What's in a Ring?

I've been thinking a lot lately about the origins and purpose of wearing a wedding ring / engagement ring / wedding set.  According to what I can find, the origins of the wedding ring go back to at least Ancient Egypt, where "the circle was the symbol of eternity, with no beginning or end, not only to the Egyptians, but many other ancient cultures. The hole in the center of the ring also had significance. It wasn’t just considered a space, but rather a gateway, or door; leading to things and events both known and unknown. To give a woman a ring signifies never-ending and immortal love."

If this is the case, we Westerners owe the origins of the modern wedding ring not just to Rome (as with so many things we borrow from the Romans) but also the Ancient Egyptians.  We place so much importance on the wedding ring because it "signifies never-ending and immortal love."


But what about the case of divorce?  Or couples where the man proposes and then they break up?  It's a conundrum.

My personal belief is that if a man gives a woman a wedding ring, and the relationship is terminated, the woman should give the ring back, if and when it's asked for.  As a symbol, the ring means nothing if the relationship has ended.  To me, a man can only be in one marriage at a time for two reasons.  First, it's the law.  Secondly, (in my opinion) you have to truly dedicate yourself, in every way possible, to one person in order to have a healthy, thriving relationship.

Maybe that's not the case with everyone.  I'm sure there are polygamists and polyamorists out there who are perfectly happy in their three-or-more person relationships.  But it's not for me and it goes against what I feel is morally right, what works, and what is healthy for the partners involved.

But how does the symbol of the wedding ring come into that?  If another woman has a ring from a man, that was never requested back, does his current partner have the right to be distressed about it?  How can a man make a commitment to a "never-ending and immortal love" with his partner if he's already made that promise, via a ring, with someone else?

However, in an interesting twist, "rather than offering a ring to a woman as a symbol of love, [the Romans] awarded them as a symbol of ownership."  Why do most modern women, many of them self-proclaimed feminists, not have an issue with this practice of wearing a wedding band when that practice has a history of signifying ownership?

I don't personally believe a ring signifies ownership and have never had an issue with wearing one.  But I do truly believe a ring is a commitment to "never-ending and immortal love" with your partner.  Combine that with my feelings regarding a married relationship being between only two people and you're left with a conundrum I'm having a very difficult time personally navigating.

Untying Knots

Sometimes in our lives events happen that are beyond our control.  Some would call this a conflict of free will versus predestination.  Some things that are terrible are just "fated" to happen.  Our choices are limited to a set number and type according to our natures and to go against the very essence of one's nature is generally an impossibility.  This can begin to seem like fate according to the Greek concept, where everything is predestined: a life spun, measured out, and finally cut by elusive demigods, where we are only players acting according to a script.

But I believe in free will and choice, however limited our choices are.  Sometimes the thread of our lives becomes so knotted, so entangled with a complication that we can't untangle the intricate loops.  These are, generally, what people call "the hard times."  The times when, no matter what we do, we can't manage to find where the knotted flaw begins or ends.  We can't work through an issue because we are struggling to find its beginning, or grasping to predict a future where the end of the tangle occurs.

For the past few months I've had one of these tangles in my own life.  It came about because of choices I made, that I feel I couldn't have made any other way and still be true to the nature of who I am.  There were a set number and type of choices available to me that didn't go against my grain.  All the choices that were genuine possibilities were bad.  Therefore, my choices were not good ones.

It was never a choice for me not to let C--- into my life.  I want to protect people who seem to be in trouble, and she was.  With her startling blue eyes, her way of crying silently and dipping her head so no one has to see.  The way her hands unconsciously move to her hair, brushing it away from her face, but when she cries she lets the same hair hang across her face to hide her tears.  She reminded me too much of myself.  I wanted to help.  So in my initial choice, I chose to help.  It was the only option that didn't violate my nature.  From there, the thread of my life became so entangled I couldn't find the beginning, or the end, of the flaw.

For a while I've been running in circles, trying to figure that out.  Where did the flaw begin?  What was its source?  And since removing C--- from my life, I've been trying to figure out where the flaw stops, trying to read the future where the thread emerges from the knot, whole and straight, ready to be woven.

Last night I began to realize something.  I can't untangle that flaw.  Just like when I crochet, pulling the straight yarn from the skein to unravel it, and a tangle emerges from the seemingly perfect whole, I had to spend awhile trying to untangle the flaw.  Most of the time I can untangle those imperfections.  I can find the beginning, and end, which saves me from having to cut the yarn.  Because cutting the yarn means cutting out the tangled part and tying a permanent knot, and then figuring out a way to weave the ends into the pattern of the whole: a baby blanket in a zig-zag pattern, a kind of tapestry.

Sometimes in our lives, too, we can't untangle that portion of the thread.  It's flawed, and no matter how much we keep trying to find the beginning and end, we can't.  We have to just cut it out,  Cut the knotted portion of thread out of the strand and knot the two different pieces together.  Then throw the flawed portion away.  Let it go.  Accept that our lives will forever have a knot holding the strand together, but appreciate the perfection of the thread on either side, appreciate the pattern emerging into a whole.  Find a way to incorporate the loose ends into the pattern.  Integrate them into the design so they aren't noticeable anymore.

I've made enough baby blankets to know that, if you're careful, those loose ends are very hard to find, once they're woven in. 

Like the flawed and tangled portion of yarn, too knotted to untie, I have to cut C--- from my life completely.  It doesn't matter anymore who was right or wrong, who reacted badly and who was the model of perfection.  I suspect all the parties involved contributed to the tangle.  But it doesn't matter.  It's done.  And like the flawed yarn, I have to let it go.  I have to accept that portion of the thread is too tangled to be picked apart, cut it out, and leave it be.

I have to accept the knot that's left, and incorporate the loose ends into the pattern.  I have to learn to appreciate the pattern emerging in my own life, and dismiss the tangle that's been excised.  I'm sure I will still think of C--- from time to time, that's the knot she left behind.  But she's gone, and on either side of the knot is the perfect, shining strand just waiting to be woven into something beautiful.

A Rediscovery

There's something completely satisfying and invigorating about a 2 mile walk to the store and back, as cold muscles warm up, skin prickles in the heat.  I find intense satisfaction in the primal taste of my own sweat on my lips.  I'm just getting reacquainted with this feeling after leading a sedentary lifestyle for a number of years.

I remember being about thirteen, on my old two-speed bike, cycling back and forth on the street my daddy and (at the time) stepmother lived on.  Racing back and forth, air rushing across my face, it almost felt like flying, or letting go.

There was so much to let go of.  The arguing at home, always concealed behind a locked door.  A strained relationship with my mom and the number of events that led up to the tension.  Lack of close friends.  A cautious identity struggling to emerge, not sure it was ready to face the world.  And "boy problems" as I would call them now.  Always "boy problems".

But with those wheels spinning beneath me I didn't have to think about any of that.  Who would I be trying to impress by displaying my outstanding maturity in the face of troubles?  The neighbors?  The empty cars?  There was nothing but the street and the line of mailboxes, ending in a cul-de-sac, the cracked pavement peppered with flowering weeds. There was no one to make me act adult before I was one.

Of course when I crashed into someone's mailbox, toppling over and leaving an inch long gash that dripped blood all the way back to the house and left a noticeable scar, that was the end of my biking adventures.  I was too afraid of getting hurt again.  But for that brief year, I found in the spin of the tires and hum of the nearby highway a serenity I haven't really known before then or since.  Until now.

Letting Go

If I had to count the number of people over the years who said they would always be there for me and then failed to do so, I know I would run out of both fingers and toes to count on.  This sometimes makes me wonder if it's me that's failing and not everyone else.  It seems like everyone has let me down at some point - but am I really the one letting people down?

I ran across a letter from my former stepmother while I was digging for a copy of my birth certificate.  I've had this letter since I was about fourteen years old and I'm now twenty-seven.  It's creased from too many readings, the paper soft and stained with what looks like coffee or dark tea.  One corner of the paper is missing, torn away at some point to jot a note down.

I don't remember when she gave it to me.  One of my last memories of her is of packing boxes.  Her friend, Jeff, was there to help.  They were talking badly about my daddy, their voices lowered.  Jeff blamed my daddy and, it felt, me for the separation.  But my stepmother's letter states:

I want you to know that what has happened between me and your dad has nothing to do with you.  I'm telling you this because I know lots of kids blame themselves when things like this happen, and this isn't your fault at all.  This is strictly between me and your dad.  No one, and I repeat, no one else can be blamed but us.

So why then was I also abandoned?  It's been approximately thirteen years and I still can't answer that question.  I think it's partly because I got scared and a little freaked out when she told me she'd always thought of me as a sister, that day in the parking lot overlooking her dentist's office.  But I'm not sure.

One thing she said has always, and will always, stick with me.

Never doubt yourself.  You are intelligent, beautiful, and witty, she wrote.

Those words still have the power to break me into tears.  In my way, I hope she's proud.