winesoakedramblings – the blog of Vickie van Dyke

On this eve of Valentine I would like to talk about love. I know I have spoken of love before in this blog. When does it end? Is there only one love of your life. When is love really not love? Love languages. I even wrote a piece called “I Hate Valentine’s Day.” So what else is there left to say about love?

Only this.

Love is not a tap.

True, to the depths of your soul, intelligent, selfless love is not a tap. You cannot simply turn it on and off randomly, depending on your mood. Or circumstance. Real love exists in a state unto itself and it is merely your responsibility to protect it. And express it. And if you one day decide to no longer protect and express then I offer that it was never real love to begin with. Because real love is not a tap. Or if it is, it is a tap that flows freely without restraint or conditions. And if you can turn it off and shut that valve down completely maybe it never really was love? Maybe it was lust or ownership or a simple fly-by. But I don’t think it was love.

Now I reckon at this point a bunch of you are yelling “Hey, wait a minute! I disagree! Because I have every right to despise that shit-head that I married even though I did love him once. After all the crappy things he has done, there’s no way I can love him anymore!”

Again, I’m not so sure. Because as I’ve mentioned before (thanks to Glennon Doyle) – True love is like water. It never disappears. It just changes shape. So if you truly did love that shit-head you would find a way to continue that love ad infinitum. And if you can’t, you might want to dig deep and discern if you did really love or if there were other factors at play that tricked you into believing you were in love. We are all so very capable of confusing love with emotions and desires that actually have very little to do with love.

I personally still love my ex-husband to the moon and back. I could not remain in a romantic partnership with him and I am no longer “in love” with him but my pure love for him is undiminished. As a matter of fact, when I look back over the years, I can honestly say that those I loved, I still love. The shape has changed but the love remains. Those liaisons that I thought were love and were not? Like the guy who threw me down a flight of stairs or the guy who screwed around on me (and every other woman he was ever with) more times than anyone can count? I thought I loved them but in hindsight I most assuredly did not. I needed something from them. Whether it was affirmation or a challenge or simply boyfriend-hood, I was blinded by need. But that is not love. That is when we start to confuse love with desire. And desperation. Ownership. My way or the highway. But real love isn’t any of those things. It is more a deep caring that subscribes to no Hallmark definition. It is wanting your beloved to feel whole and at peace. In harmony with the Universe. Even if that means not in your bed.

So what about marriages that end in volatility? Even when children are involved? Again I offer that it is the grownups’ responsibility to redefine their love. Even when one party seemingly deserves the shit-head crown more than the other. Why? Because those children will always want to believe that it was real love that brought them into this world. And even if that love has now changed shape, it still exists. Even when no kids are involved and even if your heart was broken to bits, it is possible to move forward with love. And gratitude. It’s not easy and it may not magically happen overnight. But it is possible. I know this because I have lived it. And even with a bruised and horribly beaten heart I still chose love. And that’s the beauty. You have a choice.

And what about non-romantic love? Have you ever had a friend who professed love for you at every turn and then one day just decided to shut off that tap? I have, and I admit it hurts like hell. Because romantic or platonic, for me love is love and I can’t turn it off. If it was ever there in the first place it will always be there in the future, no matter how dried up someone else’s tap becomes. It’s not about heart emoticons and blown kisses and “love yous” galore. It’s about patience and trust and understanding and belief. Yes. Believing that real love is worth the fight, the discomfort and the pain. It is worth the effort and the dialogue and even the occasional period of silence. It does not shut down because your feelings got hurt or you had an argument or you lost touch. It cannot disappear – ever – because it is like water. It can only change shape.

I have a friend who refuses to toss out casual “I love yous” to other friends. She reserves her “love” for her partner, as is her right. I used to kid her about this and say “I love you” to her all the time. But now, in hindsight, I think she may have been on to something. We all throw “Love yous” around like confetti at a wedding and perhaps that has made it easier for us to relinquish it fully when it no longer suits our needs. We can always buy more confetti, right?

Tomorrow many of us will in some way celebrate love. For all the love currently in my life I am grateful. For all the love I have known in my like I am grateful. And for all the love that has been unceremoniously removed from my life … I am also grateful. And if those unceremonious removers ever decide that my love is real, that their love is real and that a new shape is better than no shape, well I will still be here.

Because if love is a tap, mine is always on. And always will be.

When I was a kid, success meant scoring an extra hour before bedtime. Or a Pepsi on the weekend. In my teens, success meant a later curfew or not getting grounded when I broke said curfew (who me?). And in my 20s, when I finally realized that adulthood could no longer be avoided, success looked more like becoming a Broadway star, or writing a hit song, or signing with a major record label or even becoming a morning co-host at a hot radio station. These were my beacons, the shining lights that propelled me across the country more than once, into Nashville studios I couldn’t afford and ultimately to co-hosting the morning show at a hot radio station.

Once that happened (in my early 30s) success was defined in a more material currency. A custom-built house in the country. A zippy new car. Yearly trips to Europe to visit family and a sunshiny vacation every year. Some gold and some diamonds and money in the bank. Damn, we were a happening couple, my hubby and I.

When I divorced in my 40s I walked away from much of that and suddenly I was forced to redefine success. The custom-built house in the country became a townhouse in the city. The car was used and not exactly zippy, the vacations were fewer and farther between and the money in the bank considerably less. I even sold the gold and the diamonds.

So now, as I approach my dotage (with gratitude), I am once again assigning new criteria to the word success. Ready?

To me success now means “the opportunity to be sick.”

This past week I’ve had a cold. Not the flu and nothing too horrendous. Just a stuffy, snotty nose which led to a heavy chest, some coughing, a voice lower than most men and a whole lot of lethargy. And for me, the fact that I was able to endure this cold while nurturing myself with long naps, afternoons in bed reading and early nights going nowhere reminded me – resoundingly – how successful I am. I didn’t have to rush out to a job for fear the rent wouldn’t get paid if I didn’t. I didn’t have to wheeze and sneeze all over customers because my boss insisted I come in if I wasn’t dying. I didn’t have to take care of other human beings just because they are small and in need of care. I didn’t have to do anything except “work” on getting healthy again.

I’m very lucky, this I know. I do my job from home so can get it done in my pajamas if need be. My child is grown and on his own (but knows I am always available on the phone) so I am no longer daily at his beck and call. And now that my mother is gone, those frequent trips to her are no longer required. So I was sick and I got to stay home. For days. On end. Being sick. Trying to get better.

Oh the relief.

I also feel quite successful that I don’t have snow tires on my car. I do have all-season radials but it turns out when I bought my little used Kia it had been “souped up” by the previous (obviously fun) owner (hey, I too like going vroom vroom in my 8 year old car) and the cost of installing new rims and wheels and rubber and who knows what else – astronomical. I do not care. Because I never HAVE to go somewhere. So when it snows I stay home. Or I walk. Unless I’m sick. Then I stay home and crawl back into bed with a book.

Yep. I am a success.

And then there’s that trailer. I grew up with a cottage and always figured there would be a cottage in my future. But holy shit cottages are expensive. I mean, really fucking expensive. So guess what? I’m not getting one. What I do have is a trailer. A lovely trailer parked at my favourite place on this planet. In a trailer park. Surrounded by many other lovely trailer park people. Am I sad that it’s not a full-fledged cottage on it’s own leafy lot?

Nope.

It is what it is where it is. And I am beyond thrilled.

Sure no one has published the book I wrote and I haven’t recorded all the albums I’d like to and I haven’t starred in one last Broadway musical and no one has actually paid me to interior design their home (yet). I don’t have a country house or a brand new car or gobs of money in the bank. But I am a success. Because when I’m sick or when it snows, I get to stay home. And you really can’t put a price-tag on that.

I’m not going to tell you to re-think your job or your life or your priorities. I am going to ask you to re-think your definition of success. Because it truly is the little things that count. And if you count yours, you may just discover that you are far more successful than you think.

Last night we hosted a little social gathering. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just 3 couples eating, drinking, chatting and then a bit of music. If you follow my social media feeds you probably already know that I love to entertain. And I do. I love bringing people together, creating a delicious evening, cooking up a storm and bringing on the ambiance. I even curate playlists so that the (recorded) music is just right.

Here’s what I don’t do. Small talk. Cocktail conversations. Weather, politics, gossip, your work, my work, the price of tea in China.

Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. Of course I do some small talk. Pretty much all social discourse begins with some small talk. But if we can’t get to a deeper place a few glasses in (or by dessert) I can tell you I am bored. On those rare nights when I can’t steer the dialogue to something deeper I must either sing a song, play the piano while you sing a song or go to bed.

The two couples involved in last night’s soiree were only vaguely acquainted so yes, we small-talked it up during dinner. But by the time the plates had been cleared and we had retired to the parlour we three women found ourselves at the piano, yes noodling on the keys and yes singing some songs but mostly just talking. About life, men, love, getting older, Botox, men and love. I found this conversation to be exhilarating.

Why? Because I simply cannot be a surface-dweller. I cannot just skim the outskirts of deep and meaningful interaction for fear of a) offending someone (yeah, never done that before) or b) putting my foot in my mouth (yes, there is room) or c) bringing up a taboo subject (no such thing) or d) shocking the party crowd with my candor (don’t care). At the end of the evening I truly need to feel that a connection has been made – with someone – about something that is real. Yes, even the hard stuff.

This past summer we attended a party where I was delighted to see an acquaintance I had not encountered for many years. In the interim I had learned this dear woman had lost her only child to a drug overdose. We sat together at the end of a table on the deck, commented on how wonderful it was to reconnect and how marvelous we both looked for our advanced age (yay small talk!) and then I said “Holy shit. Tell me. How are you dealing with this? I cannot even imagine.”

Well, because we do reside primarily in a land of surface-dwellers and that is what most people are used to, I wasn’t exactly sure how my forthright approach was going to fly. Would she hate me for bringing it up? Have relished a night off from her anguish? Preferred to discuss the beautiful gardens surrounding us?

No. She dove right in and off we went. We had an incredible conversation. We got deep, down, dirty and felt a thousand times better for it. I would like to believe she felt seen and understood. And I would also like to believe that she was grateful. I mean she said she was grateful. And I was grateful that she had felt safe enough to share her pain. Man, did we hug it out.

At that same party was my darling ex-husband. A lovely man raised in the land of surface-dwellers. We had a bit of catch-up chat and when he mentioned that his parents would be visiting in a few weeks I offered that it “wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world” for him (and his new wife) to invite me over for a glass of wine. After all I have stayed in cordial touch with his folks, visited them at their home across the pond, and my ex and his new partner have socialized with both me and my family more than once.

My answer was a nervous chuckle and then silence. And then I’m pretty sure a change of subject. Or maybe it was an “I’m off to get another beer” moment. I don’t remember. What I do remember is the blinding (re)realization that any type of meaningful dialogue (and really we’re talking tip of the iceberg here) was never going to happen with this man at a party. Nope.

A few years back, at a Christmas party in another town, I met a woman for the first time. Somehow, in a room full of people I did know, she and I ended up on the sofa by the fireplace talking about everything from divorce (she was freshly going through one) to amicable relationships with ex-husbands to our kids handling divorce to finding personal fulfillment and are we really entitled. It was a fine conversation and when it was over, man did we hug it out.

And then this past Christmas, at yet another party, and after I had made about as much small talk I could handle (and most of it with the bartender) I sat down with a woman who again I know only socially but who I also knew had just endured an unimaginable tragedy. And I really should say “was still enduring” because do unimaginable tragedies ever abate completely? I had just lost my mother – sad yes, tragic no – so we had some common ground to start with. But after mutual condolences were offered we too marched stoically into the muck. We just went there and talked it out. And when we were done, man did we hug it out.

My guess is this beautiful (and sad) woman had spent the entire evening of festive frivolity accepting sympathy (heartfelt, I’m sure) and maintaining her own stiff upper lip, as we are (weirdly) expected to do – especially at a Christmas party! When she could finally shed that veneer and just BE REAL, in all its not-so-socially-acceptable permutations, she was relieved. And I was again grateful. Not only for the new and stronger connection that she and I had forged but because I don’t do small talk. And a party is pointless to me if that is all that is on offer.

You may notice that in all these encounters (save last night’s, which was beautifully organic), I am the one who instigates discussion. You may also have noticed that all of these encounters – the “successful” ones – were with women. Yep, I know. Not lost on me either.

Apparently men are conditioned to be small-talk super heroes. Whether it’s sports or work or Scotch or the latest episode of Big Bang, most men have an uncanny ability to talk about nothing (my blog, my opinion) ad nauseum. My own beloved is quite capable of rehashing an entire movie plot in detail, dialogue included, while I listen to the clock tick tock tick tock into the next millennium. I do know men who embrace the non-surface-dwelling mentality and I am eternally grateful for them. Even more so grateful for the women who are not afraid to enter into these uncharted waters with me. Regularly. Sometimes even without wine.

My friend T tells me this: You are never boring, Vickie. Conversations with you are not always easy but they are always interesting.

And that is truly one of the best compliments I have ever received.

I know people who hum constantly. As in all the fucking time. Why? My guess is they don’t want to be alone with their own thoughts. Any noise is better than facing your inner sanctum so geez, hum up a storm!

I also know people who are ALWAYS busy. Work, sports, charitable endeavors, music and dance lessons, committees, projects and more work. Why? My guess is they don’t want to be alone with their own thoughts. Any activity is better than facing your inner sanctum so geez, busy up a storm!

I get it. If you make enough noise and stay busy enough, you’ll never have to face your own truth.

I choose to live in a land where deep is the norm and surface-dwelling is unacceptable. I choose to step out of my comfort zone at parties and talk about “that which shall not be said”. I choose to risk scorn, ridicule and a whole lot of eye-rolling to go to sleep content, knowing that I helped someone else share their burden and be seen. And heard. Also, knowing that I have shared my burden and have been seen and heard.

I urge you to try it. You never know … you just might like it. And even more so, who knows whose life you just might impact?

How Social Media Promotes Passive-Aggressive Behaviour

2017 was a rather interesting year for me. For many reasons, some good and some bad. And some just plain old head-scratching. Now I know my tongue isn’t always delicate and I know I am more forthright than most and I have learned to be okay with both of these traits because I also know my heart is huge and open, I am generous and kind and I walk my talk. And that’s the big deal – I really do try to walk my talk. I didn’t always and now that I do I am relieved. Living one’s truth is just so much simpler than living someone else’s.

So last year I got un-friended not once but four times. FOUR times. I mean probably more times than that, times that I just didn’t notice because the so-called friends were more like casual comrades, but four times by people I once counted as true friends. Real friends. Thick-or-thin-tell-secrets friends. Even one soul-mate friend. Why? Because I opened my mouth. Actually to be truthful I unleashed my fingers. Because all of the dissolutions were facilitated via text. Not that I actually ever facilitated a single divorce. Nope. I just told my truth and then sat back. THAT is when I got un-friended.

I realize that on Facebook and to a lesser extent Twitter and Instagram we have many relationships and many kinds of relationships. From close, long-time pals to new acquaintances to family to people we barely know. To some we pay attention, to many we offer a cursory glance. But with these 4 individuals I showed up. Not just on social media but in real life. Regularly.

But apparently they didn’t like my truth. Now, in my defense my truth wasn’t vulgar or combative or dismissive or even damning. It was just my truth. Whether I was dissatisfied with behaviour (or lack thereof) or I was pointing out a hole or I was reaching out for accountability, I was doing it all in the spirit of friendship. Friendship that goes beyond the fluffy and the frothy. Friendship that digs deep and inspires us to be the best possible versions of ourselves.

If you go back a few blogs you’ll find one I wrote called “When Friendships Go Awry”. And yes, they do and sometimes we have to help instigate that journey. Learn to say farewell. But in my experience I usually find that when a friendship goes off the rails, just let it. Let it sit there in the bog for awhile. Allow the participants to breathe, reflect, process and then – at some point – come back to the table and continue the discussion. I’m pretty sure that’s what we used to do.

But now, with social media, it is so much easier to passively-aggressively dismiss that same person you once called friend. Without a single intelligent conversation required. Simply hit the “un-friend” button. The “un-follow” button. And then, if you’re really pissed, BLOCK them! Cause golly your now ex-friend (who was patiently awaiting your return to the table) might try to stalk you. Or something. Cause we’re all deranged. Or something.

I shake my head in disbelief. True, utter, horrified disbelief. That people who I once loved, cared for, stood by and never judged, now think I might stalk them. Yes, you have hurt me to the core. You have shattered any belief system I once possessed and you have forced me to re-think friendship in general and my choices in particular. You have broken my heart.

But I can assure you, there is no need to block me. Because as much as you will always hold a place in my historical heart, I have no need (or desire) to be in your life when you had no need (or desire) to fucking sort this out. Man to man! In the real world. Not on fucking Facebook.

I hereby offer this solemn pledge to ALL of my social media friends. I will never un-friend you because we’ve had a disagreement or you have disappointed me or I don’t like your opinion. I may un-follow your posts and I may un-friend those I don’t know (or can’t remember) but if we are true friends and have been true friends then guess what? We are true friends. And if our friendship ever explodes it won’t be via lame-ass passive-aggressive bullshit. It will be because we tried, and then realized that it was no longer worth the fight. And we will say those words out loud. Whether in person, on the phone or even via text or email, we will give voice to our feelings. Real, honest, human voice. We will hold ourselves personally accountable – not on a virtual playing field but on a real one.

I’m a big girl and I’ve got my big girl panties on. I can take it. I also have my aging heart wide open, laid bare on the table. It can take any conversation you may want to have. Any battle you may want to wage. Any daggers you may want to throw.

And if you cannot, if passive-aggressive is your jam and your easy way out, so be it. Now I know the real you. And as torturous as truth can be, it is still truth. I’d rather suffer with the knowing than the wondering.

It pains me that I wasn’t worth it but … okay.

Happy New Year.