Why moving on is hard

World, please forgive me for the following post. It is easily the most girly, angsty thing I have ever written. My apologies, but I've just been laying in this hammock all day and this is what laziness breeds.



Moving on is hard because moving on means admitting that you were wrong. Moving on says, hey, I'm really happy without this other person even though, at one point, I thought this person was the root of my happiness. Moving on acknowledges that someone is happier without you and that their happiness is greater than your consistency. Moving on means tearing up a schedule that you thought worked for you, it means living without a schedule for a while. Moving on says that you wasted time that you thought was well spent, time you cannot get back. Moving on is hard because we all try to make decisions and jump to conclusions that we think are right and it's embarrassing when that is not the case.

But, then again, what do I know? I've been wrong before.

Waves

Today, I was told to relax. I took a few naps in a few different locations, but, never having been one for sleep, I decided to leave my snoozing family. I tied my hair up, turned on Death Cab, and headed down to the beach. Much to my surprise, I found the sand to be black and untouched. With the exception of some local fishermen, the beach was empty but breathtakingly beautiful. I walked about a mile east, away from the fishermen, and sat down.

At first, I turned down my music and tried to synch my breathing with the crash of the ocean's waves, eyes closed. The water would crash and I would inhale until it was silenced, at which time I would exhale, trying to set the oceans undertow to a predictable rhythm. But, the current is unpredictable and soon I became short on breath. It was a peaceful 40 minutes, but "Stable Song" was reaching its final key change and I felt foolish for trying to simplify the ocean into inhales and exhales.

So, I stood up and turned on Fleet Foxes' self titled album. "Sun it Rises" hummed and I walked to its familiar pace. Not knowing what else to do, I turned a pirouette. And another. And another. By the time "Ragged Wood" began, I was twirling and leaping and prancing towards the water. Eyes still closed, I danced. Alone on the beach, I was the only movement on that still landscape and that made me feel important. For the rest of the album's duration, the beach was mine to dance on at a pace I could control. Eventually, I opened my eyes. I was dizzy but, rather than looking at the horizon as I have always been told to do, I looked down at my feet. The black sand held imprints of their movement, casks of a dying dance. I smiled because I had left my imprint on this beautiful beach.

But, then the current picked up. The waves crashed, unpredictable, and covered my feet. The water was a familiar warmth but when the undertow pulled it away, the divots in the sand were filled.

I thought I might be mad; the ocean took the reminder of my dance away with one wave. It left me standing alone on this still beach, the only movement was the slowing beat of my pacing heart. But, the beach is unpredictable and so much bigger than any movement, any thing, I can give to it. How could I ever think otherwise? Being small enough to wash away is beautiful, but only half as beautiful as the things that are big enough to wash me away.

The view from seat 18A (a window seat)

I saw busy streets become curving lines become traces of civilization become nothing at all. I saw the sunrise over Midwestern farmland. I saw the alto-stratus ceiling become the walls and then the floor, white and fluffing. I saw brown of desert sand become white with falling snow. I saw the snow itself, each unique flake, some of which clung to my window. I saw mountains small as anthills, and eventually thought nothing of them. I saw a thousand shades of green blend together into a blanket of uniformity. And I saw boxes -- proof that humans believe they control this all.

I saw the sun set over an unfamiliar scenery, maybe Mexico; who knows? I saw Orion from above the clouds that blocked its view to most. I have never been closer to the moon, big and full, and yet I have never felt so small. I saw clouds glow with orange, illuminated by lightning. I could not hear the thunder. I saw the ocean become the sky and struggled to make sense of a horizon. How could two things, both seemingly endless, have such a definitive border?

All the while, my mother slept, dreaming of being home, walking our dog down the same familiar street. All the while, my stepsister read, consumed in a land, magnificat and fantastic, that will never exist. And, when we landed, I decided that no dream or fantasy novel could ever be more surreal than the world we live in, the world I have only began to see.

What psychics taught me

Today, I went to a psychic. Not because I necessarily believe in the supernatural, but because it was on my bucket list and because it sounded like a fun idea.

The woman who told my fortune was middle-aged and had a calming voice that made me want to believe her. She told me about my health, my love life, my conflicted soul. It was great and I loved every quirky minute of it, but, I 100% acknowledge how bull-shittery she was. I mean, this woman doesn't know me and even if she did, what gives her the right to think she knows when I will marry or die or move away?

But, there is one thing she told me that took me by surprise. It was in the context of my romantic life at the moment (but she made it very clear how applicable the fact could be to my life as a whole). Her beady eyes struggled to hold gaze with mine as she said, "you need to let the past be past."



So I will. The people who drained so much of my time, the worries that bogged me down, the memories that consumed my thoughts, they are in the past. But I- me as a person- I am the present. And I want to live NOW. So I will.

The present is so great for me right now. I am happy and healthy and surrounded my happy and healthy people. The moment I am in right now, 10:23pm on Christmas Eve Eve, is wonderful. My smile feels as big as the park I am sitting in and I could not ask to be a luckier soul. Why would I waste any time with the houses or the cars or the people on the streets I drove down to get here? What matters is not what I past, but where I ended up. And that is right here. And that is all. And that is great.

The ironic part, I think, is that this woman is a fortune teller. Her job description screams the peripherality of the present, urging her customers to worry about the future. And I will. I will worry about the future when it becomes the present and then what is present now will become the past and I will let it be past. But, really, the future is dependent on how well, how quickly, I can move away from the past.

Overspoken

I wish that I could think a thought
And leave it there to be.
To have an idea and wrap it taut
To keep inside of me.

I wish that I could swallow words
And leave them on my tongue.
To breathe in what I'm thinking,
Let it expand inside my lungs.

For words, I think, improve with time
And wisdom grows in silence.
Thus the loudness I live is but a crime
And my insight breeds no prowess.

I crave a silent demeanor
Where I speak less and learn to listen.
Unnoticed as a meteor
It's the quiet who really glisten.

But still I'm here, writing down
Words I wish would go unspoken;
And thinking about the things around
That my words have left broken.

A very general list of apologies

I'm sorry that I forgot to wish you a happy birthday. I'm sorry if I didn't pull my weight in our group project. I'm sorry I'm late and I promise it won't happen again. I'm sorry that it happened again. I'm sorry that the gift I gave you wasn't as good as the one you gave me. I'm sorry that, when you passed me the ball, I kicked it to the other team and I'm sorry that that cost us the game.

I'm sorry I speak too much and out of turn. I'm sorry I tell the same story over an over. I'm sorry I so desperately seek attention and steal it from people who deserve it more. I'm sorry for being loud, obnoxious, and shrilly. I'm sorry you feel the need to put up with that.

I'm sorry I wasn't there when I should have been, when your heart was lost and your hands unheld. I'm sorry I lied and I'm sorry that I will do it in the future. I'm sorry I didn't work hard enough, that hours were spent elsewhere when they should have been spent helping you.

I'm sorry for not being thankful enough, for taking everything for granted and expecting what I do not deserve. I'm sorry I keep taking when I should be giving; I'm sorry I will never be worthy of those things given to me.

I'm sorry that I am not brave enough to speak up. I am sorry that you waste so much time worrying about me. I'm sorry for wasting the thoughts you should have had.

I'm sorry that every breath I take steals air from someone else. I'm sorry that I am alive and you are not. I'm sorry I am half as good as you would have been.

But, more than any of that, I am sorry that I even made this list. I am sorry that I feel the need to apologize and if that worries you. I'm sorry for hating my mistakes.

Plans for the nonexistent future

So, right now I am in North Carolina with my mother. Seeing as this is a trip centered in a college interview and my mother and I have little else to talk about, the majority of our conversation has been spent planning for the future. We have discussed where I want to go to school, what type of person I want to room with, where I want to live, everything. Being stressed with the nearness of plans that always seemed so distant, my response to my mothers never ending questions has been "it doesn't matter, mom, the world is going to end in four days." And so, eager for order, she begged me to walk her threw how I will spend my last day on earth if it does come this Friday. So here it is, world. My plans for Friday, December 21:

I will wake up early and make myself chocolate chip pancakes. I will play guitar for an hour, piano for an hour, and finish any uncompleted homework. I will watch the rest of Pride and Prejudice and cheat on my Advent Calendar to see if I won the Danish Lottery. I will pull out my bucket list, regret every day that I wasted on things not on that list, and tuck it in my pocket. Around 10 am, I will get on my bike. I will find the people I love and tell them I love them. I will find the people I wronged and tell them I am sorry. I will find the people I wish I knew better and tell them exactly that. I will then locate the burning pit that will have emerged in the ground and jump in before I can watch any of the previous listed people suffer.

And that will be that.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

The irony in this post is that, a few hours ago, I was planning on blogging about how things were going so great and about how I was anticipating a turn for the worst. I was going to tell myself how foolish that was, that I should live in, and just be happy with, that seemingly incorrigible bliss. I was going to tell myself that this poem, the one that I memorized at a young age and used to justify my pessimism, might actually be a lie:

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.


And now, here I am. Stricken with bad news but spared many of the details. Here I am filling in the gaps in my knowledge with tragic hypotheticals. Here I am, sad about and helpless towards a situation I can do nothing about but would give everything to change. Here I am, surrounded by leaves, realizing how I took so many flowers for granted. And here I, feeling a wonderful and peaceful dawn rising into a sickly and blinding day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Hey, at least I have this smile.

Today was great. My mother was working late and, although coming home to an empty house is not an unfamiliar experience for me, today I realized that I actually could do whatever I wanted. Instead of working on homework, I spent two hours playing piano. I spent one more playing guitar with three hilarious and talented girls. The next two and a half consisted of one of my favorite people and I getting ice cream and stargazing at Prospect Park. And it was great and I am so happy. Sure, I have mountains of work to do, but instead, I am going to eat some Twizlers, play some more piano, and go to bed early. Today will not be controlled by work.

But, that does not mean that today was not productive. In fact, the progress I made today is much more measurable than in work-heavy evenings because I am actually SMILING. If I fail my math test or have to play catchup tomorrow, that will suck, but at least I will have this night to remind me that school is such a small portion of who I am.

And so, I wonder, is it the things that I do or the things that I do not do that make me most happy? Was today great because it lacked stress and rules, or was it because it was filled with music and ice cream and stars and friends?

And here I am, again, segmenting the great from the terrible instead of integrating them. If I could be half as blissful as I am right now, if I could be half as unhappy as I have seen myself be, I couldn't complain.

Pacing

Today, I left my tutoring job at 7:08. I hand't been home since 6:50 am but Midtown Athletic Club's yoga class started at 7:30 and I wanted to get there before all the mats were taken. En route, every stop light felt like eons and the soccer moms in front of me seemed to think driving 10 mph below the speed limit was a good idea. All I could think about from behind the wheel was how stressed I was and how badly I needed yoga tonight. I merged off of 83 onto 55th and pulled up beside a green pick up truck. 7:19. I swear I have never seen this light red before But now, it seemed to be making up for lost time. I glanced to my right, towards the green pick up truck to see if the driver had taken any notice to me - he hadn't. Feeling rushed and alone and too busy to be moving so slowly, I screamed. The light turned green and I turned left. I hit an additional 3 stop lights and 2 soccer moms before finally pulling in to Midtown's parking lot. I cut off Ryan Adams mid chorus (something I rarely do), yanked the keys from the ignition, and ran inside. I had forgotten my member ID so had to waste an extra 14 seconds confirming my legal name. I bolted to the locker room, replaced my cowboy boots with running shoes, and whipped my hair into a bun. I hurried into the studio and took my seat by the back with three minutes to spare.

And    then,    for  an  hour    and    fifteen  minutes , everything    was  still.  I   found  my  "happy  place",    modeling  it    off    of    postcards    from    Olympic    National    Park.    I     closed    my    eyes.    I  could    hear    my    heart    beat.    And    it    was    steady.

I    left    yoga    feeling    calm.    As    usual,    I    decided    to    end    my   day    at   Prospect    Park  (all   good   days   end   at   prospect   park). I    sprawled    myself    out    on    top    of    the    hill,    exhaled,    and    looked    at    the    stars.          Namaste.

And then my phone rang. My mother was looking for me. I had not seen her in 30 hours and she probably had questions to ask and orders to mandate. Plus, I had yet to start my homework and had promised a friend I would help her with an essay. I drove back home, enjoying my last few moments of silence.

And now, as I am sitting upstairs, I realized I still have my shoes on. And how dumb is that? Three hours ago I was near slumber and now I can't even find time to take off my shoes.

Why is it that we segment out chaos and our tranquility rather than integrating them? I feel like I am always in such a rush to relax. Just finding time to unwind is exhausting, and once I get there, I lose my breath in an exhale.

Maybe, being calm isn't about yoga or Prospect Park. Maybe being calm is about red lights and soccer moms. After all, they too are begging us to slow down.

Arial size 10

Isn't it weird that this post and the one before it and the one before that will all be published in the same font? No matter how far my emotions scatter, the words that describe them will always be typed in this same, clean, sans sarif type face.

But the thing is, I am not feeling sans sarif right now. Not at all. If this was hand written, it would be messy and inconsistent. My T's would curl up at the bottom and I would likely switch between cursive and print depending on the length of the word. It would be illegible and wrong, but at least it would be my own.

Instead, these words that I am creating are being translated by a machine into the same, lifeless font. This is the font used in paper back books, on my prescription medicine bottles, and on my best friends blog. And although I am none of those things, to the reader, we are indistinguishable. To the reader, I am just another faceless set of fingers typing in Arial size 10.

Typography has taken my words, my original thoughts, and made them all the same. Typography knows no difference between a nervous mind and a laughing soul. Typography sweeps away the mess and makes my sentences clean, it ignores my typos and my stutters. Typography has made me lifeless, predictable. And that is not okay.