Out on the French Countryside

One of the main issues that Nikola and I have encountered since the beginning of our relationship has been the question of where we will live. Originally this was more of a non-question as he completely surprised me by not giving a second thought to coming with me to Istanbul. It was an immediate confirmation of the deep passion and trust that we had for each other. Now, as we move away from the theoretical implications of "living together," we find ourselves in the midst of a logistical nightmare.

Being a student in Istanbul it was easy for me to get a visa here. Nikola had a bit more trouble, and his visa was certainly not cheep, but he succeeded. Now our clocks are ticking down. We have valid resident permits until October of next year, and by then we need to have figured out a somewhat more permanent solution. This, logically, involves me getting a visa for Bulgaria, or Nikola getting a visa for the US, both of which are drawn out processes, thanks to the US government. Ultimately there may be some months between when we move out of our place in Turkey and before we can settle anywhere else. Because of this I have been looking into some options for travel.

The problem with travel and working is that anything that fits me does not fit him, and although he can work anywhere, I cannot. It is definitely an issue of fish and bird when it comes to making our careers fit together synergistically. But I have been looking at workaway, wwoofing options anyways, as they offer me a chance to train in certain specific permaculture areas that I want to implement once we have our own place. Some of what I have found seems intriguing but most of it is rather upsetting.

I have always been a firm believer that a person should be free to set their own prices and make their own contracts. If something is too expensive for you, then don't buy it. It is that simple. Except that it isn't. The idea of volunteering on a farm or hotel for free room and board is a great idea, until I find that most of the places now days are not offering stimulating work that allows the worker to learn (such as design concepts, or skills- instead it is unskilled, manual labor) AND requires the person to work 7 hours a day, 6 days a week for room and board. That just seems a little extreme to me. Working for that much time in a position that gives you skills is one thing, but just pumping out physical, mindless labor for almost no return is absurd. And yet, the more people who offer that, the more people can exploit those who want to travel and volunteer. It seems like yet another great idea is fading into history through selfishness and exploitation.

After our vacation to France I thought about possibly doing a summer working at a camp or a hostel there. In theory it is a great idea. In reality, once again, it doesn't really fit my life with my partner.

So many dreams and sensations are surrendered during a marriage... but so many others become achievable. I am considering new paths and new ways of doing things that never crossed my mind before. I never thought that I would be married to a computer guy. I always assumed that any long-term relationship would be with someone working in my field. Now I am starting to see why that is necessary. Most fields have allowance for deviation. Mine, not so much.

A bird and a fish may fall in love, but where will they build their home?

--- Probably not on the French countryside. 

Fight and Trust

Trust. Dedication. These are things that I thought that I understood over the years, and of course I understood bits and pieces, but now... Wowsa! Now I feel like I have the whole thing.

Nikola and I have been on a Friends binge. We are in season 3, where Ross and Rachel break up--- things get tough in their relationship and Rachel says that they need a break. Ross immediately goes out and sleeps with another girl, thinking that their relationship was over. Rachel finds out and while they are trying to figure out if they can make things work Ross points out how quickly Rachel gave up their relationship, the way that she didn't fight for it. (I wont go into how Ross failed to fight for the relationship either.) He needed to know that she was going to fight to be with him, and in the end she decided that, no, she wouldn't. Him sleeping with another girl had destroyed her understanding of him, because before she felt completely safe with him and thought of him as a man who would never, ever hurt her. After such a painful experience she could no longer view him the same and so the love had changed. Now, here I am suspending the fact that this is just a television show, and the fact that I am not really certain of the monogamy rules as the end-all of relationships to say: "I finally get it!" 

There have been times in the past that I was accused of not fighting for a relationship. Sometimes that accusation has been true. Sometimes it was, in my heart's view, unwarranted. However, whether I was fighting or not (I realize now), the fight was always on my shoulders. It was, ultimately, a question of my investment and how much I was willing to give up to be with someone. Was I willing to give up my location, my job, my school, my values? How much room was I willing to give? How much of them was I willing to take? This is not to say that there has been no give from my previous partners. The people that I have loved in the past have given quite a bit of love to me, and accepted many aspects of me. Some have been very supportive of this wandering game that I play and my thirst to find myself. Some have put up with large amounts of insanity. Some have not. Some left at the first sign of trouble, and some have stuck it out far enough to scar ourselves into a permanent remembrance. But it has never, never been the way that it has been with my husband.

 "How much are you willing to fight for us?"

With Nikola, for the first time, I feel like the question is not shooting directly towards me and only me. It is a valid question. But for the first time I feel that he trusts me enough to never ask, and I feel like I will never reach the end of his fight either. He knows that I want our life together, and I cannot question his commitment either. I have never really thought about it before, but I think about it often with him: I have a man that will never hurt me. Now, that is not to say that I will not suffer in our relationship, and that I will not experience hurt. But, that pain will never, ever be inflicted intentionally by him. I know that for sure. I know that he will support me in any way that he can and that he will always, always fight for our relationship. I can trust that. I never knew I NEEDED to trust that, but I do, and I can and it is wonderful.

I am the happiest woman in the world in this marriage.

Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

“Have you ever stared in the mirror for so long that your face stopped making sense? It just become a bunch of shapes. Just shapes. Not good or bad.”

—	Noelle, The Truth About Cats and Dogs

It really only happens in the heat of engagement, and even then it is not a common occurrence. Just before the dissolution of self, when my mind is hanging on to the last threads of coherency, sometimes-rarely, he changes. I tend to think it is marvelous, and wonder about it, before forgetting to even think about it until the next time it happens.

No, I have already gotten it wrong.

He doesn't change at all. He is still the same sweet, loving, playful boy that I have seen before, except I start to notice new parts of him. I guess I am the one that changes. It isn't unheard of- the mosaic of intimacy. You bring yourself so close to another person that they lose their form. They become a collection of shapes with ends and beginnings and overlaps, but cease to be, just for a moment, the person (As a whole, complete, manicured being) that they project to the world. In general I love that moment. I think that it is the most honest that two people can be with each other. It is a moment of humming and becoming, of once was and existence in the now. It is quite beautiful. But sometimes what you see is not what you expect and the moment jolts you more powerfully than the liquid grace that it normally wraps you in.

Sometimes, he jolts me.

It isn't that he becomes something completely foreign that I can not relate to or understand. Quite the contrary. The shapes that I see when I let go of everything and draw myself up into him, far enough to make him my entire existence, are eerily familiar. They are beyond familiar. They are actually recognizable. I have seen that jaw line before, not in some vague way, but in a way that I can name the place and time and person that I saw it connected to. The nose, too. The set of the eyes, both the left and the right, and the angle at which his hair sticks out from his head. They are all KNOWN to me.

Now I get that it is rather creepy and perhaps disrespectful in some ways to contemplate past adventures in a new bed. I am rather good at putting aside the recognition, drawing back, and seeing my husband for who he is, but afterwards I got to thinking. Maybe it isn't creepy. Maybe it is fate. Maybe I have been trying to find the man that fits with me, and I have kept finding repeating shapes. I have found the correct set of the mouth and the correct tone of voice but never the whole person that just fit me. Until now. Now I have finally found a package that collects all of those shapes that I have been magnetically drawn to over the years. I have found my destiny, and every person that I have met and loved before him has helped me to be able to recognize the smallest, most beautiful details about him. Sometimes I watch him sleep, so very peaceful, and I see my life flash before me... from the very first crush until now. But it is more than that, because when I draw out and look at him as a whole, and he opens his sleepy eyes and smiles at me, I see my future. I see all of the amazing things that we have the capability to do. I see a whole lotta shapes. 

Married Life

They say that things change when you get married, but they don't really say how. Too often the depiction of marriage centers on the cold feet of the wedding day. I will admit, that standing in a foot of snow my toes were a little icy, but I cannot relate to that gulping fear of commitment that represents my generation. In the days immediately following the wedding I remember thinking that the wedding didn't really change much. It was great to be with our friends and families, and it was great to see their support, but from the perch of an egoist I didn't really NEED the validation of the state, the church, or even my community, to give my relationship the permission to continue for eternity. In my heart Nikola and I have been "married" since we told each other that we would stay together through everything, forever. Laying in bed, wrapped up in the heat of fading fall there was an honesty that I thought could not be topped. The wedding was a treat and a formality. It was a time to share our decision with the world, but I didn't expect it to effect me like it did. (does).

First of all, I was overwhelmed by the love and support given to us by our friends and family. At times it was a bit stressful to be the center of attention, and to meet so many new people while trying to give attention to loved ones from different realms of my life, but it was completely worth it. Even though we didn't need the PERMISSION for our love, it is comforting to know that the support is there. From the generosity of our friends and family in making the wedding happen and the gifts we received to start our new life together, to the absolutely wonderful wishes that were given to us on the day of the wedding, I could not be happier. It gives me such warmth and confidence in my choice to stay in Bulgaria and start a family here. Knowing that if we have children they will grow up among such warm and caring people is absolutely priceless.

Secondly, things did change between Nikola and I. It is difficult to express the exact nature of the change, and it was completely unexpected. In fact, it didn't happen the minute that we exchanged vows, or said "I do." (Well, "Da") It came later, slowly, like a fire on a cold night, just sparks and hints at first and now quite enough to stay warm by. There has been a change in the way I release into his embrace. A change in his kisses. A change in my heart. I have never allowed myself to love this deeply, this completely, and this passionately. I was terrified of this depth, without ever admitting the fear. Now there is no fear, just an absolutely wonderful relaxation in the security of our relationship. It is indescribable.

So, the first thing most people ask me these days is, "How's married life?"

Well, it is no different from our previous life together, except it is, completely, and I love it.

A Tale of Two Worlds

Today I went to the American embassy in Sofia to get my paperwork processed in order to be legally able to marry in Bulgaria. When we drove up across the building and I saw the state seal, and the American flag flying, I got strangely excited. Peace Corps has been invited to several embassy events, but me trailing the usual antisocial baggage that I do, I did not attend. I did not expect to get such a little thrill from seeing the carefully enclosed ground that is, for all intents and purposes, an extension of my "homeland." It rippled through me, strait down to my belly. We parked, walked along the icy street and arrived at the door only 2 minutes late. I was antsy. My strong need to be on time, which kicks in when I am 1) doing official, legal, state business or 2) hanging out with Americans, kicked into overdrive as I was about to do official business among Americans. But, by the time we checked in, and had to wait for another five minutes outside of the security room, I had settled.
We went in. We were asked to remove our jackets and all things metal, and to leave any electronics at the front desk. After passing through a metal detector we were ushered by a security guard towards the citizen services building. At the front desk we were again asked our names and looked up on the computer. We were then sent to the cashier to pay the fee. I think I got some sort of discount for being in Peace Corps because the marriage form was supposed to be 75 dollars. I was going to pay in lev until I saw the exchange rate and the kind gentleman helping us suggested that we pay with an American credit card, which I had luckily brought with me. We then went to another desk where a man appeared to know what we needed and who we were and was very helpful answering questions about emigration and marriage. There was another five minutes of waiting while he prepared our document and then I met with a very nice, enthusiastic vice-consular to sign my document and get it stamped. In less than an hour I was back at the front desk, picking up my electronics and smiling from all of the warm congratulations.
After the American embassy we had to stop by the Bulgarian ministry of the exterior to get the document legalized for Bulgaria. Now, I realize that I should not compare the two, and that offices within the United States are not as nearly warm and efficient as what I experienced here. However, the difference between the two places was just too hilarious to not mention. We arrived at the ministry and we were greeted by a guard outside. When we explained what we were there for he began to explain our options for collection of our documents and told us that we would have to go to a post office to pay for the service and then return. However, he noticed a group of older women inside and instead ushered us inside. There he asked if any of the women (who I assume must have been notaries) had extra stamps that they could sell us. One did, and so we bought 20 lev worth of stamps to attach to our documents. We filled out a form and took it to the cashier but were told we would need more stamps to do a rush service on our document. We returned to the older women who provided us with more stamps and showed us how to properly attach them, and then looked over our forms to make sure we had checked the correct boxes. We then gave the form back, were given a receipt and told to return tomorrow.
Both places were exceptionally warm today. I think that doing paperwork for marriage is somehow more heartwarming than any other type of paperwork. However, the warmth at the two different places was somehow very different, and it is hard for me to touch why. It was something to do with formality but not necessarily about professionalism. Perhaps it was something to do with the modernism found in the American embassy contrasted with paying through stamps at the Bulgarian ministry.
Well, two countries down and now only one more country to get our status as legally married recognizable. Life is interesting these days. 

Birth Control Thoughts

Every night around eight, for the past three weeks, I began to cower. I consider myself a strong woman, and this cowardice frustrated me. At 8:20 I bravely swallowed the pill. Some nights were good and that was the end of it. On the bad nights I stayed awake, uncomfortable in my skin, slightly nauseous and wondering if it could really be that tiny, unassuming pill that caused me to feel that way, or if it was just my imagination. I second guessed myself, led strongly by uncontrollable swells of estrogen-magnified emotion.
The decision to go back on birth control was not an easy one. From age 18, when I first walked into the clinic at my university to ask for birth control, I was unsure of myself. I was already considered a crazy teenage girl, and I had heard horror stories of how the pill affected women. Did I want to make things worse? No, I didn’t, but I was sexually active and I felt immense pressure from society to do something about it. I might not be shunned from sex altogether, but my parents, friends, and high-school sex education classes all demanded one thing from me: responsibility. Since that first moment of youthful responsibility I have been on and off birth control for most of my adult life. Low-dose pills, the ring, the patch and the shot. The choice is overwhelming. It's strange, these options are supposed to offer some kind of freedom and yet I feel confined by them.
This is my minority plague, or at least one of them.
The assignment to write a native anthropology in an auto-style excited me. I could practice a bit more honesty and let my creativity peek out into academia. But my academic self resists any foray into the colorful world of description, let alone emotion. Within a day I had spiraled out of the confidence of notes and citations into a much less clinical, more personal realm. Be vulnerable, I was told. Vulnerability is nothing new to me, but the question was what I should be vulnerable about. My professor said, "Think about what you are a native of." But I heard, "What minority groups are you native of?"
Anthropology fetishizes the exotic. Before it valued societies that were different than the dominant culture. Now it values the change in the individual as a representative of the dominant culture.(1) This gives me two choices. I can write about what I am that no one else is, my minority oddities, or I can write about how I am just like everybody else in a way that is so sensual and exotic that it forces the reader to consider their self for the first time. Feminism can be depressing, celebrating the ways in which every individual must be marginalized.
I do not feel any direct pressure to take birth control. My fiancee is supportive, recognizing that it is my choice, and my government agrees with him, for now. The pressure I feel is subtle, ingrained through years of after-school specials. I have to choose whether to subject my body to the awkward swelling, dryness and tenderness of hormone control. I have to choose whether I want to have bareback sex with the man I love or maintain a semblance of sanity. These are tough decisions, but the modern woman must make them. Sometimes it is barely a decision at all. The taking of birth control is expected, and supposedly the side-effects are a minimal price to pay for the whorish crime of actually desiring sex.
The first time that I bought birth control in Istanbul I was shocked. I went into the pharmacy with my fiance and brazenly asked the pharmacist for yasmin. It was a name that I recognized from the United States and I had read that it was available in Turkey. I didn't know the Turkish words for birth control and explaining with gross motions that I wanted a pregnancy test the week before had been enough cross-cultural fun for me. The pharmacist didn't flinch. She walked out from behind the counter, opened a cupboard, and pulled out a month's supply of the pill. It cost 16 lira. I was shocked. I had not expected it to be such an easy task. In the United States there had always been the scraping together of enough money to pay for an exam, opening my legs for a stranger to swab, and getting the valued piece of paper that my insurance may or may not cover. Then it was finding the sixty dollars each month to pay for these preciously guarded pills. I had no idea that it could be easier. I wondered vaguely about the Turkish women who bought these pills. Were they married? How did they figure out the proper usage if they were not prescribed? I realized that birth control in Turkey, while not entirely different than birth control in the U.S., is different enough to be notable. Better or worse? I didn't have enough information to make a judgement, just enough to jolt me into the realization that yes, there are different ways.
I am a woman, and these are my experiences, but they are not the experiences of every woman. Does taking birth control give me any authority to speak about sex, desire, social pressures and medical experience? The diversity within the field is greater than what binds us as common. The modern woman, in many countries, is faced with the same decisions as I am, but the factors that weigh her decision are infinitely varied. Cultural taboos against sex, access to medical care, and whether there is a need for a prescription. The list grows the more that I delve into it and I find that I have no right to speak for women just because I happen to be one. Some women are thrilled by their access to birth control. For some it may not even cause internal debate. Being inside the question does not give you the answer to the question, assuming that there is actually a question to be asked. Perhaps there is just a collection of experiences.
A main concern in modern anthropology is the misrepresentation and exploitation of groups of people by anthropologists in the name of research. I wonder whether we honestly believe that this can be fixed by giving preference to native anthropology. It is naive to believe that an individual within a group represents that entire group, can fully understand the experiences of the group, or due to in-group loyalty would never exploit their own culture. If native anthropology is meant to protect the people being studied I say that it is not a valid solution. I am a woman. That does not mean that the oppression that I experience beneath the choice of birth control pill is representative of all women. Perhaps I am the minority within the minority. If we are supposed to advocate for the minority, how can we ever be sure that we are advocating for the right underdog?
Darren Ranco and Nancy Scheper-Hughes both described anthropology as a sort of predatory, hunting act. The anthropologist goes out and brings something, usually information and understanding, back for their own community. But who are we returning our spoils to? As an academic practice we are loyal to our academic institutions. We are loyal to our professors, colleagues and publishers. Vine Deloria claims that we should be loyal to the people we are researching. There are all of these questions of who the research serves, of authorship and authority, but not enough questions about the reader. Who is supposed to read our stories? Are they meant for professors? For lawmakers? For the researched? For my own community? The reader should influence the creation of a text as much as the author and the subject does. At the end of her speech Cecil King tells a story of how Native Americans need to protect their own culture before allowing it to be extinguished by others. Their culture needed to be recognized internally before it could be shared. I think this presents a quite valid audience. If an anthropology is written from the inside, for the group, then a dialogue can begin, and an identity can be created. This paper is directed towards women. It is me sending out a pulse and wondering if anyone will echo it. It is not meant to change society. It is not meant to change women, or men, or pharmaceutical practices, but that does not mean that it is worthless. Worth does not have to be measured in change. The beginnings of understanding are worthwhile.
I lasted two weeks this time. It was all of the usual symptoms. I had no desire to have sex (ironic considering their purpose), and the world grew ever more faint. I cried at television shows and experienced fits of uncontrollable irritation, bordering on rage. These are the hormones and emotions that are used to discredit women as feeling too much. I understood why people might say that women are crazy. I felt crazy. However, I felt nothing like a woman. I feel like a woman when I am loving and tender. I feel like a woman when I suffer empathy and desire. These things are emotions. The surges that I experienced while in a hormonal haze were not emotions. There was nothing feminine about them.
The night I skipped my first pill I felt such dejection. I couldn't make it. I wasn't strong enough to conquer these hormones. Within four hours the failure was worthwhile. I was no longer on the verge of tears. I wanted to have sex with my fiance. I am back to normal now, at least by my own standards. By society's judgements? Well, I hid my momentary lapse in sanity so well that hardly anyone commented.
If, as Scheper-Hughes suggests, a society is revealed in what it rejects then the anthropological society reveals itself by rejecting the emotions of females as mad, as if we cannot control them, and as if by giving them allowance we surrender all pretenses of objectivity. I must say that while in my hormone-induced madness, even in the darkest rage of the pills, I was still able to remain aware of different positions, and possible bias that I was experiencing. The question of whether I acted on these biases or not is less important than whether I recognize them now, in the retelling of my experience. Now I can write my explanation of the insanity inflicted by choice, a dilemma born disproportionately by women, and if I am vulnerable enough and honest enough then perhaps it will be a valid piece of work. Perhaps it will add something to the field. Will it be anthropological? Perhaps. Will it be authentic? Yes, and for me that is much more important.

Family is Family

I am not particularly close to my blood relatives. The distance has become so ingrained and so natural that I was actually, honestly suprised when my parents very easily said that they would fly across the world in order to attend my wedding. My father hates to fly. I have not forgotten that about him, and my mother has never left the country except for quick border hops into mexico and canada back when they did not count as actual excursions from the United States. I had an expectation that they would think about it for awhile and ultimately the trip would be too much for them, and they would just wait for me to come home in a year or so in order to meet my fiancee. They suprised me though. Within a week they had applied for passports, bought airline tickets, and started a packing list. They searched through my left-behind luggage that has been carelessly stored with them for years to find my grandmother's wedding ring and my prom dress. They have offered to help in any way that they can, including paying for hotels for me and my fiancee when needed. It has been an overwhelming show of love and support, and I have been truly touched.
My familial identity has never been an easy one. From a very young age I was the black sheep of the family. My brothers were more outgoing, and more like my parents. I was this far-off dreamer that, really, very few people could reach. I was a stubborn child, not in any loud or rebellious way, but in a way that made it difficult to form those connections that I see my friends valuing now. When I was 18 I moved out, and I more or less never looked back. I like to think that my parents are proud of me. I like to think that they talk about their daughter who is out travelling the world and serving in Peace Corps, and getting her degrees, and living life out on her own. But even when I hear them say that at least when I don't call they know they did something right, because I don't need them, I hear a twinge of hurt and longing in their voice... wishing that their little girl was still 12 and under their roof, and needing them.
Something happened last night in my family that is altogether tragic. I won't go into details except to say that my family has known its fair share of tragedy and bad luck, and this is among the milestones. It made me realize that my parents are really all right. They are filled with love and compassion, which are some of the more important traits in life.
This jolt in my life shook me into the reality that I am really starting a family with Nikola. It makes me wonder how most families start. Are they intentional? Are they aware? Are they fueled by love or some sort of need? For a moment I skipped a breath and wondered if I am doing the right thing. It is so hard to have a positive familial experience in the world. But then he held me, and kissed me, and I realized that I was just being silly. We are very much in love, and two very loving, considerate, caring people. We are both excited to start a family (the family of the two of us, but yes, there will be little ones added in the future.) and I don't think I need to concern myself with disaster. He is an amazing person and I refuse to question my own self based on my past. The person I am now is altogether ready for these deep, rich, lifelong connections.

The time has come... part III- jealousy and rings

One ring to rule them all. What is a ring? In my paper on the symbolism of modern weddings I am briefly examining the modern abstraction of the ring. I take the ring off my finger and lay it on the table next to me. My finger feels naked without it, eveen though I have only been wearing it for a couple of months.
The ring is gold. I know this because it doesn't leave green marks on my finger, and because of the little number printed on the inside of the ring. It is light, and makes a delicious sound when placed on a hard surface. Although it is light and delicate it seems to also be indestructable. I know this is not true. Gold has a relatively low melting point compared to other metals. How did it get its shape in the first place?
Shape. It is perfectly round. Japanese monks spend a lifetime trying to draw a perfect circle. No, they do not try. Perhaps they try in the beginning, but eventually they learn to let go of the trying and to allow a circle to express itslef through them. I never finished that story- do they succeed? Can perfection be obtained? A circle is mathematical. Goldsmiths have moulds that have been designed by computers. They can make a perfect circle. The ring really has no beginning and no end. It hardened into existence complete.
The stamp tells me the value of the gold. Its purity. I have no idea how to read the stamp. Purity and value are foreign languages to me. I would rather wrap my tongue around whispered "I love you"s than to spend my time learning the symbols of every jeweller. I have no idea how to buy a ring.
It is his mother's ring. A symbol of family, that he handed to me. I took it with a cuirious furrow of the brow aand chewed on it for over a week before I burst with the question of whether he knew what that means to a girl. He knew.
Now we are getting rings of our own. His will return to his mother. My mother is bringing my grandmother's ring. It is another symbol of family. It is also a symbol of lasting, as my grandparent's marriage lasted until death did them part. It feels very different than the symbol of his family, and part of me wants to have a symbol of our family. But heirlooms are made through generations, not on arbitraty whims of the now.
The ring means forever. It is a sign of ownership, like the peircings and collars of slaves. It is a sign of fidelity. It is a sybol of wealth. It is so mixed up in history and society that I am uncertain how I actually feel about it.
We decided to get tattoos instead of rings. Tattoos are forever. You can not take them off. When a marriage ends and the ring is removed there is a period of aa tanline, perhaps, but it fades. We do not want the possibility of fading. Forever is something to be taken seriously.
Most of all, rings are a symbol of the modern christian monogamy. I am not a christian and neither is he, but he tells me that I am his only and I believe that he honestly is monogamous to the core. I wonder if that will change in time, and I want, most of all, to let him blossom without corruption. The thing is that he put the ring on my finger and he called me his, and he did so without the slightest hint of jealousy. How can a person be possessed without jealousy? What is possession? The modern feminist argues that we are all our own and no one can be possessed. Cyrano took ownership to mean a responsibility to the other. "The things you own end up owning you," is not far from the truth. So then, possession, the naming of something or someone as yours, is really a surrender to the desire to care for them, and take responsibility for them. It has nothing to do with jealousy and status. That came later. Love begets possession, and it feels beyond great to be possessed.

In defense of marriage...

I have long been the type of girl who thought that she was never going to get married. No, not one of those desperate, forever-alone girls stuck on self-pity and thirsting for a man, but more of one of the girls who just never quite got the point of marriage. I have seen too much divorce to really take marriage seriously, and I do not think that it is right for the state to monitor what is or is not a family based on religion. On my 13th birthday I vehemently disavowed marriage, promising my father that he could look forward to having an unwed daughter forever. Over the years I have been a bridesmaid and a groomsman, in weddings to celebrate unions that have now been dissolved, and both times I felt a little cheated by the whole ordeal. (I know, it is selfish. I am sure that what the bride and groom felt was much more significant than what I felt, but if I believe in marriage, and if I believe in a wedding, then it is a moment when you ask the support of your family and friends for your union, and make a promise not only to your significant other, but also to them. The promise to your sweetheart that you will be forever theirs can easily be made in bed, and sealed with a kiss. The rings and ceremony is for the social seal of the marriage.) So, all in all it was easier to forego the idea of marriage and just live each moment how I saw best, in a very selfish, self-defined, egotistical way. I was quite happy that way.

So, why the change in theory?

Well, first of all over the past couple of years there has been a change in my heart. Not only have I finally settled the restlessness that drove me as a young adult, but I have also gained more respect for the social world. Five years ago I was determined to go through this world alone. I was an island. Now I have a much deeper understanding of community and friendship. I still don't have much respect for religion or the state, but I can see the need for the support of friends and family when you choose to be together with one person for the rest of your life. I think that some of this is due to the natural aging process, but most of it is due to my peace corps experience... seeing the way other families live; both American and Bulgarian.

Secondly, I have honestly never felt about any one else the way that I feel about Nikola. I thought that I knew love, and I did. I knew all sorts of love. But with him I also know this huge, unbeatable trust, and the depth of it is unbelievable. I am pretty much drunk on trust these days. Trust and acceptance. It is wonderful. For that reason, I would never let him go, and also, I happily want the entire world to know that we are together, side by side.

So, one morning we woke up and were talking about when we would get married. There was no proposal. We both just knew that we would get married. Conversations about immigration and residence permits and our landlord only renting to married couples had already helped to plant the idea within us. Two years from now, next summer, and then, suddenly, why wait? We decided that we will get married this winter. I know that it is quick for a lot of people. We have been dating for three months. When we get married it will have been six. It isn't much time. But I think that we are both the type of people that once a decision is made there is no going back and forth, trying to decide if it is right or not. It just is.

I don't think either of us really have a clue about how to get married. There are so many traditions that we first have to learn (as our experience is quite limited) and then cut through to get what we really want our wedding and marriage to be about. I think this is going to be a very fun three months, followed by a very fun party, followed by a very fun lifetime with the most incredible, inspirational person that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.