Being brave

Recently I found myself thinking about bravery. 

I don't mean the "throw yourself on top of a grenade before it explodes to save innocent bystanders" kind of bravery. I have no background or standing to speak of that kind of heroics. 

I am talking about the little bits of bravery.  The things that throw us in a dizzy spin of panic when we consider doing them and we do them anyway.  The "speaking in front of a crowd in spite of panic attacks" kind of bravery.

I've never thoughts of myself as particularly brave.  In fact, for many years I was brought up to be afraid, to not speak out, to not seek adventure, to be cautious, to stay away from all risks.  My parents' motto when raising me was "Tише едешь, дальше будешь" - roughly translated it means, "The slower you drive, the farther you'll get".  Caution was bred in my bones and although I've rebelled against it as a child, it took many more years before I would shrug off the mantra completely.

So, back to bravery...  Something I've found out the hard way is that when you are really nervous about doing something and you force yourself to be brave and do it anyway, it backfires cataclysmically (is that even a word?) when exactly what you were afraid would happen, happens.  The confirmation of your worst fears is exponentially worse when the results of your bravery kick you in the gut.

Of course being brave doesn't always backfire.  In fact, I've found that I've succeeded more often than I've failed and when I had failed, usually I still felt buoyed by the success of trying.  But the few times that being brave has caused me genuine distress and led me to question my trust in myself and my judgment have weighed on my mind much heavier than all the successes.  And the scars those kinds of failures leave tend to be much deeper even if no one sees them but me.

So, to be brave or not?  Today, I'm still smarting from the last bravery inspired miniature disaster so my answer will be a lot more tentative than if you had asked me the same question a couple of weeks ago.  Still, my answer remains the same...

Be brave.  Going slow and getting farther means nothing if you end up in a place you never wanted to be to begin with.

Blending lives

Seven years...  Almost down to the day, give or take a couple of weeks, but what's a couple of weeks in the face of years?  Seven years is how long my life has been flowing down two separate streams.  Two streams, two existences, two seemingly incompatible realities with torn loyalties and frayed expectations.

I've found, much to my chagrin, that life frowns on symmetry and so the two streams are never in perfect alignment or weight to each other.  Most of the time, it's the stream of "normal" life that's heavier and fuller and runs deeper.  That stream carries the "me" that most people encounter - the dedicated employee, somewhat harassed manager, strict and no-nonsense mother, exasperated daughter, quiet confidante.  If you get to know me through work or chat me up in the grocery store, that's the "me" that you'll get.  I can be funny and I can come across as forceful and determined.  I've been called a control freak and I don't really care if it's meant as a compliment or an insult. I'm intensely introverted and although most people don't know this, I still get intense flashes of panic when I have to engage in conflict or speak in front of an audience.  In this stream, I'm many things, most of them indisputably normal.  Downright vanilla, one might say.

And then there's the second stream.  This one sprung into life seven years ago when I met J.  In this second stream, I'm the "me" that I try so hard to hide from the rest of the world.  This stream carries the "me" that neither has control nor wishes for any.  Here I am someone who tries to be brave but who eventually cries and then screams in response to deliberate pain.  I am the person who finds peace in coils of rope and restraint and who stops hyperventilating at the touch of J's blade on my skin.  Here I don't need to have the last word but I do need to kneel in joyful surrender, abdicating all rights and choices but the right to serve the one I love.  This is the "me" that my other self doesn't understand and is a little afraid of.   

I've tried so hard to keep the two streams separate, as if afraid that one will contaminate and change the other, the way a spoonful of sugary syrup changes a glass of water.  And while I was focusing as hard as I could on keeping the two apart, I missed the turning point when what I was trying so hard to prevent had already happened. 

As all my energies went to maintaining the appearance of normalcy and shoring up the walls of the real "me", the hidden stream was slowly bleeding in through the cracks.  Tiny, curling tendrils of crimson that took longer and longer to dissolve without a trace.  Except that now there is a trace.  Too many bleeds have done what I had been desperate to prevent - my two streams have contaminated each other, blending into one.  It was easier to hide bruises on my upper thighs than it is to hide knife cuts on my arms.  It's even harder to admit that I no longer want to hide them; that I leave those cuts there on purpose. 

I could separate the two again.  I can even see it as a challenge and I'm nothing if not up for a fruitless endeavor, but why bother?  Why not let the two blend and see just how much of a challenge it will be to keep them in balance rather than separate?  Looking back, I can see that the separation was always a carefully maintained illusion; a hard-fought for lie of an existence.

I'm done with lying... let the streams blend and I'll learn how to swim.

What we find beautiful

This past weekend I acquired a new betta fish.  He is a gorgeous if restlessly erratic specimen - sleek indigo body with gold accents on his tail and pale blue fins.  Of all the bettas I've ever had, he is by far the most beautiful which brings me to the title of this post.

Watching him ceaselessly patrol the four walls of his brand new fish tank I got to thinking about what I find visually beautiful.

Some things are downright mundane - flowering cherry trees that I routinely pass on the way to work, my cat stretching after a nap, image of a taut naked female back (or backside, for that matter), calligraphy, delicately carved piece of Asian furniture.  I suspect most people won't take issue or argue with me about the beauty potential of most of these.

Most would also agree that flowers are beautiful.  You get a bouquet of flowers, gorgeous, alive with colors and life - it's a moment of pure beauty.  But as soon as your hands leave it, it begins to die until a week or two later you pluck it out of the murky water, shuddering as your fingers close around the slimy stems before depositing them into the compost bin.  Flowers are a gift of inevitable death. 

I don't find death beautiful.  Compelling and thought-provoking, yes, but not beautiful.

Life and its regenerative powers are beautiful.

Body art is beautiful - tattoos, piercings, scars... and my personal favorite, bruises.

I find bruises on my own skin to be almost unbearably beautiful.  Unintentional bruises will get a passing glance, but it's the bruises filled with intent and brimming with memories that hold my gaze.  Those are the ones that I stare at, mesmerized by the play of colors.  These are the bruises that I'll brush against, accidentally on purpose, awakening the echo of their birth.  They are the ones that I'll watch day after day, mourning the inevitable fading of black and purple into the palest of pinks until only a shadow of the memory remains.

Leave the flowers in the hothouse, bring me bruises... that's beauty in life.