First things first. I am shamelessly (shamefully?) copying a format for writing this in two parts from my dear friend who posted a two-part blog entry. When I read hers, I knew that would fix the problem of how to tell this story, which when I started assumed would have one arc, but it turned out to go another way. So thank you, Kristin, for letting me piggy back.
Insert Ira Glass voice here) Here’s Part One:
There’s a book I began for what I call bedtime reading – nothing with much literary value, but that allows me to relax and quiet my mind before sleep. These aren’t the books I read for ideas, nor do I read them for life lessons or because they have a buzz about them from being well-known titles or authors. I read them to help put myself to sleep. I picked this book up without knowing anything about it or its author, just that it had a picture of a woman leaning back in lingerie, so I figured at best it’s a romance novel.
The other day, I was perusing old writing files all the way back to 2000. I sometimes copy meaningful passages from novels or poetry to keep for later use. I came across a document with the author’s name on it, dated May, 2006. This I find interesting, as I have no recollection that I’ve read anything by this author before, and didn’t remember this entry.
I opened the document, expecting to learn something from another book by this author, something that might relate in theme or format to what I’m currently reading. Instead, the excerpt is from the same book I’m reading, although I haven’t yet made it to the text I’d copied. How strange. I have no recollection of the story, the characters, the meaning I could have possibly found so compelling from this story that I would have written it down before. In fact, as I’ve been reading it (this time) I’ve been wondering why I’m reading it – as I get distracted when a main plot line is an affair, and the main character seems headed toward an affair and hasn’t picked up the signs that her husband has already begun one. Further, there’s a cancer subplot, which is a bit distracting. But I kept reading it. And it did help me doze off.
I titled the excerpt, “On Wanting.” I have grappled with wanting, with the fine line between the absolute right of a person – me – to want, and the accusation that wanting makes a person – me – selfish. I’ve grappled with this for as long as I can remember, and have only very, very recently shifted my understanding of my own wants, and my history with them. I was apparently grappling with this in 2006, but trust me, it goes back way, way further.
Old view: I wanted too much, I wanted the wrong things, I wanted things no one else wanted and therefore I was wrong for wanting them, I was selfish for wanting what I wanted, and, ultimately, it didn’t matter, because I wanted things that were impossible, and therefore I’d never get what I wanted.
Current view: My wants have always been reasonable. I’ve never wanted things that were impossible, or things that were out of reach. My yearnings have never really wavered, despite the years of telling myself – and being told – that I must want something else, or deep down I just want what everyone else wants, or maybe I don’t know what I want.
In the past, my only problem was wanting that which was beyond the capacity of those around me to give. That’s it. I wanted something that my family members, when I was young, couldn’t give. My wants might have threatened their own experiences, since no doubt they were living without their wants being satisfied. My wants and wishes weren’t “wrong” – the want-granters were limited. I didn’t know this at the time, and I didn’t know this for such a long time. My guess is that those early want-granters still don’t know this.
There’s a quote I used in my wedding invitation that said