Anne Lamott writes about how she is in the third third of her life. I wonder if that means I am in the second second of mine. I always thought I would know more by now, that I would have a successful job and career, a house, and most importantly a dog. Turns out, that I think I know even less than I did before. After more education than one person needs, I still cannot find the right job, and other than an unfortunate investment in an apartment I don’t live in, I have no house to speak of. And worst of all, there is no tiny ball of puppy fluff nibbling at my toes as I write this. But I wouldn’t change it for anything (well I would change the not having a puppy part) but the knowing less and not having the perfect life plan come to fruition, is not as bad as I thought it would be. It turns out life is not about a perfect plan, or the perfect job or the perfect house, it’s really all just about people and experiences and the tiny tiny things that give us joy. Everything else is a bit of a shit show really.
We are living through a once in a lifetime pandemic, people are dying, and not just from Covid, from all the other horrible stuff that was around before it and will be after it. Wars rage, people suffer and despite best efforts, people are still trafficked and women and girls are still murdered, in their homes and outside of them. Like I said it’s a shit show. I try to manage this difficult and painful world with a mix of idealism and stone cold cynicism. It has been brought to my attention however, that not only are these not working, I am not fooling anybody, not even myself. The irritating part of this, is that I pay good money to an annoying therapist to be told these things. I tell him cynicism keeps me safe, he tells me there is no safety from hardship. I tell him that Romeo and Juliet should have broken up, at least that way they would have lived, he tells me life without love isn’t life at all. I tell him that being open hearted means we make bad decisions and get our asses kicked. He tells me life kicks our asses anyway, so why not enjoy it, take the risk, and maybe in all the mess of living and loving, crying and falling, I might just enjoy myself. I think I hate him. I am running out of sarcasm and fake cynicism and he is of course right, which is obviously the worst bit.
Actually, the worst bit is that I keep relearning these same lessons over and over again. When my dad got sick a few years back, I was determined to live an open-hearted life, like he did, without even trying all that hard. He loved well and unconditionally. I do too. Once that love is for other people and not myself. Loving others is easy, loving yourself is a whole other ball game and one I don’t want to play. Turns out, according to annoying therapist (and Brené Brown) that to love others well, you also have to love yourself. To forgive well, you have to forgive yourself, and that being kind is wonderful, but showing kindness to yourself is revolutionary. I struggle with all of these things, who doesn’t? And so often I barricade myself away, behind my cynicism and sarcasm, building my impenetrable walls. I plan for disappointment, so much so that I live in it and I miss all the wonder and beauty around me.
Secretly though, I am still waiting for the plan to happen you see. The one with the awesome job and the apartment in New York and little Thor nibbling at my toes (and yes I have named my future dog, the way other people name their future children). I stare wistfully out the window, wondering when my life will start, when that job offer will come, when I can afford a house bigger than a shoe box for Thor and all his toys. When the call comes to tell me ‘I am enough’. And while I sit staring out the window, life is happening all around me. My life is happening, I just forgot to board the train again. When my dad was sick, I jumped on the metaphorical life train, I wanted the train and all the adventures it would take me on, good and bad. I was fully on board, for getting my ass kicked, my heart broken, for the elevating highs and the crushing lows. Then my dad died, and my heart got broken and I was landed with an avalanche of pain like nothing I had ever experienced. I did not like the train anymore, I wanted off. I wanted my old friend fear back.
I have written about fear before, the almost human companion who has accompanied me for most of my life. Fear is the one who told me not to get on the train, he told me that trains crash and ultimately end in despair. And so when the train did indeed crash, he once again whispered ‘I told you so’ in my ear. What could I say? He was right. Again. So we became best friends again after a brief period apart. And oh how comfortable it was, to be back with my old friend, hanging out, watching life go by, safe from all the pain and suffering, preempting all the pitfalls, and avoiding all those moments of joy that would inevitably be taken away before I could even enjoy them. How happy we were. Me and fear. And let’s not forget our friend disappointment. ‘Just stay here with us’ they would say, ‘it is so much safer here’. ‘If you live with me’, said disappointment, ‘I will never sneak up on you, you will always know I am here, you will always be prepared’. So, I have stayed with my comfortable friends. I have refused to open up, to anything; people, experiences, new friends and old; content with my fear, best friends with disappointment.
But something wasn’t quite right. It just didn’t feel like living. In fact it didn’t really feel like anything at all, other than safety at all costs. And that cost was me. And so in an act of madness I found the aforementioned therapist who tells me nothing but difficult truths. That life is hard, which I knew, but that it doesn’t have to be quite this hard. It comes in waves, he tells me; good things, bad things, good things and so on. That life is not just black and white, it is not even grey, it is every colour of the rainbow and more. That I will cry and laugh, but often not in equal measure. That people will leave and die and there is nothing I can do about it. No armour will protect me from the pain, pain is inevitable. But that joy is free for all who choose it. Yet another thing I hate. Both the choosing and the knowing that it will be lost. This, he tells me is life. And that I can choose to live it, or I can choose to hide from it, but that the latter is not really me. That the cynicism is a cover, and the idealism is an impossible task. Something else he is right about that I greatly dislike. For as long as I have had fear, I have also had hope. That other annoying friend, who pushes me, not away from the train, but towards it, telling me He will hold me, no matter what happens, no matter the waves, no matter the twists and turns. All I have to do is trust hope a little more and fear a little less, and accept that disappointment comes and goes, but that ultimately life is a rainbow. It is black and white and every colour in between. Self-forgiveness is redemption and revolution, self-love is freedom, I am enough, and hope, my dear friend, is everlasting.
ilooktothehills 