A DUCQUE'S EYE VIEW
Midlife: Challenge vs. Crisis
You might remember Eric Ericson, one of my personal heroes, from your high school
psychology class. In the 1960's he described a series of developmental
stages. His work outlined basic questions with which one must wrestle and
settle for themselves at different periods of life in order to move successfully
past each juncture. He postulated that if you don't overcome the
developmental question when you're supposed to, you become "stuck"
and that question will haunt you and recur throughout the next
phases. I think he was a genius and his work is still right on in
2004.
But most of his theories were centered on the younger generation. Ericson lumped all the years past twenty-something
(intimacy vs. isolation) into two chapters, adulthood and old age. He
says adulthood is the time when we humans face the questions of generativity (parenting, career stuff, creating for the
next generation) versus stagnation. This means making life choices
regarding what you are going to do on this planet to leave your mark on the
future. Old age is the time when you review those choices and evaluate
your marking. He labeled this the question of integrity vs. despair and
disgust. But what about the middle aged?
I always think Ericson made a huge oversight when he
didn't address midlife as a separate phase. For some men I've known the
questions could be financial ruin vs. spiritual quest, you know sports car and
babe young enough to be his daughter vs. drumming and Peruvian treks. My
boomer women friends are more into the question of redecorating our homes vs. our
bodies, such as doing painting vs. doing the painter and carpentry vs. plastic
surgery. (When I read this paragraph to a recently divorced friend who
wore me out last weekend helping with the remodel of her house, she responded,
"I would have done the painter too if I could afford to hire one.")
Seriously at some point or points between 35 and 55 everyone asks, "What
the heck am I doing here anyway?" Like the terrible twos and
adolescence it seems to me that midlife is a time when you can't escape
redefining yourself yet again. A significant life event such as death, illness, job loss or divorce naturally triggers soul
searching and prioritizing. Or something as mundane as not recognizing
the lined face that looks back at you in the mirror, having the grocery checker
call you "ma'am," realizing it's been 15 years since you were carded
or having your body betray you might activate a mini crisis.
During the aforementioned remodel I was trying to hop onto the kitchen counter
to tape off the cabinets before painting. I didn't have the arm strength
to pull myself up. I had to use feet and butt to half shimmy, half climb
the drawers. I remembered the first time a few yeas ago that my geriatric
cat couldn't spring onto the bed. I identified with her in that frustrating
moment. I felt sad, old and tired. We had to put the cat down last
year.
But I'm not old. And I'm no where near ready to be put down. So I
spent the day after nursing my sore muscles with ibuprofen and my psyche with
Courvoisier while I contemplated what life questions should I be addressing
now:
Boredom
vs. adventure? It is only too easy for our daily lives to lapse into
a stagnating pattern. It takes extra effort to liven
things up a bit, be they our sex lives or our stews, and yet a little spice can
reap major rewards. Midlife is an excellent time to reflect upon our
youthful plans for fame and fortune. Are these dreams still
relevant? What do you want to be sure to have experienced before you
die? Shake things up and step out of your box. I urge you to set an
exciting goal and develop a plan to achieve it. Take charge of your own
crisis. The BEST thing I ever did for myself was a 50th birthday trip to
Work vs. pleasure?
Maybe it’s just the crowd with whom I choose to hang, but a lot of people
I know have spent the past few years analyzing the time we spend working and
figuring out how to downsize. We have traded things for time. By
budgeting we have found ways to work part time or get paid less to do something
we love more. A few brave souls have gone into business for
themselves. We have moved into smaller homes or boats, given up meals
out, and clipped coupons. It just doesn’t seem worth it to me to
work 40 hours a week when there are so many things I’d rather be
doing. Now I’ll be the first to admit that I have the advantage of
a family wage job without the family to support, and this might not be as
financially feasible for everyone. But the take home message your body
gives you in midlife is: Life is short. Don’t you owe it to
yourself to find ways to maximize your pleasure daily, not just on the big 5-0
celebration? If you wait until you retire, it might be too late.
Product
vs. process? I’m not plagued with a lot of guilt, a
sentiment I view as a manmade hindrance and/or excuse, rather than an honest
emotion. Yet one trend in my life that I do have regrets over is hurrying
without allowing enough time and space to enjoy. Sometimes I get so
focused on the result that I don’t pay attention to the journey. I
tend to overbook myself so I perpetually run late. I also procrastinate
and often don’t produce until I’m under pressure.
It’s a trap I continue to set only to catch the same
disappointment and frustration. But when I let the process unfold and
stay in the moment, miracles happen.
From the time I was in
second grade I always wanted to ‘be a writer,” but throughout my
adult life I have never been able to “make time to write”
consistently. For me middle age has become the time that I have allowed
myself to become open to the possibility of fulfilling my childhood fantasy. By
writing what I lovingly call my “weekly drivel” for bandon.tv, I force myself to sit at the keyboard at least
once a week, open my mind, and let my fingers move. Sometimes the ”product” delights me and sometimes I
can’t wait for the week to be over so I won’t have to see the
column mock me any longer on the website. But always the Zen paradox of
disciplining myself to sit in order that I might
create is deeply satisfying.
Meaning of life vs.
cosmic joke? One evening when I was about 24 years old I was sitting at
the dining room table of the socialist feminist commune that I called home,
conversing with my handsome and soulful housemate whom I’d had an
unrequited crush on for a few months. In the next few hours I understood
the meaning of life. It all made sense. But when we woke up the
next morning it was gone. Since then I’ve met a few others who were
lucky enough to have a similar experience at about the same age. But they
can’t remember either. (I’ve forewarned my kids and their
acquaintances of this unfortunate possibility and suggested they be sure to
carry a tape recorder with them wherever they go so they can record this
epiphany for posterity.)
Mark Gerzon
in Listening to Midlife calls middle age “spiritual
puberty.” What I’ve found at this stage of my game is meaning
is fluid. It’s a good day when I have a glimpse of inspiration
about what it is all about. Sometimes I see it in nature. Sometimes
I feel it with my loved ones. Or in kids’ faces. Or puppies. Or the perfect French fry. I truly
don’t expect to have many answers, or even the right questions, any
more. Pieces of truth or beauty or love are enough to give me joy for a
little while.
Renewal vs. regression? I think Ericson should have identified this question as the real
task of middle age. Our lives are half lived, give or take twenty
years. We are beginning to experience some genuine losses and
trials. We have the challenge to move forward into our futures
accepting our pain and limitations and embracing our experience and resilience
OR to make silly impulsive purchases and unhealthy, hurtful choices.
Midlife is prime time for change. Change is necessary for growth. The
question is how can one find a balance that
produces harmony with our inner self and the environment. Or do we revert
to a less responsible, emptier existence?
Enough pondering for now. The good news is you
can have as many midlife crises as you want. I read Tom Sawyer about ten
times when I was a kid. I think I'm going to make a guest list for my own
painting party. If you buy me a cup of coffee, I’ll let you paint a
wall of my house.
Additional Reading:
http://www.theatlantic.com/issues/2002/03/brooks.htm
http://www.teamtechnology.co.uk/tt/t-articl/midlife.htm
http://www.consciouschoice.com/issues/cc086/listeningtomidlife.html
http://www.lessons4living.com/what_is_midlife.htm
*****************************************************
A Mother and A Daughter
“On
the eternal search for herself,
she took a few steps off the path...
This is the beginning of the search...
The search for my path.
The search for myself.”
(By
Elizabeth, Daughter of the Ducque, written at age 17)
“Today
I am seventeen
And
there is a change from yesterday’s me.
I have
become a woman while still but a child…
…Today
I am all I’ve been
Yesterday
‘til now
Starting
what I’ll be”
(By the Ducque, written at age 17)
The people I love most in the world are my
son and my daughter. But of all my many relationships, the one that has
been the most intense with the most tears and the most pride, the most anxiety
and the most joy has been with my daughter.
This
For my pregnancy and the first ten years
of her life I worked in the same
When
We had some great times walking to school
together playing the rhyme game, driving to Mt Hood chasing a rainbow, and
making up stories together while hiking in the woods.
Much is written about the developmental
task of adolescents separating from their parents and the nineteen-year-old who
bears my genes has done that well. I too have been successful in
conquering the empty nest syndrome. I must say I’m glad not
to have another living creature to care for in my home. The recent
internet search I did on mothers and daughters had a multitude of entries about
the positive bond they share. While that is certainly present with me and
mine, there is also a darker side as well. A psychic once told us she
could see many tangled chords between us. Any good therapist can tell you
how mothers and daughters know how to push each others buttons. Elizabeth
and I have that ability down pat.
When I was growing up there was no one I
wanted to be more different from than my own mother. I feel I can say
with authority that I am the person my daughter has hated the most in the
world. Yet if you look at pictures of my mom and I, each in our
30’s, we could be twins. My relatives tell me we’re alike in
so many ways: our voices, our mannerisms, our natures. Then
there’s my daughter. Show two blonde little girl pictures side by
side and you can’t tell which is me and which is
Liz. We have the same messy hair and creamy skin. Her father
and my husband was never 100% sure at first who he was talking to on the phone
when one of us answered. When I used to complain about the tactless way
she talked to her teachers at school, a psychiatrist who knew me well asked,
“I wonder who she got that from.”
When I would look at my baby girl I could
sometimes see myself. My creativity, my passion, my warm and tender heart
are reflected in her eyes that look just like mine. I also saw my own
demons come back to haunt me. I would swell with pride at her
accomplishments and then anger at her mistakes. When fourth grade girls
were mean to her when we moved here I relived my own trauma of being rejected
by the clique in eighth grade. When she was a teenager in intensive care
I felt sure I would die if she didn’t survive. She is the only
human being that I have ever slapped in fury. While there are many
friends I would die for, she is one of the two people I would kill for.
Sometimes I feel that motherhood is the
most important job I ever took on and the only one from which I deserved to
have been fired. I find myself judging myself and my daughter for not
being perfect. There is not another human being on the planet that I
would ever be so hard on.
It is this kind of thinking that brought
me to the realization a couple of ago that I needed to learn to view myself
separately from my daughter as surely as every adolescent must separate from
her mother. There is absolutely nothing new in this thought. I
could have told my own mother that when I was ten. But knowing something
in general, and learning to understand and accept that about myself has made a
world of difference in how I relate to my daughter.
I try to respond now, not react. I
remind myself that she has her own choices, including her own mistakes, to
make. When she gets in trouble it’s not my problem. I want to
help her as I would anyone I care about, but it’s not me to whom
it’s happening.
What a relief. But
so very hard. I’ve got a ways to go, but I hope I’m
getting better. I think it’s healing to our relationship. The
more I see Liz as herself, and not as a chance to redo my past, the more I give
her room to love herself and me.
************************************************************************************
Fishing Stories from
the Ducquess and Friends:
A Girl’s Guide to Crabbing, Clamming and Fishing in Coos County
Part II, Clamming and Fishing: Practical Application of the GLCC Lessons
Dedicated to the King and Queen of the Coquille and the Krab
March 11, 2004
As you might recall from last week, our heroine (me) had mistressed
the art of crabbing and is about to undertake clamming and fishing….
CLAMMING
“Clamming requires a few tools such as a boyfriend
with a boat and burly friends.” The Ducque
“Clamming is not a spectator sport silly Ducque.
If you sit in a lawn chair you’ll sink in the muck…There will be
nothing left of you but your red hat and pretty blonde curls floating on the
wet sand.” The Krab
It all started one unseasonably sunny spring day when the new boyfriend, K (for
the King of the Coquille), picked up D (for the Ducquess)
after work with plans to go to a movie. But the true Oregonians
realized immediately that such a day should not be wasted inside and went for a
drive to bird watch instead. Luckily D grabbed her old tennies and turquoise socks to offset any potential damage
to the pantyhose and new suede shoes this outing might proffer. K
threw the truck into four wheel drive and headed for the far reaches of the
North Spit probably expecting to do a little necking with his birding.
What he hadn’t counted on was 1) a minus tide 2) the
“deserted” beach was full of clam diggers 3) the new girlfriend had
a fascination for slimy creatures and 4) running into his old pal E (for the
Emperor of clamming.) I proclaimed we must check out the action. The King
looked dubiously at The Ducquess’s short date
dress and his shiny date loafers. However, she was not to be dissuaded
from the exploration of this new activity and he was a gentleman. So, K
rummaged in the back of the truck to find an old pair of boots to go over his
Dockers and off we headed.
When we met E he was thrilled to teach D some clamming tricks (and I suspect
squash K’s date.) After all, what are
friends for? I was delighted to be introduced to clamming, the most
unladylike of all sports. Where else can adults play in the mud and catch
dinner? E showed me what kind of hole to look for, how to hold your
shovel, how far to dig, and ways to become one with the muck and reach as far
as you could to grab a gaper. But of course I couldn’t do all that
in my pretty lacy dress, now could I? So, E and K collected our
clams. I helped. I exclaimed over the critters, rinsed their shells
in the brink and counted the catch.
Although the King doesn’t care too much for clamming, he didn’t
seem too disappointed. After all 1) he saved money by taking me
through a drive through instead of a fancy restaurant for dinner afterwards 2)
he took home clams 3) he learned the Gold Lame’ Crabbing Club principles
and 4) he discovered his new girlfriend was both a cheap date and a potential
fishing buddy.
On subsequent trips we boated to clamming spots. Via water you
don’t have to walk through as much sludge to get to the clam holes.
I encouraged him to bring his friends to do the digging so we could hang out in
the craft. He taught me that if you have a boat you don’t have to
dress up. We would set up a competition to see who could dig the most the
fastest. While they would have their noses to the shovels, I would make
sure everyone’s buckets had an even distribution of clams. We would
cheer them on, make sandwiches and open the beer. I kept up an
encouraging “just a few more” until we reached our limits.
It didn’t take long for the King and me to perfect our clamming
techniques. The main thing to remember is to take a different burly guy
each time so you have someone new to do the digging. We often ran into E
who was always glad to shake his head at us while he demonstrated how to clam
to yet someone else. It helps if the boys have more brawn than
brains and can’t count, but it works if they just have good hearts and
are willing to share the fruits of their labor for booze.
My friend Krab moved into town a couple of years
ago. Krab had gotten her current job
based on the following interview. “This is quite a rural community
here. How are you going to adapt coming from
Still believing in the independence of women, Krab
has since tried to instruct boyfriendless and boatless me on the intricacies of clam digging.
Unfortunately I’m a little bit slow so far. But I have learned 1)
to choose my holes wisely before slipping in my finger, 2) that you can’t
feel clam necks with gloved fingers, 3) that lawn chairs sink in the mud and 4)
one must search the mud flats carefully to find a dry spot for her bag.
FISHING
“Lovers come and go, but a good
fishing buddy lasts a lifetime.”
Although I love crabbing and clamming, my idea of heaven is fishing Ducquess style. I have petted a sturgeon. I
have been awed by an eagle swooping out of nowhere to grab a fish on the
Coquille. I have laughed at a duck family riding the rapids on the
Sixes. My idea of a good day’s fishing is watching the birds nest,
the beavers dam and the otters play. Give me a
book, a bagel and a bottle and I don’t need a fishing rod. I have
been to countless salmon barbeques; dined on fresh caught ling cod, abalone,
halibut and tuna; and once I had a midnight supper of striped bass that were alive
a mere hour before. But I have never caught a fish.
God bless him, the King has taught many women and men how to catch Chinook, but
I am his one failure. K has taken me salmon fishing more times than
either of us can count but for the life of me I never can remember to say
“fish on” when we get a bite. I do manage to point and
gutturally utter, “ooooh-ooooh.”
When it’s time to pull up our lines so that they don’t get snarled
with the one that has the catch hooked, I inevitably wind the reel backwards.
I will be forever remorseful for the time I tried to net a salmon with which my
friend Joan had fought for 20 minutes, only to have me push the fish back into
the river. I’ve broken lines and lost hooks. I’m
no longer allowed to have a pole in the water. I can’t say that I
blame him or even that I mind.
The only reason I can figure out that I still get to tag along on an occasional
fishing trip is I have managed to charm the legendary Queen of the
Coquille. She insists on having me in her court. If you hang out at
the bait shop or fish on the Coquille you’ve undoubtedly heard of her,
AKA the Fish Goddess, (but I already used the term goddess for a GLCC member
last week.) Queenie lives out of state but
comes to Bandon several times a year, usually around Labor Day weekend to fish
with the King. When she’s in the boat, someone ALWAYS catches a
fish. There’s luck and there’s lucky, but she’s
uncanny.
The King and Queen’s favorite story occurred a few years ago. They
were out trolling bright and early one morning eating breakfast and drinking
coffee. After days of quick limiting, they hadn’t caught anything
yet. A jealous man taunted them for their fishless boat. They
reassured him they wanted to finish their bagels unencumbered first but had a
salmon scheduled to bite around
You gotta love it. I hope that all of you who are
lucky enough to live here in this beautiful unspoiled paradise appreciate its
beauty and its bounty. I know I do.
For more information: (Please note that effective
http://www.scod.com/cities/clams/clamming.html
(basic clam facts)
http://www.winchesterbay.org/clams.html
(includes clam regulations, how-tos and
recipes)
http://www.how-to-fish.com/index.htm
(links to lots of how-to fish articles)
*&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Fishing Stories from
the Golden Lame’ Crabbing Club:
With
Special thanks to the Countess and the Goddess
A
Girl’s Guide to Crabbing, Clamming and Fishing in
Part I,
Crabbing and the Club
“Give
a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day. Teach him to fish and
he’ll eat for a life time.” (Famous old saying)
“When
a girl makes friends with a fisherman she’ll eat well without ever having
to work for it.” (The Ducque)
“Surrounded
by people
Whose competence more equal
Crabbing the bay in golden lamay
They say she’s eclectic this way” (The Krab)
There are many things I can’t do or I don’t like to do.
I’m clumsy, mechanically and technologically challenged, tend to think
concretely, and to be honest I’m basically lazy. However I have
learned to overcome these obstacles by surrounding myself with competent people
who like to have fun. Having a good time is one of my talents.
Before my readers judge me too harshly hear me out. I make no bones about
it; this is one of the first things someone who chooses to be my friend learns
about me. Remember feminism, and life in general, is about choice.
When I moved to
I could fill
many columns with the adventures of the regal trio, but perhaps our most
renowned escapades occurred when we took up crabbing one year. It was
great fun. We weren’t experts by any means. Once someone told
us the boat dock at Empire was a good spot. We drove all the way out
there, only to spend most of the afternoon wrestling our pots from the
pilings. A crabbing tip - if your pot gets hung up on a piling, a paint
roller on a twelve foot extension substitutes well for a really long
gaff. If you brush your hair, freshen your make
up and wear something pretty you can borrow necessary equipment in the basin
area. Or better yet, find some painter to do it for you.
Our favorite
times involved girl talk on more crab friendly docks while sitting in lawn
chairs, drinking wine and letting the children run wild. We usually ate
crabs for dinner, but we never limited (12 legal size males each.) The
kids eventually got bored.
The Goddess, the Countess and the Ducquess were not
about to give up. We would limit! Giddily, Compulsively,
Dedicatedly we started pursuing our hobby. We tried all kinds of ways to
entice the crabs into our cages. We experimented with different parts of
the tide and different phases of the moon. We would leave one trap in for
hours and pull another every five minutes. We
compared cloudy day catches to sunny ones. D even held her hands out over
the water and chanted trying to feel the tingle of crab vibes.
Mostly we used the tried and true fish heads available at your friendly
waterfront shop for bait. But we researched whatever was rumored at the
time to catch crab. We decided watermelon was suggested by someone who
wanted to keep all the bounty to himself or else it was his idea of a joke on
the pretty ladies. WD40 actually seemed to help, but it introduces
chemicals. We were not so desperate as to lose all our sense of
environmental consciousness by continuing that practice.
Frozen squid in old pantyhose, which you end up with if you crab in
fine hosiery, worked great but the sea lions liked calamari too. Bacon was
okay, although uneaten bait is not recommended for reuse. The
jury’s still out on chicken innards. C thought it was a good
investment when chicken was on sale because the sea lions didn’t like
it. G thought if we used it after the pull date it worked because it was
smelly then. D always thought something fishier attracted more
keepers.
We were driven
in our quest. Once a week crabbing wasn’t enough. We went
after work and on weekends as well. We graduated from wine on the wharf
to beer in the bar with the fishermen. We listened to their
stories. We hated our new friends when they told tales about throwing
back legal Dungeness because THEIR catch was over-limit.
It was C who
first figured out that we didn’t have to crab harder, just smarter.
She surprised us at the dock one day wearing a dress and heels. Her
theory was since you can only keep male crabs, dressing girly would be a way to
call the boys to us. We had a great haul that day. G and I weren’t
about to argue with success. We hit the thrift stores and showed up for
our next (mis)adventure in gold lame’ outfits
with tacky accessories. The Goddess christened us The Golden
Lame’ Crabbing Club (GLCC.)
The gaudier we
dressed the better our luck. Everyone talked to us and shared their
crabbing secrets. If you are a girl with crabs in
There were many
advantages to our attire. The Countess demonstrated if you have to pee in
public, it’s more discreet to do so in a skirt than in pants. It
can be a long way from the crabbing dock to the ladies. The
professional fishermen and deck hands were perplexed by our garb, but they
gallantly pulled our traps. We found them to be true gentlemen who
honorably rescued damsels in distress due to our somewhat calculated fashion
risk of spiked heels on the dock. We returned the favor and introduced
them to champagne (the other bubbly beverage that is kind of like
Bud, but not.)
We transplanted
our affinity for outrageous ornamentation to other occasions as well.
Another friend once starred in a community theater production. We hosted
a “formal” premier party to celebrate his opening night.
I’m afraid much of the audience probably remembers us more than they do
the play.
In most of the
organizations that I’ve been a member I have noticed that if you miss a
meeting you get volunteered to do something for the group. The GLCC was
no exception. One day the ducquess skipped a
Crab Club to spend the day in
But the best
day of all was when we finally hit the limit. C’s FISHERMAEN
FRIENDS FROM THE BAR GAVE HER THEIR EXTRAS…
…The
years passed. The kids grew up. D divorced. G and C are still
happily married. The royal women remain good friends, but we don’t
get in trouble together nearly as much as we used to. In addition to
costuming and crabbing the GLCC days were about fun, friendship, sharing and
discovering a new community. Like the Three Musketeers, we were pillars
of support for each other. Together
***
Then for a few
years I acquired a boyfriend who fishes. We’ll call him K for King
of the Coquille. I think he’ll like that and maybe give me some
smoked salmon in gratitude for the compliment. K confirmed for me that
the easiest way to catch crab is in a boat with pots by the lighthouse.
During the honeymoon stages of our relationship I would pull his cages of
death, but those traps get heavy when they’re filled with
Dungeness. He quickly learned my true colors. Now I mostly leave
the crabbing to him and his burly friends or out-of-town guests. My job
is to enjoy the scenery, pick the meat out of crabs cleaned and cooked by
someone else, and fork anyone who tries to snitch a bite. Then I make
crab and avocado melt sandwiches, crab and asparagus soup and crab and mushroom
omelets. Maybe someday I’ll figure out how to pass on these tasks
as well and evolve into the Ducquess of Dungeness.
The King
introduced me to clamming and fishing. Please tune in next week for Part
2, Clamming and Fishing, and learn how the GLCC lessons can be applied to these
endeavors as well.
***
For more information:
The Sweet Potato
The Divine Secrets of the Yaya
Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells
http://www.scod.com/cities/crabs/crabbing.html
(good crab facts but note that effective January 1, 2004 a license costing
$6.50 for Oregon residents is required to catch shellfish.)
http://www.bandon.tv/html/htmlkrab.html Guest Commentary “Ode to the Ducque”
Limericks by K Krab
Marriage Meanings and Myths
“There is no subject on which more dangerous nonsense is
talked and thought than marriage.” George Bernard Shaw, 1908
"Tell me the goodness
of a system where it is easier to get a marriage license than a hunting
license," Gov. Frank Keating (R) Oklahoma (“… is one of the
last people I ever thought I would be quoting.” The Ducque)
On President’s Day I was driving home from northern
As I listened to all the earnest callers I began to grasp how complex marriage
is. A little of my cynicism melted away. Love, lust, legalities;
celebration, commitment and co-habitation; insurance and inheritance; property
and partnership; religion, ritual and routine; trauma and treasure; family and
finance... This is big stuff. It certainly should rate more than a
10 minute ceremony at City Hall, but is it worth a 10 hour wait in the
rain? Or, maybe waiting outside for hours on a stormy day with your
potential partner should be a requirement for getting married? If getting
a marriage license is worth going through so much inconvenience to these people,
maybe it’s worth my taking a second look at it.
Like most girls growing up in the 1950’s and 1960’s I dreamt of
getting married some day. We planned our weddings, how many and what kind
of children we would have. Some of us bought into the American dream, got
married and had 2.3 children. But then coming of age with the rise of
feminism in the 1970’s some of us disdained the institution of
marriage. The socialist among us snubbed marriage as bourgeois. Some of us cohabitated. Some of us united in hippie ceremonies
in the park. Some of us waited until we were older to tie the knot.
Some of us chose same-sex relationships. Some of us remained
independent. Some of us did all of the above. A lot of us,
including me, didn’t plan much past the wedding reception. I
hadn’t thought through what it means BE married and STAY married.
In 2004, three years of co-habitation, 18 years of marriage and six years of
divorce later, I still don’t comprehend what marriage is. Nor do I
totally appreciate the distinction between living together relationships (LTR)
and marriage. I’m not alone in my confusion. Religious,
political, cultural, historical and legal contexts all have different
perspectives for marriage. Each state in the
It is this very complexity that I believe creates a lot of myths about
marriage. My topic this week isn’t my most original idea. In
my internet search of “marriage myths” there were 128061
responses. Nevertheless, I invite my readers to join me as I retrace my
steps on the primrose path of my thinking about marital meanings and myths.
1) Marriage is about being in love. “In love” is an ill
defined concept that has more to do with sexual attraction and excitement than
it does with deep, enduring love. I have been known to fall in and out of
love in the course of an evening. While that giddy magnetism can be
maintained for years with or without a wedding ring, in many relationships the
in-love feeling dwindles away as the reality of waking up make-up free, dirty
socks on the floor and toothpaste without caps sets in. However, my
successfully married friends tell me things like she still feels a thrill
sometimes when husband calls in the middle of the day and he still feels ardor
when he watches wife sleep in his arms. They make a point of prioritizing
romance and time for each other. Nurturing the love and the “in love”
of a marriage or LTR requires daily effort.
2) Marriage means
“for better or for worse ‘til death do us part.” With
45% to 50% of marriages ending in divorce the statistic belies this
phrasing. It might be more honest if the vow read until one of us has had
enough or until it gets too hard. Over time people grow, change and well,
stuff happens. Some people never imagined what worse could be. The
true test of marriage, or any LTR, is whether or not you grow in similar
directions and tolerate your mate’s differences. Partners need good
communication skills and humor to face adversity together without letting
misfortune tear them apart. While going through a marriage ceremony
certainly doesn’t guarantee that a commitment will be stronger or the marriage
will last longer, it does become a public affirmation of the intent to commit.
3) My spouse will make me
happy. Wrong, wrong, wrong. WRONG! Many studies show that
married people are happier than single people, and who am I to argue with
science? But I do know for a fact that I am responsible for my own
happiness and finding ways to meet my own needs. If you choose well and
have a loving, giving spouse, chances are you will be happier. But, the
happiness is coming from an inner sense of well being and sharing, not from
another having the power to give you joy. If you weren’t happy
before you got married, chances are nothing anyone else can say or do will make
you happy now.
4) My spouse will fulfill
my every need. Compatibility and friendship are essential components to a
good relationship. Common activities serve as glue to hold people
together. But unless your mate is your clone, and how boring would that
be, no one is going to share your every interest or be able to fulfill your
every need. It is important for mates to spend time alone and with others
without their partner in order to expand their horizons and bring back new
ideas to the primary relationship.
5) Marriage is nothing
more than a legal contract to insure paternity and property rights. Two
weeks ago I might have said that for the
non-religious the only difference between LTR and marriage is the paper.
It is true that marriage provides legal benefits. But today I’m
ready to revise my thinking on this one. Dale Carpenter helped convince
me by his remarks in “Bad Arguments for Gay Marriage,” Bay Area
Reporter,
Now that I’ve established what marriage isn’t, what do I think it
is? Good question. Some of the ingredients I’ve identified as
being part of marriage include love, commitment, contract, partnership,
tolerance, growth, nurturance, permanence, unconditional acceptance, respect,
trust, fidelity, values, celebration, and spiritual union. Every
relationship has its own mix of which elements are most important. In a
LTR we affirm each other in all these ways; in marriage the union receives a
societal affirmation as well. But because of the many definitions and
myths of marriage I think the most important element in making or breaking any
relationship is communication. The two people involved are going to have
to learn how to talk to each other and come to an agreement regarding what
their personal marriage vows mean.
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