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…
Questions
“Sometimes questions are more important than answers.” ~Nancy Willard
What do you do when you find out your entire adult life was based on a lie?
What do you do when you realize that your life is essentially useless because you built it around the aforementioned lie?
What do you do when you know you did your best, but your best simply wasn’t good enough?
How do you erase the memories which are now tainted?
How do you work on building a new life when it’s all you can do to hold together the basic scraps of your old one?
How do you find hope (again) after it is lost (again and again)?
How do you stop questioning things that cannot and will not be answered?
“When is a crisis reached? When questions arise that can’t be answered.” ~Ryszard Kapuscinski
Broken
Time.
Thought I’d make friends with time.
Thought we’d be flying.
Maybe not this time.
- Tori Amos, “Baker Baker”
Have you ever dropped a plate? Or a porcelain figurine? Or a piece of pottery? It breaks into pieces. If you can manage to find all of the pieces you can attempt to glue it back together. You may choose to use rubber cement, or Gorilla glue, or good old Elmer’s school glue. And you can do a pretty good job. If you’re careful and take your time, you can fit every piece back into place. It looks as good as it did before if you don’t look too closely to see the cracks.
But maybe a week later while dusting you jostle it a bit. Knock into it by accident. And where as before it wouldn’t have been enough to damage it, because the structural integrity has already been compromised, it breaks. All over again. You can find all of the pieces. Perhaps not all of the pieces have even broken off. But you wonder if it is really worth repairing again.
That’s how it is when your heart is broken — really broken. You can pick up the pieces. You look pretty good from the outside, especially since most people don’t look closely enough to see the cracks. You think you’re pretty good on the inside too. You’re proud of yourself for fixing and for being fixed. Then your heart is jostled. In a harsh way or a subtle way. And it falls apart all over again. And you’re faced with repairing it yet again and wondering if it’s worth it.
Ding Dong, the Ex is Gone
He moved. Out of state. Last weekend. Didn’t tell me. Found out from a mutual friend about an hour ago. Didn’t inform the court either, to my knowledge. Taking with him a car to which I still hold the title and a spare set of keys. Apparently he’s gotten a job and a place to live.
Is it strange that the only part of this news that really pisses me off is that he chooses now to finally start acting like a grown up? Maybe that should be my #8 in my previous post below.
I’m also somewhat annoyed that he gets to start completely over fresh with no baggage while I’m left to clean up the mess left behind. But that is nothing new, so I’m sort of accustomed to that. It still stings.
But at least it means he’s just that much further removed from my life, which enables me to move on that much more. So in a somewhat twisted way, I’m grateful. I’m free.
Jaded
Baby
You’re so jaded
‘Cause I’m the one that jaded you.
~Aerosmith
No, I haven’t given up on blogging already. I just haven’t had a topic in quite some time. The debris seems to be settling, and the drama subsiding. Only constant internal monologues remaining. I sometimes wonder if this is normal when one lives on one’s own. To be honest I’ve never completely lived on my own full-time before in my life. It sounds a bit ridiculous, I know. So I don’t know how much of what I’m experiencing is normal for a person living alone, or how much is a reaction to recent events. It’s a little unnerving at times, I have to admit.
One theme I keep coming back to in conversations with others (and that blasted internal monologue) is the subject of being jaded. How jaded I am now. How jaded I ought to be. How jaded I should have been all along. As soon as my previous life as I knew it started crumbling people warned me that I would be jaded forever going forward. While analyzing the breakdown of the marriage, I chided myself for not being jaded enough all along.
However, I came to a different conclusion just recently.
There is no reason I ought to have been jaded. Being jaded would have meant questioning every joy I did experience. Being distrustful. Being cynical. And, yes, perhaps had I known then what I know now, I ought to have been those things. But I’m glad I wasn’t. Because you are supposed to trust in your spouse. You are supposed to treasure joy for what it is. And you are supposed to embrace life events and feelings rather than be skeptical of them. So, no, even if some people may call me naive or foolish, I’m not sorry I did those things.
And to that point, I don’t want to be jaded now or in the future. Sure, I may be more cautious. Sure, my heart may be more tender. But I want to live my life; not sit on the sidelines making cynical comments about it. I want to experience emotions full throttle; not simply the watered down versions. I don’t want to live my life with kid gloves on. What is the point of living if one doesn’t do so fully and completely?
The way I figure it, I’ve been through what I can only imagine is one the most painful devastating events a person can experience. And I’ve survived. I’ve learned. I’ve evolved. If not for the pain there would be no reward.
So here I go back into the world, without my training wheels of jadedness to keep me from falling. It is through our mistakes and our mishaps that we learn and, eventually, accomplish more than we thought we could before.
Naked Finger Solution
Ever since I removed my wedding rings, I have felt like there was a giant strobe light focused on the ring finger on my left hand, alerting the media to my naked finger status. Even though I never wore my wedding rings 24/7, seeing that finger naked every day was bothering me. I even was paranoid enough to think that possibly other people were noticing my naked finger and looking at me with pity or contempt. Yes, I know this is crazy. On a completely materialistic note, I missed the sparkle of diamonds and the shimmer of light that occurred whenever I used my left hand to emphasize a point (especially if it happened to be in direct lighting).
While these are not good enough reasons to resume wearing my wedding rings (to put it mildly) I did discover a solution for my naked finger syndrome over the weekend. I was going through my jewelry box looking for earrings and came across my college ring. Not for nothing, but I went to a pretty well respected college, and my ring is quite classy: large, oval black stone with my school crest in gold, on a solid gold base. Sadly, I never wore my college ring very often. (I’ll admit that I mainly wore it for job interviews when I was just about to graduate college. I even tried to flash it around a bit, as if to say to prospective employers, “See! Good school! I must be a really smart chick, so you should definitely hire me.”)
When my ex and I became serious he gave me a pretty ring that I wore on my left ring finger until I did eventually receive my engagement ring. (I’m actually not sure what happened to that original ring as it seems to be missing from my jewelry box – very strange.)
Anyway, as you may have guessed, my college ring has now been appointed its proper place on my left ring finger. It’s classy (like me!) It’s smart (like me!) And most importantly, it symbolizes my accomplishments that I achieved on my own – for me alone. To others it may appear to be a simple ring, but to me it’s my “You’re a kickass chick with a brilliant future” ring.
