A recent revelation to note. I've always fancied myself someone who, through much introspection, is thoroughly acquainted with my inner life. It turns out that's not true. I am introspective. And according to a Myers-Briggs assessment, my type (the ENTP) is more aware of my environment than almost any other type because my dominant drive in life is to understand the world I live in. But paradoxically, ENTPs are often quite unaware of their own feelings. Perhaps because of the extraversion which dismisses the need for quiet and solitude. Perhaps because of the constant drive to invent, create and seek new frontiers (leaving inadequate time for true reflection). After a lifetime of feeling like I quite knew myself, I am coming to terms with the fact that I often am misinformed about my initial reactions to things. And it's only when I take extra time (something in such short supply) that I can peel back the additional layer to discern (or receive revelation) on what's actually going on.
So back to my kairos. Here's how it happened...
6 weeks ago on vacation in the Dominican Republic I read Loving Frank, a well-researched novel about the life of Mamah Cheney, the little know mistress (and eventually common-law wife) of famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Mamah was bright, challenging, restless, independent and fearless. So fearless that she left her affable husband (whom she had no real affection for) to pursue a passionate love affair with Frank. They both left their marriages and children to be together. After a stint in Europe they returned home to America to face the wreckage they had left behind, and while both of them suffered for their affair - [she was particularly scorned and ultimately met an untimely end, which some no doubt attributed as some sort of divine retribution for her adultery] - she seemed to bear the lion's share of public scrutiny for their union. The book left me heartbroken, frustrated and unsettled. When I turned the last page I literally threw the novel across the room, watched it hit the wall and sink to the tile below.
3 years ago I met a man named Steve Garber in what I can only call a divine appointment. We took a walk together and he asked me about my work, my life, my (then) recent marriage. It was one of those strange conversations that you just know are going to be significant though you don't know why. Even though we only talked briefly I remember so much about the conversation. I remember the grandfatherly warmth he exuded in our time together. I remember the sincerity and love that emanated from his person. I remember the way his eyes filled with tears and his voice broke when he spoke the words "the new heaven and the new earth" (a reference to Revelation 21, which has since become my favorite verse in all of scripture). During that conversation he suggested that I read Anna Karenina and I said that I would.
I bought Anna Karenina in Kramerbooks & Afterwords in Dupont Circle the following weekend and anxiously dove in, fully expecting to find it transformative. Half way through I was surprised that in fact I find Russian writers quite laborious and was having to push myself through it. Somewhere in the midst of it I left the book at my aunt's house in South Carolina on vacation. She wasn't able to find it, and assuming the book would later resurface, it was put on hold indefinitely.
3 nights ago I ran into Steve in DC and we talked about the book. He asked what I thought of it, and too embarrassed to admit that I hadn't finished it, I pulled from my memory of my reaction upon putting it down. "Sad. I thought it was sad." He, of course, pointed out that the book is ultimately redemptive - and I resolved to finish Anna Karenina after all this time. So it was with that goal in mind that I descended upon Barnes & Nobles tonight. I sat on the floor of the Fiction & Literature section for hours until I'd finished it. Yet I felt a familiar emotion creeping up in me as I read the final pages.
Heartbroken, frustrated and unsettled.
Tempted to throw the book across the room, just to watch it fall.
It wasn't redemptive for Anna. She, like Mamah Cheney, left her husband and child for the man she loved, was scorned by society and met an untimely end. I started to wrestle (and have been wrestling since) with the 2 reactions that both of these stories evoked.
1 IT WASN'T WORTH IT. (and)
2 IT'S NOT FAIR.
I'll start with the second, because it's easier. Both of these women lost everything. Their children, their friends, their reputations, their lives. Both of them left everything behind to be with the men they loved. Men who were equal participants in the adultery. Frank Lloyd Wright had a wife and children of his own. Vlosky pursued Anna knowing full well that she was married to another man. And while neither man emerged unscathed from these affairs (careers suffered and both ultimately suffered the loss of the woman he loved) - what they experienced was NOTHING compared to the fate of their paramours. These women were skewered by society for their choices as if they'd made them alone. And for both of them to die... I don't know. It just felt like a cautionary tale to women and women alone. [WARNING: Following one's heart will ultimately lead to your demise.] I didn't see Frank hacked up by a servant or Vronsky thrown in front of a train. It just felt so uneven. The women perished for their love and the men went on living. Where's the justice in that? Maybe it's the feminist in me, but I found that deeply disturbing. So strong was the sense of misogyny (real or imagined) that it almost overrode the second, and I suspect more significant reaction.
It wasn't worth it.
A year and a half ago a couple in our small group broke up. After ten rocky years of marriage, 2 beautiful girls and some genuine bright spots, Kelly got sick of Chris's gambling, his temper, his negativity - and she had an affair. She "fell in love" (or thought she did) with a friend of his, and following her heart, saw this other man (who was also married) for 6 months unbeknownst to any of us. It unraveled and she ultimately came clean, but decided to end the marriage anyway realizing that the affair had been a symptom of the diseased marriage and not the cause of their troubles. It was devastating. To everyone we knew. To our circle of friends (none of whom had ever really been that close to an affair), to the 2 involved (Chris still hasn't really recovered and has left the faith altogether) and most of all to their little girls. And in the midst of that turmoil (and in moments since) I've occasionally felt these pangs of regret and, remembering the good times and the potential we saw in both of them, thought "it didn't have to be this way."
I felt a lot like that when reading these books. The stories are tragic. Even before the deaths of their heroines, both women's lives were in ruins. Their children were devastated and robbed of their mothers (and as a new mother myself I can't quite explain how upsetting that was for me to think about). Their husbands (though representative of fairly loveless marriages) were anguished. The reaches of the destruction sin wreaked on their lives and those of everyone near them can't quite be explained. And I kept thinking that it wasn't worth the warm feelings or good sex. It wasn't worth sense of destiny or significance. And it didn't have to be that way. I ached at that thought. And I ached in wishing it could all be undone. But as much as I wanted to hate them or at least be angry with these women for abandoning their children in pursuit of personal fulfillment - I couldn't. I related to them too much.
Not because I'm in a loveless marriage (thankfully) or because I love someone else (I don't). But I relate to wanting to feel significant. I relate to wanting to be loved passionately. For wanting to live an epic love story. One in which I and my husband ache for each other the way we did in the beginning. I relate to feeling like life isn't what I signed on for at times. For reading a book or seeing a movie in which the dashing hero sacrifices everything to be with the woman he loves - and wishing someone loved me that much. He does so because he thinks she's beautiful. Because he thinks she's worth it. And sometimes I find myself wishing I was worth it.
(Note: Don't try explaining that to your husband or he will feel deeply inadequate and sincerely wounded.)
I started thinking about the intermingling of tragedy and recognition I saw in those women and wondering what God was trying to say. Both women chased passion and believed it would bring lasting happiness. Both were disappointed. Aren't we always when we chase the things we think will make us happy? Where are the areas in my life where I want my identity to be affirmed by others? And how often does that end up deeply passing and disappointing?
I'll be honest. I'm too tired to write much or process much more tonight. But I wanted to get these thoughts out of my head for fear that they'll dissolve before I fully understand.
Good night dear void.
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