Hand Wash Cold

Slip transported me
to a time when my son was
newly diagnosed.

Karen and Tanya,
thank you for sharing yourselves,
for sharing your truths.

Spiritual inspiration can come from the oddest bits of serendipity.  I was at a talk a few months ago by a Zen Buddhist who talked about making each moment sacred, about how we could light incense before doing the dishes and make the washing of each dish a meditation and a part of our practice.  That's a nice goal.  I like that image.  Instead, every day I engage in the totally unspiritual practice of washing dishes while playing yesterday's episode of the Colbert Report on my laptop: sometimes watching, sometimes listening, sometimes popping over to my e-mail.  And it turns out, that led me, well, maybe to the same place anyway.

A few months ago, Colbert's guest was AJ Jacobs, author of The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible.  The premise of the book sounded like a take on the humorous e-mail that circulates periodically mocking Biblical literalists for calling homosexuality an abomination while ignoring passages that condone things like slavery and animal sacrifice.  It sounded interesting, but because my hands were wet and covered with dish soap, I didn't jump right over to Amazon to buy it.  And then, I'll admit, I forgot about it.  Until a few weeks later, when my husband and I were out on a date night and decided to use our last few minutes of babysitter coverage to browse in a bookstore, where I noticed the book and decided to buy it after page one made me laugh out loud.

I loved it. It was much more than a take on a joke e-mail. It was spiritual and funny, reverent and irreverent.  It reminded me in many ways of my own spiritual journey.  (And what's not to love there?)  It even (unknowingly) contained some commentary on what recovering sex addicts face in our culture (but more on that tomorrow).  The bit that inspired me was the author's relationship to the Sabbath.  At first, leaving work aside for a day and resting is an anxiety producing chore for Jacobs, who can't make it through the first evening without checking his e-mail.  But it gradually becomes his favorite day, the one around which the rest of the week revolves.

I thought about my own tendency toward constant work: how hard I push myself, how difficult it is for me to make time for rest and how overwhelmed with guilt and fear I become whenever I am not being "productive."  I thought about how freeing it had been when my computer was in for repairs recently, and I couldn't do some of my work.  And I thought the idea of a Sabbath, a day of rest devoted to spirituality, might be good for me.

I don't formally belong to any organized religion, so I can choose any day for my Sabbath and honor it in any way that works for me.  So I've been thinking about what it would look like to spend one day a week dedicated to my spiritual life and wondering how I can make it happen.  I don't have it all figured out yet, and I don't need to, but what I do know is that I've decided I'd like to make it part of my spiritual journey to find out.  And I suspect that will mean that, at least one day a week, I will turn off the Colbert Report and light some incense when I do the dishes.

1. It was a free book.
2. The title had both Momma and Zen in it, which sounded good.
3. I liked Shawn and Shawn liked the book.
4. Did I mention it was free? I could win it! Yay, free books!

So, I threw my name in and... I won!

I was immediately sorry I had. What was I going to do now? For the most part, I guard my anonymity jealously -- even more so then than now -- but the book had to be sent somewhere.  And I wasn't about to just throw my real name and address out there to a total stranger. Sure, she said she was a mother and Zen priest, which all sounds very peaceful and safe, but how did I know she wasn't a serial killer? See, you get burned by the person you trust most in life -- you find out one day your husband has been living a double life -- and you fear to trust anyone.  I was playing then the same "what if" game I still play today, but it hadn't yet become a useful tool for me; it kept me mired at the point where fear and suspicion turn to paranoia and paralysis, rather than gently guiding me to appropriate leaps of faith.

Yet I still did want a free book. (If a serial killer were going to lure me, it would be with free books.) So, I sent Shawn the name and address of a friend of mine who knows about my blog and had agreed to forward the book on to me. Then I crossed my fingers and hoped Karen wasn't the second coming of the Unibomber, and that I wouldn't spend the rest of my days kicking myself when my friend died because the explosive device meant for me was delivered to her home. As a result of my (ahem) "extreme caution," I have a very nice note from Karen and a lovely autographed copy of Momma Zen, both with my friend's name inscribed on them.

But the story doesn't end there.  After I received the book, it sat on my shelf for a year and a half, because I was afraid to read it. As a writer, I know that each book is a piece of someone's soul.  But as a reader, I've always been a harsh critic: viewing them with the detached eye of a connoisseur and focusing on what's lacking rather than what's there.  By the time I received Momma Zen I'd started reading Karen's blog and she was reading mine.  So, here I was, holding a piece of the soul of this person I was just getting to know, and knowing that I might hate it.  What was I going to say: "Thanks for graciously sending me the work of your heart. I regret to inform you that I find your heart sucky."?

But for a number of reasons, I finally decided to pick up the book this weekend.  I read just two chapters before I put it down and walked away.  Then I went straight to my computer and ordered a copy for a pregnant friend.  Sometimes leaps of faith pay off, and sometimes dragging yourself through a year and a half of dread just to find the edge of the cliff does.

I'm having a bit of an overwhelming week here and am off my usual posting schedule. But while I'm off working on my real life, I thought some of you all could help out a friend who recently e-mailed to say that a child in her family had been diagnosed with high functioning autism and she was looking for a good introductory book. To be honest, I haven't read many myself. Any thoughts?  (Yes, Mama Mara, I'm looking at you.)

Yesterday, I was reading a piece in which Anne bought a $50 carpet for her Sunday school class from a rundown little store. When the carpet was unrolled, it was moldy, so a friend from the church returned it and called Anne to tell her she'd have to drop by the store later to pick up her $50 refund. She never did get her $50. The carpet guy said someone else had picked up the money. The friend from church said no one else had.

It seemed clear to Anne Lamott that the carpet guy was trying to swindle her, and I think most people would read the situation that way. After all, really, who are you going to believe? A guy who runs a shady little carpet store or a friend of Anne Lamott's who volunteers to teach children about Jesus? But I found I was reading it as a mystery. Who had the money? Who did it? Maybe the carpet guy was a swindler, but maybe sweet church volunteer lied about not getting the $50 (or lied about the carpet being moldy entirely) and ran off to spend it on crack.

There were many times in my marriage in which I heard two conflicting stories: one coming from someone I didn't know personally (often seemingly shady) and the other coming from a good and loving man who (to all appearances) loathed lying and liars. I knew the stories didn't fit. I knew someone was lying. And I would invariably target the likely suspect with my wrath or disdain: the shady carpet guy, the clumsy waiter, the neurotic acquaintance. It was never the dedicated volunteer or the caring husband who did it.

Yet, fourteen years into our relationship and six years into our marriage, Mark admitted he was a sex addict, and I found out I had been wrong. My husband wasn't a fellow victim of the world's dark forces, but in collusion with them. He was going to the world's carpet stores, picking up the cash and siccing me on the carpet guy who had dutifully paid out the refund. This knowledge fractured my view of the world. If I couldn't believe Mark — the most seemingly honest and trustworthy person I've ever met — who can I believe? I live my life now in a state of conscious, temporary suspension of disbelief, basing my decisions on what seems to be, always knowing that most of life is a mystery and that narrators are unreliable.

As I read the last sentence and climbed into the shower, I found that my mind was still clamoring for the answer. Who did it? Where was the money? Who really had it? But I've learned this lesson before. And as the water rolled over me, it washed away the questions to reveal the same old answer: I only have my truth. What's outside of that, I can never really know. And the details of what "really" happened aren't important anyway. All I need to know is that the person who has taken from me is usually hurting more than I am in the loss and that in letting go of my need to know, I'm free.

Image credit: Photo by Glamhag on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

In the original (non-Disney) version of Cinderella, the evil stepsisters, unable to fit their large feet into Cinderella's tiny glass slipper, cut off their toes. I always wondered what they were thinking. Of all the places to try to hide a bloody foot, a clear glass slipper isn't exactly the best spot. Yet, they are so desperate to be the woman the prince wants that they are willing to grotesquely hack off body parts to do it.

The action is so horrific, it seems unthinkably insane, and yet today, I was thinking that it's exactly what I've done and expected others to do in relationships. No, I haven't literally hacked off my toes (although I'm sure you can find someone who really has undergone plastic surgery for more appealing feet), but at times (often without even realizing it) I've changed the clothes and makeup and jewelry I wore, the way I cut my hair, my body weight, the music I listened to, the books I read, or even the opinions I held. I did those things not for me, but to please someone else.

After all, isn't that the way things are supposed to work in a relationship? I give a little; I get a little, right? So, I expected the same. I expected changes and concessions. I even demanded them. And I was angry when people didn't surprise me with the flowers I'd asked them to surprise me with or wow me by repeating the scripts I'd written for them, words that would show me love much better than whatever they had intended to say themselves. All of us -- the people I dated and me -- had an emptiness inside, something like Cinderella's slipper. And, like the prince's frenzied search across the entire land or the stepsisters' desperate self-disfigurement, we were all craving that fit that was going to put our broken lives right again somehow. We were shaving off bits and pieces of ourselves or carving up our partners in a crazy attempt to fake that one true match.

It has taken me years to see that no matter how many toes I lop off, the blood pooling in a clear shoe and the pain of walking on broken feet will give me away every time. And the truth is, even without the knife, there is no perfect fit. I'm not someone else's Cinderella, and my Cinderella isn't out there walking around (on her two perfectly suited feet) in the form of some person outside me. She's in me, in God. And oh, those slippers feel so good when they're finally really filled.

And (based on this highly accurate and scientific measure) I am Galadriel. Yep, this quiz (and who am I to dispute the wisdom of Internet oracles like these?) says (well, in essence, I'm interpreting a little here) that I'm a white light recovery queen. (Those of you familiar with Elvish -- which I spent a little too much of my time in childhood studying -- will recognize that "galad" means "light.") As Galadriel, I choose to relinquish the One Ring and my will to control with it, then sail off (very spiritually) into the West. (This blog is my big swan boat, so you all get to come with me.)

But somehow I'm still actually a little envious that Mim got to be Picard.

While the marketing material (always a reliable source of information) implied that this book was different, what really led me to not judge a book by its title and give it a go was the fact that I had heard of the author, Shannon Ethridge, through the Every Woman's Battle series, which some other women in my S-Anon group found helpful.

The Sexually Confident Wife has the broad purpose of helping women (regardless of their issues) gain (or regain) sexual confidence within their marriage. Because the scope is broad, I believe this book will be more helpful to some than others, particularly women who come from more repressive backgrounds or women who have had issues with their own sexual acting out. However, I am coming at this review solely from the perspective of whether or not the book was helpful me, as a generally sex loving, body confident woman who is in a continuous process of healing in my marriage to a recovering sex addict.

The book starts with a variety of questions designed to help pinpoint the areas that may have caused women to lose their sexual confidence. Not surprisingly, my areas of concern centered around trusting my husband, believing that I was entirely safe with him and carrying memories of past hurt into the bedroom with me. Unfortunately, the book didn't deal a lot with these specific issues. Shannon Ethridge infuses the book with much of her own personal experience, which is in many ways the opposite of mine: she was the one acting out in her marriage, so it took some mental gymnastics to make some of her experiences apply to me.

In addition, she addresses the stereotypical imbalance in the bedroom quite a bit: men want lots of sex, women don't. She gives a number of suggestions on how women can deal with this imbalance of desire. However, the problem for me, and for partners of sexual anorexics is quite the opposite. The women will often have a stronger desire than the men and will experience hurt and rejection that that their advances are not accepted. The book doesn't deal with this reverse scenario much at all. What do we women do to maintain our confidence when our husband's are withdrawing due to their own issues and traumas?

Some of the best chapters in the book focus on getting to the root of our sexual insecurities by healing the scars of childhood sexual abuse, looking at the messages we received about sex in childhood, improving our body images and cutting painful ties to the past. The most interesting to me was Chapter 5, "Cutting Soul Ties That Bind," which contains an exercise on looking for the common thread between your favorite movies, books and songs and seeing how that reflects upon the (potentially hurtful) ways you view relationships and the ghosts you carry into your sexual present.

If you all care to psychoanalyze me: my favorite movie is It's a Wonderful Life, my favorite books include Wuthering Heights, A Tale of Two Cities and Peter Pan, and my favorite songs... Well, you've probably got the idea already, but to take a line from one of my favorites by James Taylor, "they were true love, written in stone..." If it's got true love in it, especially with an edge of tragedy or bittersweetness or loss or sacrifice, I'm all over it. And I'm still chewing on that knowledge, which has been quite enjoyable (ok, yes, I enjoy those kinds of things) and helpful.

What I found most disappointing was that, while the book tried to go about things differently (for example, showing drawings of real, imperfect, women's bodies) and did discuss boundaries, there was still plenty of material that tended toward the Cosmo pop culture perspective that I feared: that pleasing men (through anything from shaving and vaginal deodorants to pole dancing) is something that creates sexual confidence. What I found most problematic from the perspective of sexual codependency was the emphasis on the woman's power to keep the man faithful. For example, from Chapter 10 (Tantalizing Sexual Techniques):

"while it is never a wife's fault that her husband turns to pornography rather than to her for sexual gratification, we do possess the power to lessen his desire for it."

And from Chapter 17 (Whipped Cream and a Cherry), which talks about a woman who created a personal Playboy magazine for her husband while he was away in the military:

"When a man knows he has a woman like that at home, why would he wast his time looking at or even thinking about any other woman? A well-fed man doesn't feel the need to go looking elsewhere for scraps. he knows where his satisfaction can be found -- in you!"

This is the very lesson that has to be unlearned by those of us who are married to sex addicts (and have, in many cases, including mine, tried a variety of sexually uninhibited and adventurous techniques in a misguided attempt to control our husbands' addictions and get his interest to stay on us). We sexual codependents have had to learn that no matter what we do -- no matter what techniques we use or how exhibitionist we become or how comfortable we are with our bodies or how much we show our husbands love and respect or how sexually confident we become -- our husbands will continue to act out until they love and are confident in themselves. Maybe The Sexually Confident Husband is next?

Just one last quick funny story about the book. In Chapter 7 (Befriending the Body Image Bear), Shannon Ethridge discusses how men have "their own body image hang-ups," among other things that "they fear they are too short and too pale." My husband, whose skin is a beautiful dark chocolate color, giggled when I read that part to him!

* In the interest of full disclosure, I was not paid for this review, but did receive a free copy of the book. And that's no small incentive to someone like me. I'd be happy to stand on a street corner with a sign that reads, "Will work for books." (Back to top)

This quiz came to me via Marta. Someday I may try to explain why the idea of Ulysses being my book is hilarious and disturbing to me, but I'm off to dream of being a Greek folk hero instead now...

You're Ulysses!
by James Joyce

Most people are convinced that you don't make any sense, but compared to what else you could say, what you're saying now makes tons of sense. What people do understand about you is your vulgarity, which has convinced people that you are at once brilliant and repugnant. Meanwhile you are content to wander around aimlessly, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. What you see is vast, almost limitless, and brings you additional fame. When no one is looking, you dream of being a Greek folk hero.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

No children yelling.
No household chores, no husband.
Stillness and a book.

I read Shelli's work.
Transformed through her vivid words,
I'm fifteen again.

I read marta's work.
Red's the color for lying.
The words make me swoon.

I brought another
but the author's still working.
Sh! It's a secret!

Willowgreen didn't come,
because I read on her blog.
Young vampire love!

In my silent room
your craft with words overwhelms.
Should I be surprised?