We are so conditioned to think of the world, and the challenges it presents, as binary.

Night, day. North, south. East, west. Black, white. On, off.

Some believe we are actually wired to consider options, make decisions, and solve problems this way. I for one am not so sure.

This month I am especially reminded of the limits of binary thinking. My LGBTQ friends and comrades continue to patiently teach me about identity, pronouns, and so much more. Years ago, at the White Privilege Conference, I was surprised, humbled, and eventually grateful when a participant spoke with me afterwards about my use of “he/she.” I realized I had a lot to learn about the limits of binary thinking.

Over the years, I have struggled against rigidity and have said that I try to “live in the grey.” This became an even more important skill for me after I married a man who could only see things as either black or white.

In the months following Peter’s (z”l) death, most of the women and men with whom I attended KARA’s spousal bereavement groups spoke about struggling with decision-making after losing their loved ones. I experienced this challenge too, noticing my increasing inability to easily say “yes” or “no” to what might have been, under different circumstances, simple questions with seemingly simple answers.

I was quite confused and troubled by this development, for I had always been proud of my decisiveness. I grew self-critical for this new deficit.

At some point, though, instead of fighting to regain my access to “yes” or “no,” I realized I could break through the confines of the binary box with a sincere, “Not yet.” And now, although I am feeling decisive again, I embrace this healthy, heartfelt response whenever I can.

 

 

Since last fall, I have been spending an increasing amount of time reconnecting with my first love.

No, I am not talking about Harry, who was my co-president in kindergarten. (Yup, both my leadership aspirations and amorous desires emerged early in life.)

Nor have I been thinking much about Brian, whose shiny, engraved I.D. bracelet graced my left wrist the entire summer before 6th grade.

This is not even about Steven, with whom I read Thoreau and Emerson as we walked through the woods to high school in the pre-dawn hours.

What I’m talking about is poetry, a passion I have recently welcomed back into my life with open arms and a full heart.

This love was rekindled last August, when the latest, bilingual collection of Pablo Neruda’s Odas arrived in the mail, a luxurious gift to myself as the summer days began to disappear.

Unlike my previous liaisons, this current relationship has progressed slowly, as I have revisited several former loves: Neruda made room for Yehuda Amichai, and Amichai cleared the path for Marge Piercy. Most recently, after flirting for months with Mary Oliver, I jumped feet first and embraced a collection of her work, spending the better part of a week curled up in bed, reading each poem aloud, cover to cover, under the covers.

I’m not sure who will be next, but for now, I am feeling satiated. And content.