Author: Mmere Dane

For Us Who Love Food

It’s no secret that I enjoy eating. Anyone who spends quality time with me will quickly find out that I like food. I enjoy learning about food – cuisines, techniques, symbolism, the science, everything! I can read a NYT article written by a food critic, watch Alton Brown discuss food science, meander through YouTube how-to and be captivated by an Instagram story presenting a 15s montage of creating a dish. I’m curious about food and I’m uneasy by the amorphous cloud of condescension that blankets the food world. I’m striking out in this post to ask myself why I feel bad and then tell myself to just enjoy food as I enjoy it.

I’m not the best cook, although I can make a good dish. I’m not a baker as it requires an attention to detail that I find suffocating. What I am is a food traveler who enjoys the atmosphere created by food, especially when it comes to learning how other ethnicities engage with food, however at times I feel as if I am off-kilter with the rest of the popularists in the food world. I don’t go in for delicacies that I find off-putting even though this country seems to think if you don’t eat those types of dishes, you’re intolerant. I won’t try everything. I cannot wax rapturous about tofu, but I can talk about how amazing fried pono is! I don’t have a personal garden on my balcony of fresh vegetables and fruit from which I procure ingredients for a hastily thrown together salad or sauce that transforms the eater’s taste buds, although I find it admirable if others do and understand the difference in taste that it makes.

There are many dishes and combinations that renown chefs enjoy, but that I don’t – a fact that has made me feel as if I’m not cut out for the food world (which in and of itself is an odd thought since we all eat and are technically part of the food world, just go with me on this). I can’t get down with Gyeranjjim and I believe that seasonings and spices don’t destroy the taste of food, but enhance. That should be okay. In fact, it should be more than okay, it should be perfectly fine, so why do I feel pressured because I like spicy foods rather than plain dishes? Somewhere, it’s been subtly accepted that food people need to be a certain way.

The wine I enjoy, Moscato, is looked down upon as not being “good enough”. I am a fan of plum and peach wines who have their origins in Asia (China, particularly), but I won’t take a glass of Chardonnay or Pinot Noir and I have yet to taste a champagne that I find palatable. I like what I like. What I don’t, I don’t. On my one and only trip to London to spend Thanksgiving with my brother and his family, he shared with me the goodness of this particular German wine. It was delicious, but it was the only one that wasn’t a Moscato that I have ever found pleasing. Oenophiles, and “foodphiles” alike, all have this tendency to tell everyone just how amazing x is without considering if the person wants to know, or cares to know. They forget that other people may not give one jot about tannins or in my case, orange juice – and it’s okay. I am not a fan of American chain restaurants and have made a face at one or two occasions when the suggestion of a group lunch or dinner at Applebee’s has been made. If I have offended anyone, please forgive me, I never meant to be overbearing.

So what was I doing then? I wanted others to try other things. Simple. I don’t mean bone marrow (although we used to eat that as children and it was mighty tasty, so I don’t know how it’s a fad now), but a dish that seems palatable but is not known by them. That’s all. Let’s push the door open just a bit so we can put our toe in, and if we find that we don’t like it, we can walk away. I’ve suggested and others haven’t wanted to even put a toe in. That too, is fine. I have eaten Ethiopian food at a funeral, at someone’s house and at restaurants and every single time, I have been sick. Even the smell of Ethiopian food makes me sick. I don’t know why. I wish I enjoyed it because there is so much of it in this region, but I can’t. I’ve given it multiple tries, only to find myself bent over with my face in the sink vomiting and curled over holding my abdomen from the cramping, so if someone doesn’t want or like a cuisine, I let them be. In the words of my friend, Bryan, “I get it”.

But I have my own food superpower. Even without eating at a certain establishment, I have been able to choose restaurants whose dishes were mighty tasty. How? It’s a gift, and like all gifts, it’s given to you as is. I can’t explain it, but I have an eye. It’s been evident during this pandemic as I Doordash friends and family from restaurants I’ve never been to, only to have them exclaim in their texts just how good the food was and how in the world did I find it? I shrug, smile and beam. It’s a gift, I say. A gift from God. When I feel as if I could never host a tv show because I’m not like the others, I remember that I have my own gifts and my own relationship with food.

So if you’re reading this, (thank you), and, let’s all enjoy what we enjoy. No more feeling pressured to like this or that, to eat this and not that, to feel bad if we wax poetic or not about an ingredient or a meal. I like my friend Nia’s grilled cheese sandwiches. My mommy, who has been gone nearly half my life, made an amazing okra stew with crab that will never be replicated. My husband makes the most mouth-watering soups and stews. My Mama J can pull together a meal of eggplant, spinach, peppers and kobe with boiled plantain that will have me skipping down the street. I will tear up some DiGiorno’s pizza that I have smothered in Rao’s pizza sauce and extra cheese. Every so often I’ll eat Korean noodles every day for a week accompanied by kimchi and dumplings. I put peanuts in my cereal and crush ginger snaps into my ice cream.

And I’m okay with it.

4th Grade Take-Aways

In the late fall of my fourth grade year, my parents decided to switch me from the elementary school that I was attending. This announcement was made matter of factly, without fanfare. I was informed that this was being done for my own good since my current elementary school wasn’t “as good”. I was to simply accept this decree without questions or comments. I nodded silently, containing my devastation and fear.

My previous elementary school, Cranbrook, only went up to 3rd grade and all my friends and I had been transferred to Weinland Park to finish our 4th and 5th grade years. I was happy. I had gone through my right of passage into this new school and all was well with the world but now? Now I was leaving the comfortable bosom of Weinland Park to attend an unknown school – and not even at the beginning of the school year but months into it!

All I could do was tell my friends who sadly accepted the news with that sense of childlike seriousness that breaks hearts. We knew that there was no way we would ever meet again. I had no idea what this new school would be like – would I fit in? Would I find friends? Would I be okay? What would happen to me? WOULD I BE OKAY? What was expected?

The day arrived. I adorned myself in my nicest dress and sat in my father’s car, heart pounding. My father said nothing to me the entire ride. He pulled up to the front of Oakland Park Traditional Elementary School with its imposing brick facade and informed me unceremoniously that I needed to get out of the car because dropping me off had made him late for work. With my heart thumping loudly in my ears, I dutifully opened the door and walked into this new school alone. My father took off like a flash, no wave, no goodbye, no blessing.

No one was holding my hand. No one was speaking soothingly to me. No one was explaining how things would work. No one was guiding me.

I was alone. I was afraid.

I stopped in the hallway and looked around. I don’t know how long I stood there, staring about me but it was a while before an adult noticed a small, brown girl standing there, forlorn and asked me who I was.

I learned an important lesson that day –

Not only was I not a priority in my father’s life, I was a liability.

The year moved along as it is wont to do. I was shy. During recess, I stood next to the teacher, talking to her, never playing with anyone. One time I mentioned the movie “Splash” to her and my parents were informed that I should not be allowed to watch such adult movies. I later received a verbal tongue-lashing from my parents about keeping my mouth shut. They just insulted me. I was stunned because it never dawned on me that talking about a movie was a bad thing. I shrank into myself.

No one asked me what happened. No one explained about movies. No one tried to understand.

I was silenced. I was invisible.

I learned an important lesson that night –

Not only was I insensible, I was bringing shame to the family.

Later on that year, I was infected my ringworm. Ringworm is a fairly common fungal infection that is found in schools and easily treated with anti-fungal cream. My teacher noticed it and I was sent home with a note that I could not return to school until I was treated. My mother yelled at me swearing up and down that I was a dirty child who couldn’t take care of herself. I had no idea what ringworm was or how I had caught it but it didn’t matter. I was guilty. My mother yelled at me and my father stayed silent – as he was wont to do.

A day later, I accompanied my mother on the bus to a doctor’s office to be seen. She berated me the whole way there and back, informing me that I had cost her a full day of work. I used the cream and was able to return back to school but my mother continued to lambast me as a dirty, useless child.

No one explained what ringworm was. No one soothed my fears about what it would do to me. No one comforted me that it would be okay.

I was shamed. I was isolated.

I learned an important lesson those 3 days –

Not only was I incompetent and tainted, I was a burden to my family.

I was alone. Isolated. Afraid. And that is how I have spent the majority of my psychological life. Alone. Isolated. Afraid. Convinced if I could only prove myself, somehow, someway, someone would come along and love me for me and only me. Someone wouldn’t expect me to know it all, see it all, plan it all, do it all. Someone who would comfort, encourage, respect, support and love me JUST BECAUSE of me.

These lessons formed the foundation of my childhood – a foundation that taught me that I am

valueless,

unlovable,

a burden,

unwanted and

not a priority but a liability.

A foundation that was cemented by many more similar incidents that I endured at their hands. A foundation that scarred my soul.

A foundation that I must now work tirelessly to destroy so that it doesn’t destroy me.

Thanks Mommy. Thanks Daddy.

the murdering murder hornets

UNDID ME! After months of pandemic pandemonium, strange meteorological phenomenon, food/supplies/deep freezer/paper clip shortages, untenable and unconscionable violent acts perpetrated by those sworn to protect and a million other things both big and small, the presence of FREAKING MURDER HORNETS just pushed me over the top.

I JUST COULD NOT! I COULD NOT NOT. I STILL CANNOT! WHO? WHAT? ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?

Was 2020 supposed to be a “Choose Your Own Adventure” Series? Or did an angel accidentally spill open a bowl (Rev 16)? Whose people needed to be let go so the plagues would quit? These questions and more were asked and remain unanswered.

All I know is when insects decide it’s okay to kill their cousins by ripping off their heads and feeding them to their own babies, IT’S A WRAP!!! We just need to quit. Whatever is going on, just stop. I can’t take it anymore.

past present

She cast her eyes on the painting hung on the wall beside the couch that she lounged in; but her mind did not see the pale pink sky or the ship headed out to the vast seas. Instead like most other days, she passed her present in the past. Hers was a life marked by emotional upheaval; one crisis after another with only a few minutes of breathing space within which held the intense sensations those crisis brought before she was plunged head-long into another.

The days were blending into one another now. Darkness flowing into that watery, nondescript light so beloved by Winter only to be replaced by more darkness. She was not one to despise the darkness. It came with a sharpness to the stars that scattered themselves across the velvety sky like so many diamonds. The air felt alive in its own stillness. The cold had a way of crystallizing each moment, turning them into singular memories etched over and over in her mind.

Her house was large, roomy and comfortable. Well-decorated with love, nothing fussy nor simply utilitarian. Rugs covered hardwood floors; paintings, sculptures, carvings adorned all the walls making the whole pleasing to the eye. All the rooms were warm. The kitchen too, was large, boasting a brick oven, large windows and a massive cinnamon cherry wood table. The library boasted it’s own floor, high ceilings, endless books, maple wood tables gleaming under the table lights. Armchairs paired with tall lamps scattered around it for the weary seeker to fall into. Bedrooms and baths welcomed any visitor with their complementary colors, large soft beds and divans. Other rooms were all suitably attired for their peculiar purposes

Summer’s century had passed, replaced by Winter. She often thought how lucky she was to have been born during Summer, spending her childhood, adolescence, young adulthood and much of her beginning adulthood in the Summer. It seemed fitting that in the second half of her life, Winter would fall. It struck her oddly that many would be born, live and die only in the Winter – never seeing any other season.

She had been married, once, but it had ended when he walked out on her one day informing her that he could no longer sustain marriage. He was meant to be alone, he said. He had apologized profusely, spoken mournfully and given her all of his income out of a deep guilt at having “taken up her time”. No one looking at her now, hair still black and vibrant, long loqs falling down her back would have known she was 127 years old. In fact, everyone assumed she was in her mid-40s. That was the power of genetics – of the Zyr. Her skin was still soft and full, taut, only laugh wrinkles crinkled at the corner of her eyes. She walked sprightly, no need for a cane. Only glasses, long worn since childhood graced her face.

She was a Zyrphat – one of a long line of Ancient Ones. She, like all her people, would live for at least two hundred and fifty years. She wondered if she would be one of the Zyrphat-knet, the few who lived to 350. Those who saw three seasons were the most Ancient of all. The Winter would be followed by Spring and then Fall. No one had ever lived through them all. She touched her face, when she reached 150, the age would settle. However she looked then would be how she would look for the next 100 years.

If she wasn’t careful, she would spend this century lost in the thoughts of many years. Wandering in the thoughts of lost love – of love that walked out on her, tearing apart everything she had so carefully worked to safeguard. She was tired, not in her bones but in her soul. Some people’s lives were short yet beautiful, others long and harsh. So far, hers had been the latter but…but…

Golden brown eyes colored dark until they were a bright gray. Anyone who knew the Zyrphat would have recognized that at once. She was no longer in the present. She had traveled through time and space to relive her past. But why? Why go back when so much pain clogged those days? She didn’t know. It was one of those strange days. It was as if her soul couldn’t bear to stare into the long seeming dark abyss of another 100 years of – what? How often had excitement become tainted by disappointment only to turn into sorrow? Would, could the ebbs and tides of life turn in her favor in this new century?

She blinked, tears suddenly on her cheeks. The eyes returned to their golden brown for a moment before flashing blue into purple. She was no longer in the present or the past. Now she was living through the natural world around her. Earth, air, trees, an eagle, rivers, clouds, rain falling 500 pons away – she sensed them all as if she were them and they were her. She allowed herself to soar into the galaxies where she always sensed she should be. There, in the birthing and dying of planets, comets speeding by, stars pulsating; came peace she had rarely found on this world.

She would stay there – in the vast expanse for many days; neither eating nor sleeping. The present held no promise for her – only what was out there; there where nothing was out of place, nothing stabbed and wounded; only life, pure life energy surging around her.

The Power of Human Engagement

Feeling off-kilter, I decided to go to the balcony and sweep the leaves off the artificial turf that covers the wood slats, clean up the plants and then spend some time praying. As I started sweeping, I heard intro-1568386995the familiar greeting of our next door neighbor. Preoccupied with my own feelings, I had not thought he would be there but there he was, hailing me from his large first floor backyard patio. We chatted about the unwanted hijinks of the people who camp on the other side of the street, turning it into a highway rest stop of sorts – doling out cards, arguments, hawked items and drugs and our efforts to inform the metropolitan police department about their dangerous presence. Throughout, I kept sweeping the dead leaves fallen from the force of the recent rains, pulled dying leaves off the citronella and cayenne plants and rearranged the plants. From this our conversation meandered through politics, the fires out west, #45’s stupidity, the world supply chain and the twilight zone of virtual reality that we find ourselves in. From time to time, the loud surging sounds of the onrushing metro or the noisy clanking rattle of semis hauling materials back and forth to the depot a little ways away from us interrupted the flow of conversation but for the most part, we talked constantly. Laughter punctuated the air as we traded realizations and shook our collective heads about the state of the world.

Our time ended because he had to go to the bathroom. After trading farewells, I turned to take the three steps back into the apartment feeling full and calm. Unlike the peculiar sensations that wrack me after a virtual interaction, I feel only a placid contentment. This – this is what I am missing. I was never tired nor disengaged. My mind didn’t wander. I felt a part of something – perhaps the greater intangible sense of human connectivity that cannot be defined without it become something less than what it is. wellbeing-01-1The powerfully healing connecting that positive human interaction – devoid of virtual constraints – brings to bear on the disconnected soul.  The way it gently pulls you away from the worrisome, self-contained, mundane thoughts that run through your mind to see outside of yourself, releasing you from the entanglements of judgment calls, pressures of personal goals and analytic machinations which define our worlds. I experienced non-familial, genuine human interaction unsullied by fears of contagion or unduly hurried by time restrictions, when I most needed it today.

Two neighbors with a long acquaintance, talking about life. Real people. Unplanned, unexpected interaction. Pleasant life-affirming conversations. Good energy. It indeed is not good for man to be alone.

Post-Zoom Call Blues

0848a1c9ba68f48cb88318d49a327ef8So help me understand this strangeness: at some point during any Zoom call, I suddenly become tired but when the call is over I feel oddly bereft. Whether or not I’m looking forward to the call is a non-factor in the sudden onset fatigue that hits me at some point during the call, followed by a disengaged mind. It takes me a few minutes to even realize that I’ve disconnected from the call, but once I do, I may or may not re-engage my mind at that moment. Nevertheless, when the call is over, I have this immediate sense of being deprived of something good. 

What at all, is this? Where does the fatigue come from and why is it so sudden? I can tell the exact moment when I am “over it” and whatever energy I have dissipates. Poof! Physically present but mentally checked out. The very act of sitting there, staring at a screen, knowing that people are there but not feeling their energy is bizarre. It’s fish bowl weird. You’re staring. They’re staring. You’re not experiencing their presence, their vibe – all the million and one feelings that you absorb from being around them. The warmth of their gaze, the passion in their voice, or the length of their arm reach. It feels strangely hollow. 

I’m wondering if it has anything to do with the general lack of mobility inherent in this pandemic. images (2)Somehow movement has a way of fueling itself. Newton’s first law states that “a body at rest will stay at rest until a net external force acts upon it and that a body in motion will remain in motion at a constant velocity until acted on by a net external force.” So is this it? Are we all experiencing a metaphysical manifestation of Newton’s law? Robby Huang from Adventure Archives talks about this during a hiking trip – how much energy it takes to do nothing; that doing nothing can be more draining than doing something. 

And of the peculiar feeling of having lost something after the Zoom call is ended, what do we say? Shall I hazard a guess that some interaction is better than none at all? Although the impersonal nature of virtual engagement leaves much to be desired, it is still engagement. While millions of people are on zoom calls ad nauseam, millions of others are not. A few zoom calls a week for work, a couple for family and friends but hours by ourselves. For those of us with spouses who are essential, our time with them takes up just a few hours a day (or worse, a week) with the rest of the time gaping before us. Zoom calls can become a very real source of human interaction. 

I have been on livestreams for groups that I follow, enjoying the conversations until the session ends, wondering if anyone else would love to continue chatting. I wonder if anybody else feels a happy attachment to those types of conversations? It’s communal interchange with no particular agenda – free-flowing conversations where anything can be said. It’s much closer to our pre-COVID19 meetings and meetups than the regimented flows on work Zoom calls. 

I should feel boosted and energized after these calls and for a little while I do but then I am hit with a keen sharpness – a distinct sense of being severed from a thing.  

images (3) Am I the only one? 

Productivity

Why is it that although I am on vacation this week AND today is Labor Day (an official holiday), I felt the need to be DUN DUN DUUUUN PRODUCTIVE? It wasn’t until after I decided to cook beef and shrimp jollof and download Norton Antivirus on my mac that I felt as if the day wasn’t wasted?

What would it be like to not feel uneasy on days when I am not scratching off a checklist of tasks? Watching a series of funny nerd videos doesn’t feel right unless it’s balanced with a chore? Is it because I’ve always used rest and relaxation as a reward for accomplishing tasks that were at best annoying and at worse onerous?

I don’t like this feeling of unease – as if I am hiding from my responsibilities. There are always chores. Laundry is forever. Sorting through clothing to donate items is always a ghost checklist item – haunting the edges of my mind. Vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, mopping the kitchen floor are repetitious tasks that must be done whether I do it once or five times. And how is it that the bathroom sink gets so dirty so fast? Is it the water that leaves the spots on the faucet? I mean daaaang! Come on mayne, I just wiped you two days ago!

opportunity-cost-definition-393313-FINAL-06131b369c8e4acdbc81d996f20cf4cbI don’t know how to break the hold that a certain type of being productive has on me. The only times that I can indulge in movies or funny sketches without some guilt is when I am utterly wiped. At any other time, I have this opportunity cost meter ticking and weighing my actions inside my head. Opportunity cost is the only definition from my undergraduate Microeconomics that I remember. The New Oxford American Dictionary defines it as “the loss of potential gain from other alternatives when one alternative is chosen.” It’s what I miss out on when I choose one particular action over the other, so in this case, by watching funny sketches by CalebCity, I lose out on spending time reading some psychiatric articles. On the other hand, I laugh more; which is a higher benefit to me because laughter is in such short supply these days. 

Additionally, this pandemic got us all off-kilter! Alex Baia’s article in the New York Time aptly and hilariously sums up much of our ennui, ambivalence and panic all at once! We’re all puttering around our homes attempting to live our best lives while unwittingly losing our sense of time, duty, purpose and responsibility. 

So here I am, feeling a bit better because I’ve pushed this idea out of my head but also wondering if I have done it justice. Either way, I’ve written SOMETHING reflective today AND there have been no gun shots fired on my street so, blessings right?

Happy Labor Day!

Kodawari

I feel as if I have so much to say but then when I sit to write it, nothing compelling comes to mind. Is it because it’s been swirling in my mind for so long that it doesn’t seem new – doesn’t seem fit to publish? Part of me thinks that I should be documenting the daily oddities and thoughts that flow in and out of my mind while the other part thinks I should just watch another YouTube documentary.

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In fact, yesterday, I watched “What’s the Cost of Being the Hardest Workers in the World? | Deciphering Japan”. They reviewed that uniquely Japanese concept of Kodawari – the relentless and uncompromising pursuit of perfection – that fascinates me. I don’t know of any other ethnic cultures for whom such a concept is a basic tenet of their cultural ethos, certainly not in America. On one hand, I can understand how that single-minded devotion to perfection could become unhealthy, exhausting and mentally stagnating in terms of broadening your thoughts but at the same time, could it be freeing? You choose one area to focus on – whether it be coding, cooking, comics or carpentry and you devote countless hours of thought, talk and tooling to it. And because you live in a country that understands and even honors that, you don’t feel weird for it. Either you meet other enthusiasts of your craft or those who are as grounded in kodawari as you so there’s no shame, no weirdness, no feeling out of place. You can fuss, focus and fuel yourself with the pursuit of perfection in that industry without fear of misunderstanding if you choose not to go out, not to engage with others, not to become beholden to the needs of others. After all, you’re seeking the best of the best so that others may know the love in you for that thing, service or person.

Lest you think I am myopic, I am fully aware that this concept, while Japanese in definition, is not shoyu-ramen-de-sardineexclusive to the Japanese. Kodawari is found around the world in millions of people, however, it is not as whole-scale beloved as it is in Japan. Nowhere else in the world is this concept embedded as deeply or revered as much as it is in Japan. Nowhere will you find it heralded as much as in Japan. Developing “a mind-set of determined and scrupulous attention to detail, motivated by a sincere passion and self-discipline; knowing that some of these efforts will go unrecognised“a is as Japanese as pacifism is Ghanaian and individualism is American.

I don’t have a trade or industry that I work tirelessly in unless you consider curiosity about how people’s culture impacts them and vice versa. I have interests that stem from my curiosity about people, their interactions and their effects on one another. This has led me to learn about people’s cultural heritages – exemplum primi the fact that I was watching this video in the first place – and how the guiding principles of those groups in turn creates tidal waves of power, influence and change. I don’t seek perfection in an industry either. I am shifting away from this concept of perfection because it has not served me well. I don’t know what perfection looks like for someone like me – a seeker. Perhaps that is the essence of what I do – that there is no perfection. There is only the seeking of more and more knowledge; the sniffing, pouncing and tracking of ideas as they present themselves before me.

a https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20190124-seven-words-that-can-help-us-to-be-a-little-calmer

Oily

After the Great Wasp Massacre, I oiled all the creaky hinges in the house. The bathroom maxresdefault (1)door now swings open noiselessly. It also keeps moving until the bottom hits one of the mats. In the past, I could rely on it not moving but now,  it will swing right back out – unless you pull or push the door shut. So the other day, I didn’t completely shut the door and it swung back into the bathroom, grazing my leg (our bathroom is classic DC small). For a brief moment I was annoyed.

It never used to do that.

The door never did that because it wasn’t oiled. The wood rubbed on the wood. It would creak. It would stick. Now? It’s been lubricated!

It struck me that this is exactly what happens when we grow in The Spirit – healing, being rejuvenated and restored – discovering who God meant for us to be. We discover that it becomes easier to be open, transparent and we move with a purpose, lightness, joy and sense of security that we never did. We are more God-conscious and less self-conscious. When confronted with pain, suffering, troubles and fears we don’t spend as long in depressed and suffocating spaces. We begin to find it easier to return to a place of greater equanimity and recall the positive truths that God has spoken into our lives and over us.

But just like how the door now annoyed me because it was swinging free, our growth and healing will invariably annoy someone in our lives who is used to us being wounded rather than whole. Unexpected opposition from loved ones may surprise, hurt and anger us. They can come to resent us for no longer fitting the templates they had for us or no longer being available for them in the unhealthy ways we were before. We are no longer useful to them in our new state and this may upset them greatly. They’ll scornfully inform us that we’re different, uppity, arrogant, selfish or even bemoan our seeming lack of response to their needs. They’ll stonewall us, ignore us, implore us and even talk about us behind our backs.

No matter!

As painful as this resistance to our healing may be at first, we cannot allow it to dampen the flow of the oil of The Holy Spirit to continue to reduce the friction between ourselves and God – to transmit God’s force and essence into and channel it through us. We must not allow the narrow-mindedness of others to prevent us from experiencing the vastness of God!

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A Little Bit About A Lot…of Baggage

It is an unfortunate reality that when we enter committed, long-term relationships such as marriage, we bring with us coping and defense mechanisms that we used in our previous couplings; insecurities, assumptions and fears. Add to this the stories we build in our minds with the bricks of what our spouses told us about their lives, childhoods, past relationships and expectations during our courtship and we have a volatile mix that can threaten to destroy and sometimes lead to the dissolution of the union.

Couple having argument on the couch at home in the living room

What’s sad is that we aren’t often aware of the mechanisms we bring into the relationship. Many of them grow out of painful situations we have endured. So we end up slightly suspicious, closed off, pulling away, grandstanding, manipulative, threatening, using silence and accusation or worse yet actively searching for signs of whatever caused the last relationship to fall apart as a way to protect ourselves from more hurt. Rather than go into the marriage with a clearness of mind, we come clouded with the failures and pains of the past.

27-114158-how_to_deal_with_feeling_insecure_in_your_relationshipDon’t forget that outside of romantic relationships, we have our own insecurities about our value, worth, mental and emotional health, financial skills, career choices and so many others. We struggle with believing that our spouses love us just for us, not for what they can “get” from us. We wonder if we have to act a certain way to be loved? Can we provide financially, emotionally, physically and sexually for our partners? How much of our true selves can we safely believe they can accept and love? Can we be “there” for them in ways that are healthy for both of us or do we have to be subsumed by the marriage or the other person? Are we GOOD ENOUGH?

Lastly, during the courtship or dating period, we share our personal histories with one another without realizing how that knowledge is being interpreted. We build these elaborate stories in our heads that then direct how we interact with that person. If our spouse was more sexually experienced than us, we may become self-conscious about our sexual prowess, causing us to be withdrawn or worried about whether or not s/he will go somewhere else instead of being open and free to enjoy each other. Or maybe you’re stressed out and struggling to figure out how to build the “best home” because he said that his mother was a perfect home-maker and career woman! work-family-juggle

What is so difficult is that it isn’t obvious to us that we are bringing or doing these things. Even when we’re arguing or fighting, we don’t recognize that we’re acting out of and based upon all of these factors!

As annoying or anxiety provoking as it may be, we have to first recognize that these things exist within us and are being acted out in us and in our reactions to our spouses. Then we have to be willing to not only talk – a million times – about the same things but more importantly sit with ourselves and ask ourselves the never-ending why.

Why am I upset because he said x or y? What does it mean to me when he says that? Does it remind me of something from my past? Am I reacting to what she did or to my interpretation of what she did? For example, if your wife consistently comes home from work and doesn’t seem very engaging, you may become unduly upset. What you don’t realize is that growing up, your mother used silence as a punishing tool in the family so unconsciously you have learned that silence is a sign of conflict. You as her husband, are now interpreting her behavior as a way of punishing you which makes you feel insecure, upset, frustrated, angry and resentful because you don’t think you’ve done anything wrong.

1wtDOrRjW6vWa_I4xRfdchgThis is a three-tiered layering. The first tier is the action – in this case, your wife comes home and is quiet. The second tier is your interpretation – that she is upset with you. The third tier is your emotional response – anger, bitterness, resentment. Because of your childhood, you’ve never seen silence as reflective of anything other than punishment; but what if you stopped to ask your wife? You may discover that the commute home is always tiring and she just needs about half an hour to sit, shower, rest so she can regain her energy – in short this is about her energy levels and has absolutely NOTHING to do with the story you’ve been telling yourself.

We also need to take time to ask our spouses about their reasoning for what they do and be open to following what s/he says to get at the deeper meaning. Sometimes, a spouse will make a remark about something you said at the beginning of the relationship or during courtship that you can then pull out and ask how s/he interpreted that statement and how it has affected her/his behavior or thoughts about you. This is not a one-time conversation. The conversations may need to be had multiple times and in many ways but if you’re both committed to honoring the other above yourself, you’ll find that the process will lead to a more open, caring, understanding, joyful and peaceful relationship.

What do YOU think?