Life just Laughs at our Expectations

It isn't just me.

I know this.

People get into relationships all the time when they are still in the grip of expectations and hopes that are simply unrealistic for the long term.

The dictionary defines the condition like this:

star·ry-eyed [adj. ] -- Having a naively enthusiastic, overoptimistic, or romantic view; unrealistic

There is value to the "starry-eyed" part of life. It imbues us with wonder and hope and great energy. All of those things are useful for getting through the difficult and complicated beginning days of forming intimate relationship with another human being. Let's face it, most of us are raised and socialized to be independent individuals. It is sort of our "natural" way to want the things we want in exactly the way that we want them. One of my favorite authors, Kathleen Norris, writing in her book "Cloister Walk," tells of a monk (Benedictine monastics live in lifelong community with their fellows. It is intimate relationship building multiplied) who described the issue this way:

"There are people here who can meditate all day and others who can't sit still for five minutes; monks who are scholars and others who are semi-literate; chatterboxes and those who emulate Calvin Coolidge with regard to speech. But our biggest problem is that each man here had a mother who fried potatoes in a different way."


It is a question of expectations. We all have them. Many of them are completely unrecognized by us as we go about our day to day lives. We expect the toothpaste tube to be squeezed in a particular fashion, and the way the socks get mated makes a difference to us, and the sort of sheets that we put on the bed are part of who we are. What we are called, and what we eat, and where we keep the tissue boxes are all part of our expectation set.


Those of us who find our way, along whatever path, to BDSM arrive there with all kinds of expectations. Some of them may be entirely reasonable, and others may be just plain crazy, but it matters not at all, because there they are. And, depending on what sort of process we follow to actually begin to actualize our BDSM lifestyle hopes, we may or may not delineate and spell out various of our expectations. Even when we make a conscious effort to do that however, it is next to impossible to ferret them all out. They persist in hiding in all the twisty, kinky corners of our psyches. More difficult still, because practicing BDSM most often comes out of a deeply rooted personal orientation, each unfulfilled expectation has the potential for feeling like a rejection.

Add to that the large, looming, inescapable factor which is life and living, and you have a perfect recipe for unmet expectations stew, served up with a hearty helping of dashed hopes on the side.


We are kind of there. And I know (because I read all over the place) that we are not the only ones. There are plenty of others out there who are struggling with how to cope with feelings of disappointment and deprivation because of the day-to-day impediments that life imposes on their fantasies and dreams.

Around here, it shifts back and forth between us. Somedays it is me, keeping track of how long ago it was that we played, or how many hours are spent on baseball compared to the time available for exploring what might be fun for us. Other times, it is Him, imagining younger butts to spank, and wishing for some newbie that He could bring along through that first exciting part of exploring BDSM inklings. Add to those divergent perspectives, the realities of needing to work, and needing to accommodate our assorted health challenges, and the demands of families and the wider community, and we find ourselves eating that "stew" way more often than is healthy for us.


I don't honestly know how to fix the problem of longing for things that simply cannot be brought into being in a real-life, practical, day-to-day, getting older ready or not, relationship. Intellectually, I understand that some expectations might never have been reasonable from the start, and others have become out of reach as time has passed. The reasonable, rational part of me knows and understands that my life today is not just better than the one I left behind to come here; it is good and happy and full in its own right. But it really just isn't what I was expecting. Go figure.


There's a story that we tell often in the developmental disability community (it serves as a metaphor for the experience of many parents when they learn that their new infant has a developmental disability). It is the story of a woman who had dreamed all her life of traveling to Paris. She had fantasized about all the wonderful things that she would do and see in Paris: about the food, and the magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower, and the wonderful art, and the pure joy of immersing herself in the culture of the place. Finally, after many, many years of wishing and planning, she was able to travel to Paris for the trip of a lifetime. She got on the plane and settled in for the trip, and all seemed well -- until the plane landed and she disembarked only to find herself in Holland. HOLLAND?!?!?!? How can that be? I was supposed to go to Paris. I have no interest in visiting Holland... But, there she is in Holland. Over time, she comes to find that Holland has chocolates, and windmills, and charming people, and flowers. Holland is a lovely land full of interesting experiences. It isn't Paris, but it is very, very good.


So, I don't know the answer to the question that kaya asked at the end of this entry on her blog: "then what?" I haven't got nearly enough wisdom to figure out what comes next. I am beginning to believe that it really doesn't matter that I don't have the answers. I suspect life is going to continue to carry me and us along. If we really aren't going to land up in Paris, then I'd best get busy figuring out what is fun to do here in wherever-the-hell we are. Since the foundational reality is that this IS my life, and I AM happy with it, it would seem that the questions and disappointments become really an exercise in keeping myself stirred up. I don't figure knowing all of that will cause me to quit doing it. Maybe it is a bit of emotional masochism. Still, I do think that trying to consciously focus on the good stuff is probably healthy. I know that some people quite intentionally look for what is good and joyful and positive in their lives and express that reality formally with gratitude. Perhaps, that sort of exercise might be appropriate for this time and this place.

swan

Dinner at our house

The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson~

We live mostly quietly, and largely, within our own walls and lives. We go about our daily work, as people who are "in disguise." The disguises enable us to continue to live reasonably well from a financial and economic standpoint, but there are definitely costs in emotional and social terms. We participate in the public scene very sporadically, and almost never here in our own community. Partly, that is about being "careful," but to a much larger degree it is about the feeling that there is a mismatch between us and our needs, wants, and visions about "community," and the present reality of the local scene.



So, we've worked at finding ways to connect on a more personal, more organic level with people who might be interested in creating relatedness with us outside the "in-group" social milieu of our local BDSM community. We've had some interesting success on that front. Over the last couple of months, we've entertained people here in our home who feel like congenial matches on the scale of potential friendships. We've sat around our big table and shared some pretty good food, some decent wine, and lots of interesting and intriguing conversation. And that feels really good.




It isn't easy. Meeting people is a tricky proposition. First, there's the issue of finding folks who are interested in meeting and then spending time with us. We think we're fun and interesting, but a want ad that touts the advantages of friendship with an aging kinky triad probably wouldn't garner a whole lot of positive response. And, we're sort of picky. We are inclined to prefer people who are fairly bright, people who are interesting, people who can hold up their end of a conversation. We haven't got anything against the idea of getting together with people who might want to play if things worked out like that, but if that's all there is to recommend a new acquaintance, it probably isn't going to end up being a match.




Even when we find people who seem like likely prospects, we have to work our way gingerly through the mine-field of initial contact. It is almost always a question of what we might mean by "friendship." In a world where the question, "would you like to be my friend?" is more often than not accompanied by penis pictures, it is easy to understand why people would be hesitant to link up with some plaintive sounding stranger from the Internet. And ours is a complicated situation -- by the time we run through the list of descriptors (committed, heterosexual, fMf, 24/7, BDSM, poly, triad, intentional family) eyes can start to glaze over. No surprise there.




But, we've managed to hook up with some brave souls. And thoroughly enjoyed our time with them.




It causes me to contemplate ideas like friendship, community, and social association in the lifestyle. We've been around the public part of the scene for a long time. Our first real-time meeting was at a major leather event. We enjoy playing and socializing in public. Still, we've seldom (if ever) formed any sort of significant relationship at an event. Too, we've seen more than one public lifestyle group devolve into in-fighting, power struggles, and backstabbing. Over and over, we've shaken our heads at the seeming incongruity of people who live a marginalized lifestyle excluding, belittling, and exploiting others like themselves over sometimes unbelievably fine shades of difference.



I think that the reality is that groups are not necessarily good vehicles for creating personal networks of support and friendship. Groups survive and thrive, or falter and fail depending on a number of factors. However a social group evolves, it must, ultimately formulate a shared vision and direction if it is going to grow and move forward. As the "vision" of the group is defined, it is a given that there will come to be an "in-group," and by definition, a set of individuals that are "out." How the "in's" choose to deal with the "out's" goes a very long way to determining the way the group manifests in the world.




Friendships, on the other hand, are personal relationships. They are each unique. Formed by and between the individuals, a friendship is woven out of a multiplicity of threads that bind people to one another. You can nurture a friendship but you can't define it with a list of rules and requirements. Friendships are not "organized" by their very nature. Friendships don't lend themselves to hierarchies or business models. Friendships are much more akin to gardens, where the soil is prepared, the seeds planted, care lavished, and rewards gathered in as the seasons dictate.



I don't know about the BDSM community. Perhaps it really does exist, but maybe not. Maybe it is a unicorn that we've all talked about and imagined, but never actually seen. Perhaps the best we can hope for is the occasional successful BDSM organization to do the work of convening gatherings, advocating our political agendas, and providing leadership, education, and training. That's a tall order. Maybe it ought to be enough, and we should refrain from demanding that our organizations also provide the context within which we, as individuals, are spared the hard work of creating lasting and fruitful friendships.




swan

Murphy's Law

Sometimes you cannot win for losing. There are days when the whole universe comes after you and there is just nothing at all to be done about it.

We've had a stretch of not quite 24 hours that feels kind of that way. Keep in mind as you read this pitiful tale, that it is property tax time. We owe a bundle to the local county. It is a monetary headache that occurs once every 6 months. But we figured we had everything covered once His paycheck made it to the bank at midnight Tuesday. Of course, figuring you've got it under any sort of control is just asking to be smacked up alongside the head.

It all started Monday night when, upon leaving His evening meeting, Master climbed into His car to head home, only to discover that the blower for the air conditioning system would not blow. At all. He fiddled with all the buttons, dials, and combinations of settings -- to no avail. This is a monster inconvenience, but not a huge crisis, because our just barely one year old KIA Rio's have great warranties. So, we made plans to get up early and take it to the dealership to get the problem fixed. So far, so good.

Then, just after dinner, T and I were discussing what we could defrost for dinner Tuesday. We all decided that barbecued chicken would be good, so she went off to pull some chicken breasts out of her freezer. It wasn't long before she was back to report that her refrigerator was NOT refrigerating -- that everything in the freezer was completely thawed. Clearly, this was a situtation that had been working its way up to a crisis for awhile. My refrigerator "croaked" about 15 months ago, and we'd had them both serviced at that time, but hers was undeniably dead last night. That set off the dreaded scramble to retrieve the receipts for the previous repair/service work on the refrigerators, and a quick Internet search to determine what it would cost us to replace the darned thing. Hint: it isn't going to happen! We found the number for the refrigerator repair guy and called him -- set an appointment for 1:00 Tuesday afternoon. A mere $600.oo later, we once again had two working refrigerators and life seemed better.

Deciding that we seemed to be in a "cooling equipment phase," Himself decided to call the company that services our home heating and air conditioning units, and get them out to do a maintenance check. Phone call made, and guess what? The service contract expired on Sunday. Sunday for pete's sake! Renewing said contracts will cost us $195.oo for each condo. Sigh.

Have I mentioned that I studied demolitions and explosives, once a very long time ago in ROTC classes? I can feel it all coming back to me -- clear as day!

swan

Mule-headed Dolt

I've been stupid and stubborn. If ever there was a BAD slave, I'm it.

I'm still not sure I've got the thinking pattern sorted out, but let me see if I can capture most of it so that I can maybe start straightening this mess out.

I (that is really the problem here -- almost all my thinking starts with "I") have real trouble achieving orgasm. That shouldn't be a news flash to anyone who reads here. It just never really came back after the hysterectomy, and while an orgasm comes at me out of the blue now and then, it isn't anything that I can count on or predict. If I manage one orgasm from sexual intercourse in a month, that's good. It's been two and one half years. I know that I should be "over it" by now. I know that this is a life change that I should have adjusted to in the last 24+ months, but it still hurts me and I still grieve the loss.

I can achieve orgasm through masturbation. Using a vibrator, all by myself, usually late at night, I can sometimes get there. It is a lonely business, and not all that satisfying. I want what I lost. I want it enough that somedays, contemplating the years that lie ahead, I wonder why I should have lived through all of this...considering.

Every now and then, He approaches me with the notion of finding something that "is good for me." Except He hasn't got any idea what that might be or how to get there. He wants me to tell Him what to do. He really cares, and His intentions are good. It is just that I feel like the Garmin GPS system of sex: "in 3-1/2 minutes, move left then rub more intensely." That business gets me into a place where I want to just put my hands on my hips and say, "why bother?" If I have to do all of that, it is easier, in some ways to just do it myself.

The only problem with that is that I resent it. I really want Him to be able to fix this, and I feel like He should just take the time and invest the energy to figure out what works. It isn't that I'm unwilling to be interactive and participatory about it; I'd surely provide feedback and input. I just feel like I work to attend to what He wants and needs. Why is it OK that I've gotten to this point, and life has just gone on?

So, then the resentment fuels a move on my part to pull away; to begin a passive aggressive interior (mental) bargaining that really boils down to, "when I get what I want, I'll take care of what you want." That's not the way a slave behaves; not the way a slave thinks; not the way a slave reacts.

Because He really needs me to be attentive and proactive in terms of my service to Him. Right now, He is struggling with His own sexual performance issues. There are surely ways that I could probably facilitate His sexual pleasure, and I find myself lying there, stiff and silent beside Him, thinking, "welcome to my world." So wrong. So mean spirited. So self-centered. What am I thinking?

When I lay it all out like that, when I can see the distance that I've come from where I ought to be, I'm ashamed. I need to do better. I need to re-align my thinking, my emotional response, my behavior. Now.

Maybe, if I got back in line with what I say I am supposed to be doing and how I'm supposed to be living, maybe life would improve. For Him and for me too.

swan

Words, words, and more words

I spent some time over the weekend capturing the writings from The Swan's Heart along with those here at The Heron Clan, and storing them all in a word file. We do worry that Blogger could suddenly do something evil, and all those years of blogging could be lost. So... a bit of work, and everything is archived on my personal computer. I haven't done anything at all to edit any of it, or cull out the bits that may not be especially "valuable," but as it stands, it comes to 1055 pages -- 427,360 words. Goodness! That doesn't include the comments. It is strictly the words produced by us.

There is so much there. Many, many, many words -- a good portion of what's there, I've forgotten. When I go back and look at some of it, I feel as if I am reading thoughts and feelings recorded by someone else. Perhaps that isn't that far off. I've changed. We all have.

I think there was a more open voice in some of the earlier entries. I've come to edit and filter much more than I once did. I protect myself more now. I am less trusting, less willing to expose myself, or any of us, to outside judgements. I miss that open, free-wheeling sound. But, it feels like there's a lot more to consider now when I put words together. I wonder about who is reading. I wonder about how He will feel about what I write. I'm sure I frequently sound too negative or too whiney or too angry or too unhappy. I wonder if whatever I have to say will make the statistics go up or down. I worry that I'll hurt feelings or make people angry. I am afraid that I'll be misunderstood. I'm afraid that I might scare or intimidate some unknown, unseen someone.

By the time I navigate all of that, the words sometimes won't come at all. What does come often feels cramped and lifeless. Often, I suspect I am too careful to spill out words that have any real impact anymore. So, this place has changed. It has changed me. Much as I'd like to claim that I write for me, for Him, for us (and I do try to do that) -- it simply isn't possible to keep writing publicly and not get moved by that same public.

I once compared this business of blogging to a whole lot of us, all singing in empty concert halls. If that were true, we might get some clearer words. Closer to the reality, I now believe, is that we are all performing as we simultaneously wander through one another's "shows." It is much more like a giant Busker's fair than any sort of concert-style performance. I keep right on doing my bit as the sword swallowers and jugglers and acrobats swirl around the edges. And, of course, like any fair, there are the unpredictable, uncontrollable vagaries of life and the world to contend with as well.

What becomes truly amazing, once you sort of think about it, is that any of us manage to make any sense of any of it. Ahhh well, here's to the words that bind us and cheer us and help us find our way.

swan

Ottoman

In the early days, when I was newly arrived here, quite often I'd find myself over the leather ottoman, restrained and whipped/spanked with almost everything in the toybag. The ottoman is so solid and stable that it provides a secure anchor point in a world that shrinks down to include the things that create sensations. In that world, the feel of the leather on my skin is a comfort -- a place to draw comfort and strength. The ottoman is soft, cushioned, almost like a cradle. There is nothing about the ottoman that is uncomfortable or difficult. I never have to think about something that pokes or pinches or bites. I can rely on the presence of the ottoman.

We don't use it anymore. It is in T's space. It isn't accommodating of His knees. It takes planning and intention and volition to get to where we can use the ottoman. Simpler to simply pull out the pillow, get myself over it, and hang on. Lots of reasons why the ottoman has faded from our repertoire, relegated to the background of memory. I understand, but I miss it.

swan

Birthday

Thirty-two years ago today, I was laboring to give birth to my eldest child -- my son. It was the bicentennial of the birth of the United States of America, and amidst all the celebration, my baby was making his appearance -- only a few days late.

I remember it as a very long, langorous day of periodic naps and lots of television about the tall ships in Boston Harbor. I remember my young husband fidgeting and fussing as I went about the business of childbirth. It took me all day. It was 11:09 PM when my new baby son made his appearance amidst the booming fireworks that commemorated the occasion.

Now, I know that the fireworks weren't really ABOUT that particular moment -- the arrival of one new baby on the planet, but it felt that way to me, and we celebrated every single one of his birthdays with fireworks and cakes decked in red, white, and blue. I believe he might have been seven or eight years old before he realized that the whole Independence Day thing wasn't about him.

Today, the first thing I did after I got up was call across the country to say Happy Birthday and Happy Fourth of July. The man's voice that greets me on the other end of the phone reminds me of how very many years have passed. Still, the lilt of his voice, the irrepressible sound of him reminds me of the days when he was small and curious and eager to be in the world. I remember all the funny things that came about as he grew up, mostly because he was so intent and so literal and so determined.

That serious, intent youngster is all grown up now -- a man who knows who he is and who knows his way. He is so good it takes my breath away. I love him dearly...

So, while others around the U.S. celebrate and contemplate another year in the life of our nation, today is just Rick's birthday.

swan