Half way done my second cup of coffee – though like the weather, it’s cool and a little unappealing, I opted for the sofa and blanket and book this morning. I’m feeling unkempt and a little unruly… which for me is still pretty tame compared to most. When I started this book of essays, “Walking Light,” by Stephen Dunn, I had no intention to comment on it as much as I am, nor did I expect to find it as thought provoking as it is. In every essay there is at least one turn of phrase that makes me pause and say that was nice. I forgot that I’m allowing myself to write in books now, so I went back and marked a few things up.
I suspect one of the reasons the book is working for me is because at times it’s instructing me about poetry, and at times it’s instructing me about memoir – most of this blog has been a sloppy mix of those two things. Dunn is so much more skilled and succinct, and less confessional or self wallowing. The essay on gambling is much more memoir than poetry instruction, whereas the essay on abstraction was very much about poetry. As I read this morning (his essay on gambling), I kept drawing the connection between gambling and love. Before picking up my laptop I wrote a short passage in my journal. It was initially inspired by Dunn saying that he met a girl who became his girlfriend who taught him to slow down. I’ve said that about my ex-fiancee, B, quite a few times. Women have a tendency to do that for men – or perhaps more accurately, love has a tendency to do that, teaches us different paces. In Dunn’s case, he was talking about the gambler’s need for “action” and that the bet is a way of living on the edge. I’ve never really lived my life on the edge, I’m usually the safe bet type. In my journal, I tried to describe my life now and in these past few years as I might see them a few years from now. With these things in mind, I wrote:
I moved at a normal pace, maybe a little faster than others. I would never describe myself as living on the edge…. except for maybe when it came to romantic relationships. I had a phase which I was convinced was a lifestyle choice… one that I’m not sure I’ve finished or come out the other side of – in which I believed love was the only pursuit worthy of me putting it all on the line.
I don’t know if it’s a phase or a permanent approach to life, but when I got divorced, I felt I needed to rediscover large parts of who I was. For much of my adult life, I had been the dutiful husband and reliable parent. The hard-working employee, likable and sharp enough to get ahead, but never aggressive enough to get all the way to the top. I’m agreeable enough to the point it seems like I have no passions. I like lots and lots of things. I avoid extremes and instead play safely in the middle. I color inside the lines. I make modest bets. I dated a number of women, and if I was taking chances – this was where it seemed to be. In some cases, betting on the long shots, the ones I knew weren’t ready but could have tremendous payoffs. Tossing logic and odds aside for the purity of heart. I had no idea what I was doing. I’m not sure I have any more clarity now. What brought me to this philosophy?
Still licking my wounds from a relationship gone south, in June of 2017 I went hiking in the Smoky Mountains. It was part of a long road trip that included Memphis, a blues festival in Mississippi, two days of hiking, and a day in Asheville, NC. The hikes were hard and long. I had tried to track my mileage the first day, but my phone started to run out of juice at about 10 miles. My estimate was somewhere between 15 and 17 miles for the day… I had blisters. I did another 10 or 12 miles the next day. I can’t remember which of the two days it was, but I can remember that for much of the hike I was contemplating this fine line between experience and memory. I was trying to figure out what gave memory meaning. I came up to several gorgeous mountain views, saw things that in that very moment, only my eyes were seeing. I had lots of “man I wish you could see this” moments, and no clear definition of you. Sure, I could go home and tell people about it, I could take some pictures, post to Facebook…. but to be there in the moment… It was a zest for life feeling that was dying to be shared. I couldn’t figure out how to process it or how to carry it forward. I was in the middle of a revelation that felt like a fundamental shift in my being. On those mountain tops, walking step by step, taking in views and smells, I was coming to the conclusion that life was meant to be shared. It felt like it was both the start of something and the continuation of something that I knew was a deeply held truth within. It was as if I had discovered the best definition of myself.
Not long after I returned from my trip, I was haunted by this “revelation.” I went searching for it online, this feeling, this way of defining life, and came across a clip at the end of the movie “Into the Wild” that seemed to say the exact thing I was feeling. I tried, unsuccessfully, to get the girl back – and while it had only been a few months, she had gotten engaged. For the next half-year I bounced around from short relationship to short relationship. I was stuck on how I had messed a good thing up… I met people, I went out a good bit, often on my own. Tuesday nights, you could find me in Doylestown for the open mic blues jam sessions (listener, not participant). In an effort to develop my skills to be a nonprofit CEO, I had taken on a new role at work. Essentially I kept busy, I kept gently poking at trying to figure it all out. In December, I met a woman who I dated for about five months. I was trying out the sharing my life thing, and she went along with all of it. We went to see live music, went hiking, went for walks in the park, had dinners together, the pets met. But… something was missing. It wasn’t enough to just share my life, I needed it to be reciprocated. I needed someone who would share theirs and help me grow. A month or so after I ended it, I met my ex-fiancee, B. Since then, nothing has been the same.
This is the history I brought with me (is always with me) as I read an essay on gambling. What follows are some of the passages I underlined, and maybe some explanation of why they struck me. In some cases, it’s just the way Dunn uses language, but in many, it’s me thinking about gambling on love. In particular, I think about how I am a bad gambler – I always show my hand, I always go all in, and then convince myself it’s the only admirable way to live. Like the gambler who says he broke even, I hide my losses, tell myself that I learned something in the process or find a way to admire the horse that ran a good race but faltered in the end. If you’re not willing to lose, you’re probably not doing it the right way.
Good high-stakes poker players are neither noble nor greedy. They’ve sized up their fellow players, know a good deal about probabilities and tendencies, and wish like poets that their most audacious moves are perceived as a series of credible gestures.
…
The great gamblers, and there are not many, don’t need anything. They simply wish to prevail. And we know how dangerous people are who don’t need anything. The purity of leverage.
…
I’m not that kind of gambler. I’m full of commonplace desire mixed with modest means.
These statements combine keen observation with the language that I find appealing (the lines in bold). I love that last line – commonplace desire mixed with modest means. I have, at various times, expressed my admiration for self-sufficiency (be the person you want to find… find and develop those qualities within yourself) and my distrust of self-sufficiency. We all want to be wanted and needed… how dangerous the person who has no needs. And as a lover/partner, yes, we are hoping that our most audacious moves are perceived as a series of credible gestures. We are always moving towards a more authentic version of our self and it’s our desire to be seen in that light.
Some things I know: If you go to the casino with one hundred dollars, don’t expect to win a thousand. If you approach poetry writing without reading great poetry, you will reach, at best, the level of your ignorance.
The same can be said of falling in love. If you don’t come at it with a force and depth equal to it’s demands, you can’t expect depth in return. It is about what you’re willing to risk.
Good gamblers trust their ability to correctly read situations.
This is where my overly enthusiastic all-in approach causes blind spots. I did not correctly read the situation any of the times that I’ve tried to get someone back. My revelations are not their revelations. My undying enthusiasm and patience is not their enthusiasm or level of patience. The same can be said when it’s been in the reverse. I have not always read the depth of someone else’s feeling for me and so I’ve caused pain to them.
My resolution for the New Year is to work on my soul. I used to think that first you had to locate it, but now believe it makes itself invisibly palpable when it’s been tended to. I wish there were more talk about soul. We’ve largely given up such talk, in favor of commerce, politics, the talk of people who expect answers, results. I’ve said in a poem. ‘the normal condition of the soul is to be starved.’ If this is true, those of us who are vigilant about our souls are trying to feed them. Save them? Faust gambled with his soul, which suggests that we should be using different currency when we gamble. But it seems to me that gambling, at it’s healthiest, is one way of activating the soul, nudging it from its hungry sleep. I’m speaking about gambling in its most reductive form: taking a chance. The act of taking a chance is energizing. The art of the act of taking a chance can lead to the sublime.
…
Surely those folks who play their lives and their work eminently safe don’t often put themselves in the position where they can be startled or enlarged. Don’t put themselves near enough to the realm of the unknown where discovery resides, and joy has been rumored to appear. The realm of the unknown is contiguous with the realm of failure. The gambler, deep down, has made a pact with failure. He’ll accept it because it has interesting neighbors. In such realms the soul, I think, is fed, not to mention exercised.
Very early in our relationship, B wrote:
I think I get a little anxious before I leave you on Sundays…it ripples into how I think about things.
Everything between us is incredible. You’re everything I’ve been looking for, and far more…
…and I’m really happy about where this relationship is going, and the speed in which we get there.
I’m not risking anything more than you are in this relationship.
I may just going to be awkward on Sundays until my head catches up with my heart.
We both knew the risk, we were both addicted to the gambler’s rush, the all-in stakes of the game. While Dunn isn’t talking about love specifically, he is making grand statements about life – those pedantic cliches we’ve all heard before: with great risk comes great reward; you get what you put in to it; nothing ventured, nothing gained. I suppose I’d argue, that our first task is to be aware – of the soul, of the choices, of the life we’ve led and are choosing to lead, and where we put our efforts – on what do we gamble and how high are the stakes? We all choose our domains in which we push the boundaries of what we’re willing to risk. For the Monday-morning warriors, the ones who expect answers and results, those efforts and risks are usually tied to employment and commerce. For the artists, they often sacrifice all for the sake of creation. For the adrenaline junky, it is cheating death. What are the things that give us a rush, what makes us feel alive? Buddhism teaches us about the calm appreciation of the present moment – the stoicism of not seeking. On those mountain trails in Tennessee, nearly three years ago, I had my revelation as to what brings me joy and where I place my bets. In most aspects of life, I am the peaceful Buddhist, learning to be accepting, gracious, and full of gratitude. In matters of love, I am the gambler… I hope to find a better balance between the two. I hope to learn the nuances of the transition from all-consuming (gluttony) to something more sustainable and nourishing – that thing that still nudges my soul awake, feeds it, and learns its different paces and appetites.