Something like a star

Tomorrow, voters in California will determine whether traditional marriage will be written into the state constitution. Having heard and read much debate on the issue – both reasoned and heated – I find myself tiring of the arguments and feel drawn to the words of poets.

First, a portion of Robert Frost's Choose Something Like a Star.

And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

And a few lines of Shakespeare's Sonnet 116

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Marriage, to me, is this kind of star – lifting our vision, helping us navigate stormy waters. Marriage serves a purpose that has been the same for ages, and will continue for ages to come: to bring children into the world and raise them in a family with a mother and a father each fulfilling their unique roles as equal partners. There is no suitable substitute.

The things that supposedly weaken marriage – divorce, infidelity, pre-marital intimacy, same-sex unions – do not weaken marriage itself, they only make the power of marriage unavailable to those who wander down these side roads.

I have no doubt that the real power of marriage will always be there for those who can find it. My concern is not that the star will somehow fall from the heavens, but that the clouds created by these diversions will obscure the true power of marriage for us and for our children.

I choose something like a star.

What's in a name?

Last names fascinate me. They have history and heritage bound up in them. Every time I run across one whose origin is unclear to me, I'm compelled to ask where it's from.

It's tragic, in a way, that we can only accommodate one family line in our last names, or at most two. I lived for a time in Puerto Rico, where it is common practice for children to carry the last names of both parents. When I received my Puerto Rican driver's license, I was surprised to see four names on it: Erik Richard Jacobsen Pendleton. It was nice to be reminded that I am equal parts of my father and mother.

Of course, it goes well beyond that. You could call me Erik Richard Jacobsen Jensen Marshall Kirk Pendleton Rhead Allred Parkinson, but then you would know that my Scandinavian façade is hiding a whole lot of English blood. And the fate of Eddie K. Brown, that my father used to sing to me, suggests that a long name can be a perilous thing.

So we're stuck with choosing.

It doesn't work for everyone, but I like the approach of some friends of mine. They combined his name (Greenwood) and hers (Fields) and coined a new name: Greenfield. Something fitting about becoming one in that way - the necessary giving and receiving of marriage reflected in the family name.

Whatever our names tell us, it's good to be reminded that a marriage brings together family trees that extend back for ages. And that we must make of those combined heritages something of our own.

When I first wrote this poem (2001), I don't believe I was thinking of these as family trees that we were planting. But I guess they were. The seed of a later poem was planted here as well.

I planted my tree next to yours,
On a calm, bright bank, where life's river roars,

To share the selfsame soil and sun,
The first to shade the other one –

And when the blazing sun reversed,
The other one to shade the first.

With deeper roots and broader reach,
Together they grew – protected each.

Seasons passed and seedlings came
To share their ground and sun the same.

Beneath the watch of the older two,
These eager young ones quickly grew

And added strength to the cheerful stand
Of trees with the river close at hand.

How blessed are we that our trees found
A place to share a piece of ground?

Our sacred grove will flourish there
On the river bank in the sun and air.

You planted your tree next to mine,
And now they intertwine.

Heart Healthy

My wife just finished reading "In Defense of Food" by Michael Pollan. I haven't read the book, but I like the straightforward approach hinted at by the cover: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants."

On a brief visit to Idaho this past summer (to celebrate the aforementioned 50th anniversary), we picked some of our own food to eat from a garden at the ranch where we stayed: green beans, snap peas, zucchini, pattypan squash, raspberries, carrots, lettuce. We also trekked to a patch of wild huckleberries and found enough to make a scrumptious huckleberry and peach cobbler.

There's nothing quite like eating fresh food that you picked and prepared yourself. It tastes great and feels right. It's almost enough to make a locavore out of me.

All that got me thinking about a short poem I gave to my Valentine last year.

I don't mind
the occasional bowl
of oatmeal,
or regular servings
of whole grain
goodness,

but it's my recommended
daily allowance
of you
that keeps
my heart
beating.

It's true – she does my heart good.

Commitment

Early on in their marriage, my sister-in-law asked her husband "Why do you love me?" After a thoughtful pause, he replied "Because I'm committed to you."

I think she felt some initial disappointment at his answer. Maybe she was looking for some compliment like "You're beautiful" or "You're the smartest woman I know" or "You're so good to me".

She soon realized the depth of his answer. It meant that his love did not depend on how she looked, or what she knew, or even how she behaved. His love for her was rooted in commitment. He loved her for her and forever.

He still does.

I'm not sure it matters so much which comes first - love or commitment - but at some point you need both. There are plenty of examples of arranged marriages where the initial commitment blossomed into love. And plenty of counter examples where feelings of love never quite matured into commitment.

Even contemplating the decision to be married to one person forever can be terrifying. I know it felt too big for me to comprehend when it was my turn to make the decision. I took the leap because I knew she was good for me and because I felt peaceful and right about it. But did I know what I was getting into? Not really.

I think part of what makes the leap of faith into marriage so unnerving comes from the feeling that love may be something we can't control. What if we fall out of love? Will our love be strong enough to endure hard times?

I draw comfort from the understanding that commitment, which I can control, is at least as powerful a force in my marriage as love is.

I have found that both love and commitment have grown deeper along the way.

50 years of growing together

Poetry appears to be forming an integral part of my postings here. That wasn't my original intent, but it seems to fit somehow. I don't promise a poem every time, but for now, here's one more.

My wife's parents marked their 50th anniversary yesterday. Quite a milestone. We celebrated a few days earlier by gathering the clan for a few days of fun, relaxation and togetherness in a beautiful setting. The children and grandchildren (and spouses) contributed to a memory book that we presented to the happy couple. Here's what I wrote for the book:

They were once two trees,
I’m quite certain.

I have seen the pictures:
Two strong saplings planted side by side
With only a hand’s breadth of daylight between them.

Any arborist worth his shovel would say
They were too close for both to thrive —
Roots competing for the same nutrients,
Leaves reaching for the same patch of sunlit sky.

I cannot tell what yielding their unity required,
What individual desires were left behind
To bring them to this state
Where trunks and barks have joined.

A young mother, children in tow,
Follows my gaze to the magnificent, sheltering crown.
No words escape her lips — just a low, contented hum.

They stop in its shade for lunch,
Unaware of the half century of stretching and striving
That has shaped their refuge,
Of the storms that have weathered and strengthened this tree.

Only that there is peace and comfort here.

Every marriage brings together two unique individuals. Even for people with much in common, there are differences to negotiate. This presents a great challenge, and a great opportunity.

One evening this past week we did some Myers-Briggs personality testing with my wife's extended family. It was interesting to see that many of the spouse pairings were quite opposite in type (I'm an INFP - my wife is an ESTJ or ESFJ, too close to call). I guess opposites do attract. I am struck by the power of a partnership that can blend differences and make them strengths.

It seems that this kind of strength from difference requires a high degree of commitment and a great deal of work and flexibility along the way. It's not easy, but so worth it. That was clear to me this week as I observed the benefit of 50 years of such a union, evidenced by children and grandchildren of character and strength gathered for a wonderful celebration.

There is peace and comfort there.

She killed my muse

I used to write a lot. I kept a journal, nearly daily, from the time I was in 6th grade all the way through college. I have close to 15 volumes of pen scratches from that period of my life. I found a great outlet in music - writing compositions for a variety of instruments, singing, improvising on the piano.

Then I met Julia.

We've been married now for more years than those youthful journals cover, but I have only three or four journals from my life with her. I haven't composed music in many years.

I do still write the occasional poem, like this one, written three years into our marriage:

She killed my muse -
Just lit the fuse and blew it asunder,
Yanked the plug,
Pulled out the rug from under me.

She stole my quiet -
Caused a riot in my tranquil soul,
Disturbed my peace,
Made me cease my solitude.

She trespassed my heart -
Pried it apart and climbed inside,
Invaded my space,
Left me no place to hide me.

The emptiness that I once filled with words and music is now filled by my wife. I don't know how to describe it, other than to say that love came unexpectedly and completely.

I haven't spent much time mourning the muse.

Opening up your heart

After graduating from college, I spent the summer in Aspen, Colorado. It's no secret that Aspen is a beautiful place. Some of my favorite time was spent down at the river, climbing on rocks and logs, watching the water, thinking.

While in college, I had made a semi-conscious decision not to pursue any serious relationships. With that behind me, it felt like it was time to shift gears and open myself to something. I had been a solitary person for so long that it wasn't an easy transition.

There was a James Taylor song that spoke to me then - I still like it. It sparked a question in my mind, and surfaced some feelings. Here's what I wrote at the time:

"The secret of life
is enjoying the passage of time"
With that I do fine.

It's the next part:
"The secret of love
is in opening up your heart."

But where do I start?

Start by sharing:
Caring enough to express a feeling,
Revealing, perhaps, a weakness.
Exploring, perhaps, a fault.

Allowing another the chance
To help me, to serve me,
Observe me as I am.
Not as I think I am
Or should be.

Could be that in opening my heart
I open a chasm
Longing to be filled,
Thrilled by the being of another.

Try it.

Pry it
open.

The rhythm is pretty funky, reading this now, but maybe that's what I needed: something to shake me up a little.

With these words of self-encouragement, I started opening up, spending more time with other people, getting involved in conversations, allowing myself to care. Toward the end of the summer, I found someone who interested me. I even asked her out a few times (a big step for me). She was a willing participant, though non-committal to anything beyond a few dates. The summer ended and I had to be on my way, and she on hers.

You couldn't call it a deep relationship, but it was still painful to leave behind. I couldn't open my heart without removing some emotional armor first. With the armor off, I was vulnerable, and it hurt. I recorded my feelings in some ramblings on the airplane ride back home. Here's an excerpt:

...

Just a little melancholy.
Sad that my slowly opening heart
Is losing the light
That coaxed it open.

Though I know there will be other lights,
The present darkness shocks
In the suddenness of its coming.
Shocks in the starkness
Of the contrast between light and dark.

And, though the shock is bearable,
My heart's door groans on its hinges,
Longing to remain open.

...

I'm happy to say that I was able to keep the door ajar long enough for the much brighter light that soon appeared on my doorstep. I'm grateful for the events of that summer that prepared me to receive it.

I know some people get the door slammed on them so many times that it ends up looking like one of those big-city apartment dweller doors you see in movies with a battery of deadbolts, chains and locks. I don't know what to tell them, except that it's okay to feel afraid, as James Taylor says, but don't let that stand in your way.

Rather be yours

There is something about belonging that we both desire and fear. I think most of us feel a deep need to be part of something. I know I do. At the same time, I have a strong instinct to maintain my independence - to be my own person.

In college, I knew two young people in love. I think I felt a little uncomfortable with their attachment. It all seemed very juvenile. Maybe it was. I was unattached at the time, and mostly happy about it. Seeing their interactions got me thinking.

I saw her one evening looking out into the snow and wrote these thoughts on the back of an Invitation to Dinner with the Choral Society. I've made a few minor edits since it was first written, but the essence remains the same.


What do you wish,
Standing, staring into the cold?
A friend, perhaps?
A man.
Your man.

The possessive offends some;
Some independence-minded folk
Who think they'd rather not be anybody's.
Sad –
Not being anybody's.

Can you imagine a town
That nobody claims?
No one to say
"That's my town."
Or a school with nobody shouting
"That's my school!"

Can you imagine a family of independent entities?
Introductions would be:
"Erik, I'd like you to meet
  the mom,
    and the dad,
      and the brothers,
        and the sisters.
And family – this is the man."

I suppose being "the" rather than "a"
Has some appeal,
But I'd rather be "my".
Rather be yours.


There are plenty of unhealthy attachments that serve as cautionary tales to those considering giving themselves to a relationship. So what makes a healthy attachment? I suppose it comes when each partner is giving. And each receives but never takes. When you belong but don't possess.

I didn't know at the time I wrote this poem whose "yours" I would become. It would be two more years before I had someone to truly call mine, and someone who calls me hers. And many years after that, there is still plenty for me to learn about giving and receiving. It's a fascinating, strengthening process.

Ibisdown

When my youngest daughter was two years old, a new word entered our family's vocabulary. She liked to be held so her feet were above her head. She would laugh and say to me "I'm ibisdown daddy!"

It gives you a new perspective on the world - being "ibisdown".

In the spirit of providing another perspective, I offer my thoughts on love, marriage, family and being a father. I have no grand plan and hold no illusions that this will be widely read. I mostly just need a place to collect a series of thoughts that have been brewing in me for a while now. I welcome your comments, reactions, questions.

I don't think an ibis on a normal day would be caught upside down, so I had to flip one. This image comes courtesy of twoblueday on Flickr (Creative Commons license), where you can see it right side up.