Immiscible Feelings

On chemistry and life

Much of chemistry, at least at the levels I studied, involves mixing one fluid with another. If they mix when poured together, forming a solution where neither of the original parts can be distinguished from the other, the fluids are miscible. Alcohol and water are an example of this; when you pour one into the other, you will see mixing lines as the two ingredients blend together, and eventually you are left with a single homogenous fluid. Not all compounds, however, are miscible. Think of any oil-and-vinegar salad dressing that returns to its layers moments after shaking. Oil and vinegar, each maintaining its original properties despite being in direct contact with the other, are immiscible.

Photo by Hans Reniers on Unsplash

Removed from the realm of beakers, lab coats, goggles and gloves, I think of feelings as being miscible or immiscible. 

Miscible feelings are those alloyed feelings—the very word "bittersweet" includes this, something beautiful tinged with something painful or distressing. As we develop into fully-fledged human beings, we become aware of more and more layers of context and meaning in every situation we are in. This adds more and more layers of emotional context to our experience of life. These can be complex and nuanced, but they are also probably our most common experience of emotions, so we become used to dealing with them, if not always adept at it. 

However, it's the immiscible feelings that I think can really throw us for a loop.

A classic example for me is houseguests. Having transplanted myself thousands of miles from where I was born and raised, casual drop-in visits are not an option for spending time with many of my very favorite people, so my favorite way to see them is to have them visit and stay at my home. We don't have to deal with the logistics or time constraints of commuting to and from hotels, we don't have to formally plan time to see one another beyond arrival and departure, we get to cook and eat together, go to places or events we want to, and never worry about a restaurant's need to turn a table or a hotel’s thin walls and close neighbors. A beloved friend or family member staying as a houseguest is one of the great joys of my life.

Immiscible with this joy is the fact that there is practically nothing in this world that gets under my skin quite like having my personal space invaded. Apparently, I have always had something of a territorial bent. According to family lore, the one (1) time my sister and I shared a bedroom was in a house where there was a spacious bedroom that was partly partitioned and purpose-built to be a shared kids’ bedroom, and a glorified closet that they intended to use as a play room. Apparently I hated sharing a room so much that I systematically ruined everyone's life until my bed and possessions were put into a closet-like room of my own. All of this occurred before I was old enough to remember, but it seems I have yet to grow out of it. Being the youngest child in my family, I was always the one who sacrificed my room for houseguests and had to share with the aforementioned sister for the duration of any visit. 

This unequivocal desire for a room of my own meant that my primary demand since the spousal unit and I first set up house together has been that I get an office.¹ You might realize that I recreated my same situation from childhood: as the haver of our only indoor slack space, to get one of my very most favorite things, houseguests, I had to be willing to tolerate something that drives me nuts, my room being invaded. 

The uncanny thing about this situation is that the unmooring feelings that I experience from temporarily losing my space in no way decreases the enjoyment I get from having my favorite people as houseguests. And the fact that I have such a delightful time with these people does not decrease the amount of distress I feel when giving up my space. The feelings are completely immiscible. 

This particular example does have an engineering solution, that being a guest room. Now in middle-age, I finally have this great luxury, and I do not take it for granted. But it seems to me that most situations that create immiscible feelings do not have such tidy solutions, and the only option is to hold the space for both to exist at once. 

Right now, I am in the process of building a rain garden in my back yard, and was hoping to get it completed before I left on a trip. It rained which, ironically, stopped all work on the rain garden because digging in wet clayey soil can cause the soil to compact and become impervious to water, rather defeating the purpose of a rain garden. The frustration I felt at having to stop work and adjust my plan (and re-pot 42 already root-bound and stressed plants that cannot go into the ground until the garden is constructed) in no way detracted from how gloriously beautiful it was after the rain had passed. Beauty immiscible with frustration. 

While writing this, I am traveling to see some of my favorite people, return to some favorite places, and explore some new ones. All of this is wonderfully exciting. And for the length of this trip, I will be without the comforts and familiarity of spouse and home. I will not have my little cat curling up on my legs for his post-breakfast nap. I will not get to check in on my garden each day to see how it has changed overnight. I will not have the comfort and routines of marriage and home, nor my room of my own. Missing my familiar beloveds immiscible with connection and wonder. 

There is space enough in me to hold all of these at once. 

1. His unequivocal desire is a garage; a total refusal to even consider any dwelling that can’t accommodate both of these is part of how we've managed to have a successful and largely happy relationship for these last 15 years.