"With every mistake, we must surely be learning…"

Thanks to the Photo Album Project of 2003–2008, the majority of my photographs since 1992 are now filed chronologically in no less than 10 albums, each with its own decorative cover carefully selected to suggest a maturity void of any effeminate qualities (see also my dark red, manly-patterned Martha Stewart comforter). Buried deep within one of these albums is a photograph taken at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC in 1994; a picture whose purpose is actually expressed in the biblical quote contained within its frame: “Only guard yourself and guard your soul carefully lest you forget the things your eyes saw, and lest these things depart your heart all the days of your life. And you shall make them known to your children, and to your children’s children” (Deuteronomy 4:9). In simpler (read: more John-McCain/Sarah-Palin-friendly) terms, the heart of this message is clear: honor history by learning from it and ensuring it isn’t repeated.

In an unintended bit of poignancy, this photograph is surrounded in these 10 albums by photographs of the various serious, semi-serious, and not-so-serious girlfriends/dates/girl-space-friends in my life, each of whom has been responsible for at least one valuable lesson about life, love, my flaws, my strengths, what I’m capable of in relationships, what I need to improve, what I want out of a relationship, what I shouldn’t put up with, etc. Whether it’s the woman who first called to attention my caretaker personality trait, or the ones who made me realize my susceptibility to dependency, or the ones who forced me to take responsibility for my role in our relationships, or the ones who helped me understand that disagreements can be healthy, I’ve learned a lot in the 15 years that I’ve been dating. And although I feel a tad shameful applying the lesson from a Holocaust-related-quote to a 30-something’s love life (I find my solace and justification in another lesson learned from the Holocaust: that each life is valuable and worth discussing), I think it goes without saying (though when has that ever stopped me from saying it anyway?) that if I ever want to find myself in a healthy relationship capable of sustaining the Long Haul, I need to protect these lessons learned from being erased in my memory like out-of-focus digital photos taken one-too-many-glasses-of-wine into a Friday night.

Now that I’ve started seeing a therapist, my past relationships have taken center stage in my memory’s playhouse. Although quite a bit of our 50-minute hours have been spent discussing the Benchlys who, in the last two and a half months, have started to resemble an overly dramatic and meddling family straight out of a bad 80s nighttime serial drama, we have also taken the time to figure out why my past relationships have failed, in hopes that my next one won’t. And though I finally caved at Mama Benchly’s twentieth suggestion that I seek therapy simply because I wanted to vent about my family, I’ll be the first one to admit how nice it has been to discuss my ideas/fears/questions about relationships with an educated, soft-spoken professional, affectionately nicknamed The Trash Heap (I can’t take credit for this one; this was Sarah the L’s idea). For although I pay her and so we’re naturally at risk for the “customer is right” mentality creeping in, her brutal honesty thus far has assured me that I can consider her opinion to be unbiased and caring.

The Trash Heap has been invaluable lately for a reason I’m sure my reader(s) won’t be surprised to hear simply because today I’m about as transparent as a political ad or election running-mate choice: I’ve started dating someone new. Her name is Ms. Darling (Ms. Parker: I have faith that you’ll figure this one out) and a darling she is. In the grand scheme of things, “what it is we’re doing” is fairly fresh and still carries with it that new car smell called Confidence that excitedly says, “This is the greatest car to ever be driven off the lot. I can’t believe it only has 2 miles on it! And look at the cup holders!” In other words, we’re still in that stage when you’re blown away by the refreshing and exciting new addition to your life, and you spend your time together discovering that second glove compartment or whether or not two bikes can fit in the back. But we’re not kidding ourselves. We’re hopeful that this is going in the direction of the Long Haul (and there are certainly days when I’m convinced that it is), but we expect road bumps. We expect headlights and taillights to go out, and maintenance required lights to go on. We expect them because that’s what our respective pasts have taught us, among many other lessons, and to remember and learn from these pasts is to honor them.

(I must admit, this time around I feel an overwhelming sense of comfortable calmness. Ms. Darling excites me and makes me feel relaxed at the same time. This is new for me and most definitely worthy of The Trash Heap’s input.)

I realized recently that the time has come to purchase an 11th photo album. I’m starting to feel overloaded with developed pictures awaiting their appropriate place in my chronologically documented history. Included in those pictures are new ones of Ms. Darling from the hikes we’ve been on, one of our marathon dates, the night we got lost under the stars, and a recent bike ride. These are moments I already know I don’t want to forget, lest these things depart my heart all the days of my life.