Contemplating the thrill of it all
So, yeah, I’ve been a slacker with the whole blogging thing. Part of it is that there isn’t much to report. But part of that is because I haven’t found it in me to contemplate much lately. And contemplation seems to go hand in hand with blogging, at least for me. Why the lack of contemplation? In a nutshell, fear. Who knows what thoughts will rise to the surface if one gives them a chance to do so.
That said, I managed to do some long overdue contemplation today, which I will attempt to put into some kind of cohesive form — no promises though. Overdue contemplation leads to an overload of thoughts and emotions that seem to both flow freely and jumble together all at the same time.
I spent most of my day here. 
This is, in my opinion, one of the best beaches in the world. It’s not so much about the sand and the surf, though they are fantastic, but the whole atmosphere of the place. A resort town where shoes are optional, people walk everywhere, and there is so much to see around every corner from eclectic little shops to musicians in the streets. Strangely enough, halfway around the world, there is something about it that feels very right to me — like in some strange way I am home. Or at least at home in some alternate universe.
So after having a good wander around the town and taking a long walk along the shore, I found myself sitting in the sand. I watched the families playing in the breaking waves. The lovers walking hand in hand along the beach. The birds (which were more attractive than any seagulls I ever see at home) fluttering here and there in search of food. The surfers way back in the ocean, seemingly watching over it all, occasionally gliding toward the shore only to paddle back out to the depths. And there was a little girl in a pink tutu. She was there with her mother and two older sisters, and clearly the free spirit. Chasing after the birds. Splashing into the surf, just a little bit deeper than the others. Plopping down in the sand and letting handfuls of it run through her fingers. I found myself envious of the little girl in the pink tutu. I wished to feel that free, that alive.
I watched the sunburned tourists pack up their gear and head back to their hotels, reminding me that this primarily a holiday town. For some reason I heard my parents’ voice reminding me that this isn’t real life.
But as i watched the sun set over the blue waters, I thought to myself “Why can’t this be real life?” Why must “real life” consist of drudgery and entrapment? Why can’t real life be as free as the little girl in the pink tutu? Why shouldn’t there be joy and wonder in every day life?
Is it so crazy to wish for a real life that entails all of this?
I thought of a quote I saw somewhere: “Life isn’t about finding yourself, but creating yourself.”
I guess this means that if this is the reality I want, I’m the only one who can make that happen. And that’s quite a terrifying thought. I’m the one who needs to figure out how to get from point A to point B. I’m the only one who can do it. And I won’t have any guidelines or roadmaps to help me do so.
The dangers of contemplation. Realizations may be more terrifying than anything.
As day turned to evening, I wandered back to catch the ferry back to Sydney. Thinking about these things. Thinking about the last time I was in this part of the world. More specifically when I came home from this part of the world only to have the bomb dropped and my marriage and life as I knew it shattering into pieces. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet I couldn’t help but remember who I was then, and compare it to who I am now, the good and the bad. And as I sat on the deck of the ferry with my feet propped up on the railing, looking up at the moon, a light rain began to fall. I felt the cool droplets on my face, mixing with the hot tears that had somehow escaped from my eyes without my noticing. Cleansing. Refreshing. Washing away regrets. Preparing me for something new. While listening to the lyrics of the song playing on my mp3 player. And perhaps really understanding them for the first time:
It’s a secret no one tells;
One day it’s heaven, one day it’s hell.
It’s no fairy tale;
Take it from me,
That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
You will fly and you will crawl;
God knows even angels fall.
No such thing as you lost it all.
God knows even angels fall.
You laugh, you cry, no one knows why
Behold the thrill of it all…
You’re on the ride
You might as well
Open your eyes…
Pity Party for One
I received news late last night that a childhood friend delivered a baby girl. Mother and child are healthy. This was especially wonderful news because she’d had an extremely difficult pregnancy and ended up having her labor induced out of concern for the life of the baby. This is a girl with whom I grew up, whose mother has been best friends with my mother since they were 12 years old. I am truly happy for their entire family.
But forgive me for feeling a little bitter.
I’m beginning to feel like everywhere I look family and friends my age (and younger!) are having children. Expanding their families. Living the dream. The dream I desperately wanted.
And I blew it.
Logically I know it’s not all my fault. And that the only thing worse than going through this divorce would be going through this divorce after having had a child by this man, which would mean being tied to him forever (or at least 18 years).
But I see my parents excitedly congratulate their family members and friends as they become grandparents. It’s happening more and more often. And now it will never be their turn to receive these congratulations in return.
So I not only blew it for me, I blew it for them.
If I ever had a son, I wanted to name him after my father. It was a secret I kept to myself (along with my former husband) because I wanted to be able to surprise my dad if the day were to ever come. If I ever had a daughter I wanted to name her after my great-grandmother – a feisty redhead who immigrated to America in the early 1900s, never really learned to speak English very well, yet managed to successfully take very good care of herself and her family, even fighting off a mugger when she was in her 70s.
Those imagined children are now fading into the mist. Just like the rest of my dreams.
I know, I know, it’s time to focus on new dreams. Unfortunately biology is a bit unfair in that women don’t have forever to have children. Yes, adoption is an option, even for single parents (an option I will seriously consider when I’m nearing 40 with no partner in sight.) Still, call me selfish, call me self-centered, call me petty and mean and anything else under the sun (I deserve it). As heartfelt as my congratulations are to parents everywhere (and they really are) I can’t help feeling the sting of losing what I never had.
I miss the “you” you used to be
I don’t know who this monster is who is inhabiting your body, but I know that it’s not you — the you that I married. The you that I loved — that I still love. I told you I don’t love you anymore. I don’t love the “you” you are now. I don’t love the “you” who lied, cheated, used, and betrayed me. The “you” who is so cold and mean to me. I don’t know what happened to you — the real you. As angry as I am, and as much as I am accepting that this marriage is over, I know that this person, this monster can’t be the real you. I’m having a very hard time because while I’m angry at this new you, I’m grieving the loss of the old you. And it’s a concept that not many people can understand.
You were always the one I turned to when I was upset. The one who comforted me and told me everything would be ok. The one who would hold me until I stopped crying. The one who would wipe my tears away. Now I have no one to comfort and console me. No one is going to hold me and wipe my tears.
As angry as I am at you, and as much as the sight of you makes me ill, I still want the old you to comfort me and assure me that I will make it through this. That we will make it through this, just like we made it through so many other hardships and disappointments. Together. As a team.
Remember my nightmares that you would do something bad to me? In them you would turn into a monster or abandon me. I used to wake up mad at you, and you’d be upset with me for even having these dreams. You used to feel horrible that I could even imagine such a thing in my dreams. Now the nightmare has come true. And I can’t wake up.
