This is an interesting term. Used by millions- in marketing, in conversation, in journals, etched into tables, when talking about love, even used when talking about the planet as a whole. Thrown around and celebrated, battered, charmed, this word, this home that we all know so well (in one way or another), is the greatest and most showcased scar of our existence. How we make it, how we say it, who we say it with, the products we produce in our homes, all of these create the strongest thread of our existence. Our comfort, or lack there of, our humanity, our mistakes, joys, and triumphs: home is important all year long and present, in some way, always.
This has become a focal point of mine lately. It has been brought to my attention that my "home" exists in many places. Part of it is with the people that I love. Part of it is connected to the land I grew up on. Part of it is where I want to be, the places that I see myself (hopefully) going to. Part of it is in music. And there is a decent portion still up for interpretation, still not spoken for.
I go through cycles of sanity. I coast out on the tails of whatever challenge I overcame last time, and then something stirs me up again. This time it is because someone I love is moving away indefinitely, and I am scrambling around in all other areas of my life trying to collect the meaning, the purpose, that used to be held so comfortably within the bounds of this love. The love is not leaving, but its material form is flying away on Monday. I only have a few days. I can't sleep, I am writing more (likely good, but inspired by an ache), and I am frequently looking out at the life I have created, and wondering what I am supposed to do with it all. I like it. I even love it at times, but there is just no particular destination in sight. Physically, yes- I want to move to San Francisco, but i have a sneaking suspicion that even in the event of moving, this search for something that grounds me, will only continue. And likely with a greater ferocity.
I am grateful that it is sunny. I am grateful for smiles. This sounds cliche, but I mean it with the greatest sincerity. Every time that I catch myself smiling unintentionally, I am thrilled. The good news, is that despite the overall feeling of hovering (like I am not quite anywhere, really), I seem to smile a lot. Even when I am pissed. Even when I am trying to learn to like the latest asshole that walked into my life. Even when work becomes a shit show. Even when I am afraid that my account balances are going to slam down on nothing. Even when I have to say goodbye to friends, release my little sister into the craziness that I still haven't managed to get a hold of, or when I am up early enough to know that the daylight is shrinking and the darkness is speeding back towards us. It feels like some terrible secret that I have the privilege of knowing early, just like I have the privilege of being an adult and making my own decisions.
And I don't think that any of this is ever really going to stop. It is just going to shift, twist, meander, and leave me. Just like a love that is flying away, far to the east. Just like me, flying away to the south. And so, with the most amount of dignity I can manage, I will try to wear my heart on my sleeve, not to be foolish, but rather to be seen as a person. A real one. That is painstakingly trying to pick up the pieces, make the appropriate next step, and get on with it.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Getting it off my chest
Since the age of twenty-one, there has been a permanent resident in my chest. She is vague, painfully consistent, and nearly impossible to describe. I often wake to find her eagerly awaiting my first thoughts; meticulously devouring the mornings, and brining me to my feet to gaze out the window and wonder how, exactly, did we all get here and what in God’s name, am I doing?
The logical piece of me knows that she is a common resident in most any human, except for maybe Buddha, or the Dalai Lama, but maybe even they suffered from the same kind of confusion-induced resident. That is what she is- she is my confusion, or the result of it, not quite sure which (only proving my point). She wreaks havoc on my decision-making and seems to only let me rest as long as I am temporarily occupied (by relatively meaningless tasks). And I am convinced that she grows stronger in my brief hiatuses of debatably meaningful things- at work, at the gym, at the movies, at the bar, on a date. She grows stronger so that come the next morning she raises my heart rate and brings on a mild panic. This panic is not overwhelming, but it is always there; it is rooted in the fact that I am young, don’t know what I am doing, nearly convinced that I don’t know how to live my life (inevitably true, I presume), and terrified that I may never get out of here. Only problem is I don’t really know where here is. Yet.
Figuring out where I am is step one. Simple, and yet at the age of twenty-four, three years into this silly dance, I am not noticeably closer to finding the answer. In a physical sense, I am here in my apartment, or here in Seattle, but what I want to know is where am I in that existential sense. Where are all the pieces of me? What exactly is the sum of all my parts? Why do streaks of sunlight through my window on a July afternoon cause a tinge of heartache? Why does time feel all at once fleeting and stagnant? Is that even possible?
I want so badly to make the right choices and be able to calculate the results of each output so as to cultivate the least amount of heartache as is humanly possible. And maximize the amount of smiling and laughing. This too, is not solely related to my own wants. In fact, these wishes are what will most likely bond me to all my fellow sufferers, rejoicers, refugees, mothers, fathers, homeless, etc. This is what makes me human. This is why I bleed the same. And yet, the slightly different shade of all of this is what also, inevitably, makes me, me. This and the intricately confusing presence of my mysterious chest-resident; she won’t leave. I am going to have to learn to deal with her. I am beginning to suspect that I need her desperately, like maybe she knows best. But the only way to find an understanding of her is by climbing up some impossibly steep psychological mountain, so that when I reach the top I can jump. And fall. Insanely fast, and with the greatest purpose, only to crash, explode all over the earthy floor, and discover that somewhere in the peak of the chaos is the calm of the fall- the feeling of flying. And this mountain is huge. Like massive. And I don’t even know where to begin looking. But this woman in my chest, for three straight years has told me every morning that it is out there. I am just not looking hard enough or high enough. And here I was thinking that the sky was the limit.
The logical piece of me knows that she is a common resident in most any human, except for maybe Buddha, or the Dalai Lama, but maybe even they suffered from the same kind of confusion-induced resident. That is what she is- she is my confusion, or the result of it, not quite sure which (only proving my point). She wreaks havoc on my decision-making and seems to only let me rest as long as I am temporarily occupied (by relatively meaningless tasks). And I am convinced that she grows stronger in my brief hiatuses of debatably meaningful things- at work, at the gym, at the movies, at the bar, on a date. She grows stronger so that come the next morning she raises my heart rate and brings on a mild panic. This panic is not overwhelming, but it is always there; it is rooted in the fact that I am young, don’t know what I am doing, nearly convinced that I don’t know how to live my life (inevitably true, I presume), and terrified that I may never get out of here. Only problem is I don’t really know where here is. Yet.
Figuring out where I am is step one. Simple, and yet at the age of twenty-four, three years into this silly dance, I am not noticeably closer to finding the answer. In a physical sense, I am here in my apartment, or here in Seattle, but what I want to know is where am I in that existential sense. Where are all the pieces of me? What exactly is the sum of all my parts? Why do streaks of sunlight through my window on a July afternoon cause a tinge of heartache? Why does time feel all at once fleeting and stagnant? Is that even possible?
I want so badly to make the right choices and be able to calculate the results of each output so as to cultivate the least amount of heartache as is humanly possible. And maximize the amount of smiling and laughing. This too, is not solely related to my own wants. In fact, these wishes are what will most likely bond me to all my fellow sufferers, rejoicers, refugees, mothers, fathers, homeless, etc. This is what makes me human. This is why I bleed the same. And yet, the slightly different shade of all of this is what also, inevitably, makes me, me. This and the intricately confusing presence of my mysterious chest-resident; she won’t leave. I am going to have to learn to deal with her. I am beginning to suspect that I need her desperately, like maybe she knows best. But the only way to find an understanding of her is by climbing up some impossibly steep psychological mountain, so that when I reach the top I can jump. And fall. Insanely fast, and with the greatest purpose, only to crash, explode all over the earthy floor, and discover that somewhere in the peak of the chaos is the calm of the fall- the feeling of flying. And this mountain is huge. Like massive. And I don’t even know where to begin looking. But this woman in my chest, for three straight years has told me every morning that it is out there. I am just not looking hard enough or high enough. And here I was thinking that the sky was the limit.
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