years on my analyst’s couch wondering, as Cypher does in The Matrix, “Why, oh why didn’t I take the blue pill?” The more depths I plumb, the more I realize that like Morpheus my analyst is presenting a door, and it is my choice to walk through it or not. He offers me the truth, nothing more. He cannot say what the truth will look like, or how I will receive it, or how it will change my life. He can’t even promise that in knowing it I will be better off.

The better I understand myself—the more truths I uncover—the more I come to experience even the most complicated choices as already cast. In The Matrix Reloaded, the Oracle tells Neo, “You didn’t come here to make the choice. You’ve already made it. You’re here to try to understand why you made it.” According to this frame, destiny is the sum of choices we make based on the essence of who we are. Because we each embody some fixed fundamental nature, the choices that emerge from it are also fixed. They cannot change (even if we want them to) because that would mean going against the very fiber of who we are.

For me, taking the red pill has meant facing the truth that I cannot change my essential nature. I cannot make choices that defy it, even if those choices threaten the very safety of the matrix I’ve created around myself. Some of these choices terrify me. Who will I be? What will I want? Will I tell the truth?

I’ve spent most of my life trying to hide what I know. Repression worked reasonably well for me when I was a lonely kid navigating a parentless world, but now that I’m an adult with a kid of my own, it’s wearing a little thin. The truth always comes out. And anyway, there’s that Oracle whispering in my ear. You’ve already made the choice, she says. Deal with it.

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Skinny Dipping

May 5

Posted by Kristen in Adam Lambert, Skinny Dipping

adamlambertI love REM’s Night Swimming, but I’ve never ever bared all. It’s not that I’m morally opposed to getting naked, or so vain that I need to hide behind my clothes. No, it’s not the exposure that scares me onto the sidelines. Passion is the problem. What if I like the experience a little too much?

Passion might seem like an odd obstacle. Who doesn’t want to feel excited, titillated, over the moon thrilled? But feeling passion also means feeling alive, and alive can be torturous sometimes. It’s like natural childbirth: amazing and beautiful and really freakin’ hard.

Recently, I was stunned silly by passion. I was watching American Idol—which I only ever watch casually—and I stumbled across the most magnetizing persona I’ve ever encountered. I say persona, because what I find most tantalizing about this guy is his ability to constantly and seamlessly reinvent himself. He is such a chameleon, I never feel like I can pin down his essence, and yet I am equally confident that he knows exactly who he is. It is this uncanny ability to at once stay true to himself and yet always elude his audience that has my system running on overload. The feelings he inspires in me are unsettling and sometimes downright unmanageable. Often, I can’t even name them. All I know for sure is that whenever Adam Lambert is on stage, I feel like he’s sending me a very personal message: take off your clothes and dive in.

What would I be diving into? The ocean Adam offers is breathtakingly expansive and terrifyingly deep. Everything about him, from his three-octave range to his exuberant lifestyle to his fearless risk-taking, is over the top. When asked about his experiences living in the Idol mansion, he was the only contestant to not complain about its massive scale. Whereas others would retreat to the safe confines of a closet, he takes on spaces so big, so vacant, the world seems almost too small to contain him. He is, undoubtedly, the spokesman for limitless potential.

What catapults this potential into the immortal realm, however, is Adam’s seemingly endless bravery. While most of us squander what little power we embody, Adam embraces every ounce of his vitality with the same unadulterated delight with which you can imagine him eating his favorite flavor of ice cream. The boy just does not flinch. Because he doesn’t flinch, he never seems to stand still, even when facing down a behemoth like American Idol; always, he moves forward, riding each new wave so fearlessly you have to wonder if he’s leaving the thought of drowning to the rest of us poor mortals.

My friend, Rebecca, says that the hardest part of writing a blog is walking a really fine line between honesty and self-indulgence. I’ve never been good with walking any line, and I’m especially bad at falling off. Adam Lambert doesn’t seem to worry about lines. If he did, he would have had no choice but to sing Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire straight up and dry. On stage and off, he seems to embrace life with a kind of fearless authenticity he makes seem as effortless as those notes he scales. I want to discover that authenticity in myself. I want to live without regrets.  But that means tripping over a whole bunch of lines. That means maybe even indulging in the self.

My guess about Adam is that he exudes so much power so fearlessly because he lets himself evolve. Key to evolving is the capacity to make choices. Adam’s fellow contestants have taken to calling him the Lamborghini, because he’s known for making song choices swiftly, and once he makes a choice, he races forward and never looks back. This isn’t to say that he doesn’t learn from his mistakes. Clearly, he understands the consequences of each decision. But while learning, he never laments. And in making these choices, he encourages his audience to take similar risks. Every time Adam refuses to play it safe, or fit in with the crowd, he reminds us that we have choices, too. And every time we come along for the ride—every time we show our faith in his risks—we declare ourselves decided. We choose. We evolve.

Will I ever be worthy of the words commonly used to describe Adam: fluid, brave, authentic? In my endeavor to evolve, Adam inspires me. He also unsettles me. I can only hope that the passion I feel waiting for every week’s performance is a sign of change.

This is a start. I’m taking off my clothes. One toe is in.

Ring of Fire

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