New rules: no rules

Whyla and I live in Antarctica. 

You may be asking, Steve, whatever do you mean? Are you saying that you two are in a cold, ice-covered desert, bereft of sunlight for months, dominated by fierce, hostile winds, a fragile ecosystem inhospitable to most life, frustrating human habitation of any duration, though with capable wifi and networking to support regular podcasts? 

No, no. I mean it as a figure of speech. 

Oh, you may ask on reconsideration, Steve, you didn’t mean it literally?

Correct. How could I mean that literally? Really!

So, Steve, you might then query, You’re saying that your relationship is like living in a cold, ice-covered desert, bereft of sunlight for months, dominated by fierce, hostile winds, a fragile ecosystem inhospitable to most life, treacherous tundra frustrating human habitation of any duration, though with capable wifi and networking to support regular podcasts? 

Yes!

Wait. Your badgering questions make me see that this metaphor is already proving quite unsuitable, not unlike Antarctica itself. 

Whyla and I have a great time with each other. Life with Whyla is a bright and sunny and fun and funny, and whimsical, with jokes ambling about like a penguin parade. It’s an adventure into unknown, untrammeled territory, but exciting, and full of fresh air. Though it was hard to reach, we have come to be in a rare, special place, personally experienced by very, very few. Imagine a unique place on Earth, like, um…uhm…

Hmm.

Antarctica is an image of anarchy, of the absence of government as we know it. No laws, no law enforcement. No external power to set rules and mete out sanctions when someone doesn’t comply. No courts and sentences and prisons. No boundaries strictly enforced. Rules simply do not rule. But its anarchy is not simply chaos, collision, suffering, madness — Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria! 

There is still geology and wildlife to be respected by the governments and humans that agree to tread there, and the need for cooperation and harmony, for negotiation and consensus, for ongoing monitoring and taking care — to deter conflict, to prevent loss, to repair damage when it’s done.

I’m in Antarctica with Whyla. Neither of us legislates about how the other is to act, or what form the relationship is to have. This was true from the beginning, in our checkered past and up through the present. We have been figuring out what we are to each other, how best to be with each other, personally, and without rules. Certainly without rules, restrictions, regulations, commandments, conventions from society. After a long period in which Whyla and Witt discussed, meditated, deliberated on the possibility of fidelity without exclusivity in their marriage, Whyla and I connected, and I became an other not forsaken. And from the start, neither of us expected monogamy in our relationship.

Monogamy is, by conventional measure, the rule and boundary for romantic, partnered relationships. It seems to carry so much weight, in its presumed dignity and the merit it conveys; monogamy is simply good for people, and good people are monogamous. And in the weight of the hammer that will come down on those who deviate from it (in the so-so-many ways to stray) — grave peril to one’s moral worth and reputation, and mortal danger to the relationship, says society. And monogamy as a rule carries so much weight in the sense of doing so much of the heavy lifting of relating, in the relationship. From some angles, it even appears so fundamental and necessary as to be the relationship — certainly if, by conventional measure, the relationship dies without it. Exclusivity stands for dignity, for respect, for trust, for care, for the union between two persons; it’s worth pondering how — and how well — it stands in for those things. 

Is monogamy the same as, or inseparable from, recognition and care between partners? If not, we may be free of monogamy and the rules and boundaries that attend it (Go, polyamory! Just don’t use that word around Whyla.). But if we are not in the realm of rules, enforcement, fatal punishment for breaking them, where are we? What comes with this anarchic — this Antarctic — freedom? In other words, what’s the best use of it? 

As Whyla has said, the question of what non-monogamy practically means — whether and how I engage with another than her, or how she engages another than Witt and me — is not essentially different from any other aspect of the relationship. It would be, should be something that begins with individual reflection about wants and needs, as well as what is good for oneself, and it continues with reflection on what is good for the other partner, their needs and wants at that time. A weighty and worthy undertaking already, calling for mindfulness and responsibility. And trust and communication, in talking to and listening to each other about whether and how to proceed, and in continuing the discussion, the wellness checks, if and as the engagement with another would continue. This is  what care would look like, its form, though not really a rule, as something external and automatic. Care is complex work, with emotional heavy lifting. It calls for flexibility and awareness of timing and of situations, and the ability and commitment to repair any damage one does. Such it is in sustaining and nourishing the relationship. In the unconventional form of our love, there are no simple social roles to fall back on, no regime of monogamy to do the labor, to define the roles and actions, to enforce them with penalties. There is only each other.

Why does society have such a large PR campaign for monogamy but not one for providing care? Maybe “monogamy” is not simply flatfooted abstinence education, but instead social shorthand for devotion and attention and investment in each other. But if so, let’s write it out. Actually, Whyla and I recently did so. Our couples therapist gave us a communication exercise, the worksheet “Frustration Conversion to Need/Behavior Change Request.” After savoring the lyrical lilt of that title, we each began converting. Specifically, we wrote letters to each other identifying the other’s behavior that evokes frustration, fears, memories of earlier injuries and hurts, and then declaring one’s own needs, in the form of three changes in the other’s behavior. These requested changes had to be specific, as well as manageable, achievable, relevant, and time-related [and yearned-for, prompt, authentic, nurturing, tested, and simple. But as a mnemonic, SMARTYPANTS proved a little unwieldy, so we kept it to the first five.] Writing these love work orders to each other was itself work, in both introspection and trust and vulnerability, truly emotional heavy lifting. Whyla had to face her reluctance to appear needy or appeal for help, and I had to confront my mighty feelings of guilt and self-blame, my dread of punishment and expulsion, which her list of frustrations and fears echoed and amplified in my mind. With honesty and resolve, we presented our important asks to each other, behaviors to stay in touch, to reassure, to show appreciation and enjoyment, to try and to do, again and again. And we’ve begun the changes, the new modes, the forming habits.

Are we legislating our relationship? Are the new behaviors the new “rules”? Among other limitations, laws and rules in relationships don’t reach in to animate someone, to provide energy and motive, for behaving better toward one’s partner. And legislating raises the risk of focusing one’s attention and energy on the rule itself, as if compliance is sufficient (just as punishment for non-compliance suggests that suffering and separateness are sufficient — believe me, I know this one). The good of the persons in the relationship, the quality of intimacy, the fun, the mutual support, the feeling that each is giving and receiving enough from the other — it’s love and commitment that really govern these, as a rule cannot. So Whyla and I don’t legislate. Are we reckless outlaws? Mail us your thoughts at: Penguin Post Office, General Delivery. 

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