"Be careful what you wish for," I was told, "you will surely get it."
"Pain stems from desire," the Buddha cautioned.
Why don't we ever believe what we're told?
I have seen dreams and desires come to pass. Not a few of them. But like a tale where the devil is making deals, these things are seldom what we think. Which, if there is a plan, is probably why we get what we think we want.
At the same time, things I never imagined have been my reality, too. Marriage. Divorce. A May-December romance. Maybe more than one. Solitude. 15 minutes of fame. Becoming a part of an industry that was the stuff of childhood fantasy. Seen friends die.
So maybe it's not so surprising that I'm in a semi-permanent state of befuddlement.
We want. Not just for ourselves but for those we hold dear. Happiness, love, validation, success, joy, money, sex, chocolate, a new car... we just want. It isn't about the reality of something, it's about gratification.
And we get what we want. Only when we get it, it turns out to be different than what it was supposed to be.
I really will write about the conditional tense, as well as my gripe with the words 'weird' and 'normal.'
Back to the pointlessness at hand: desire and fulfillment.
Whether it's a big house or the hottie on the other side of the bar, we crave. It's always about something outside of ourselves that will bring something to our lives, our sense of self. Is it really about enrichment or completion?
Not usually. It's a momentary lust. An infatuation. A passing fancy.
I'm more guilty of this than a lot of people I know. At the same time I had a brief window of my life where I knew contentment. It had grown out of a series of crushing defeats and losses, a conscious choice to step back and away from what I normally pursued. I hadn't been able to identify why every relationship, particularly since I thought I was learning from each, would fail. There was something, a pattern, I couldn't see. So I began a process of brutal self-interrogation and introspection. Don't know that it brought wisdom or enlightenment but there was definitely some clarity. And I was able to step away from my traditional idiocy.
It was glorious. Peaceful. Calm. A state of gratitude and appreciation. Finally able to see just how much I had, that in fact I live with an obscenity of riches, that I am surrounded by beauty.
Which meant its end was inevitable. I hadn't learned everything I needed to.
I don't think learning comes for most of us as satori, as an all at once with clarity and acceptance proposition. In my experience we learn in steps, in stages, and we often need to relearn things. Sort of like the difference between intellectually grasping something and accepting the reality of it on an emotional, psychological and maybe even spiritual level.
We are flawed creatures. Imperfect. And I think that's also a part of our glory.
Yes, I wrote that. Cynical, sarcastic, griping me put that into print.
Imperfection is our strength. We may strive for ideal, but we live in something else. I don't think perfect is beautiful. I don't. It's not human. And I love humanity. Not the shitbag collective among which we walk, but that state of being that is a glorious bundle of contradictions while wanting to do good.
Make more sense?
When I was a boy, I fell in love with someone. But we were both damaged and scared so we became friends. It doesn't mean I fell out of love with her. Actually, I'm not sure that I know how to fall out of love with anyone, but that's another blather for another time. But when we finally did become a couple, when she fell in love with me, it was magic. It was unreal. Until she left me the way she did.
I am not blaming. I actually, had I ever stepped back from my feelings (desire), knew it was coming. Not because she didn't love me or because I was a failure, but because as her friend for years had seen it again and again.
But I'm human. "It would be different with me," I thought. And it was. Well, it was and it wasn't. None of this takes away from the aforementioned mystical nature of the thing. It really was magic. That doesn't change the fact that I'm me and she's her. Even together as the thing that was us, we couldn't get away from ourselves. In some ways, because of what the pairing was, we may have even been more our essential selves. That's for good and for bad.
It was an episode. A time. A chapter in a story. The point is that I knew her and she knew me but there was so much we chose not to see. I looked at photos of us for the first time in a long time this week. It was nice to see the happiness, the unfiltered nature of what was our relationship. I wish there were more photos of when we got together, or when we met as kids. I wish there weren't so many of our last year together.
But that's desire and not reality.
The reality is that we both got what we wanted. The reality is that we weren't enough for each other. We weren't right for each other. I could never give her the thing that would bring contentment and she, even when she finally realized it, didn't have the heart to tell me. That's just life.
And it's fine. There was magic. Good stuff. Now there are memories and some of them are the stuff of books and movies.
The point is that wanting something is rarely wanting the right thing. It's the difference between seeing an onion and craving a burger with carmelized tasties atop it.
Years after that relationship, after I was convinced I had learned so much and was so much wiser, I wound up in another romance. Again, the stuff of dreams.
Have I ever mentioned my weakness for brilliant women? No? I'll babble about it someday, I'm sure.
Anyway, this new romance was just all kinds of unexpected. We got to do and be and say things we'd both wanted for so long. We talked openly and candidly, about what we wanted and what we hoped. After a year of this we decided to make a go of it, as a trial run, and I moved in with her.
Within a matter of days it was clear that we'd made a mistake. Neither of us realized what we actually wanted. We wanted each other, yes. We wanted love and a partnership. But neither of us realized that we couldn't have it with the other. She needed someone I was not, and I needed someone she was not. Not that there wasn't a lot we could share and a lot we could learn, but we were wrong about that damn first thing: the want.
So now I'm brutal. With others who may be interested in getting to know me or get close to me, but much more with myself. When the pangs of desire first manifest as yearning aches, I allow myself to feel them but they kick in a sort of internal Inquisition now. Is the desire for something momentary? Is it lust? Voyeurism? What do I really want? If it's a relationship, I generally just shut down the whole process. I'm not in a place where I can be in a relationship. I have nothing to bring to the table. Sex, love and romance, sure. But right now I can't be a friend to a lover or a lover to a friend. Most women want a complex combination of things, many of which they haven't articulated to themselves. Maybe it's a blend of danger and stability, or empathy and distance. Whatever it is, I'm not that. Not now. And I don't sugarcoat who or what I am on those rare occasions where someone broaches something more than simply conversational.
Does that mean I'm successful in dealing with this stuff?
I wish. But I'm (barely) smart enough not to lead anyone on, to give the indication that I have anything to offer more than my mind or my body. I got a decent heart but it's tied to one quirky, damaged mind. Can't tell anyone I have anything else to offer. I won't.
But I still want.
Damn it.
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