GiViNg Up

Giving up. Throwing in the towel. Washing my hands off this. Calling it quits. Packing it in. Backing away. Withdrawing. Stop doing it.

So many ways. Of giving up.

ThE WoRLd wE SeE

The problem is that seeing is never plain. The woman who has just found a new lover gazes out her kitchen window at the overgrown lawn and sees there luxuriance, a wild and delicious excess. The man who has just lost his job looks out the same window at the same lawn and sees there more evidence of his decline. There is always something that is behind our seeing, something prior to it. Even the so-called objective standpoint of the scientist, however valuable and important, is not an absolute frame of reference but rather grows out of a particular set of interests and concerns. Thus the question arises: If we must see the world clearly in order to choose it, what world must we see?

(from Learning To Fall by Philip Simmons)

cRyiNG

I cried. The heart-wrenching, tears-brimming-over, gasping-for-breath kind of crying. It came suddenly. And it stayed for a long time. I cried for me, my family, my friends. I cried for my life, my being, my self. I cried for the poor, the destitute, the world.

With the warm tears dripping down my chin, I realized something.

Crying can be very liberating.

PaiN

I cut myself the other day, near the knuckle of my finger, and it was painful. It still is painful because every time I bend my finger, the wound seems to re-open.

I was reading a book the other day, about how the author was abused as a child, and it was painful. The kind of pain that makes you weep even though you have no experience of the abuse nor know the person who was abused.

I visited my ex-boyfriend the other day, with his wife, and it was painful. It was a bittersweet pain that grips your heart for a moment and then passes, because you are now finally convinced you can lay the dream to rest.

And she asked me, “Do you believe there is meaning in pain?"

WaLK tHe RoaD

All we have to believe with is our senses: the tools we use to perceive the world, our sight, our touch, our memory. If they lie to us, then nothing can be trusted. And even if we do not believe, then still we cannot travel in any other way than the road our senses show us; and we must walk that road to the end.

(from American Gods by Neil Gaiman)

What happens when that road our senses show us is a dead-end?

cAuGHt

I had an incredible urge to run away just now. I don’t know why or how but I just needed to run, to leap, to fly, with the wind. To run forever.

But I am so tired. Exhausted and bone-weary tired. I want to sleep, to slumber, to lie down, with the earth. To sleep forever.

In this moment, in this moment that goes on forever, I am caught.

Caught, in a forever moment.

WitHOuT tHe TrAPpiNgS

I sat by the river after work and people-watched.

The river was a muddy-murky grey, but that didn’t stop the tourists in the little motorboats from laughing and taking photos. It was nothing near the crystal clear water in the Maldives or Mauritius.

There was a cigarette butt peeking out from under the stool. Nearby, mothers were variously screaming at their children not to run too near the water’s edge, or calling for them to come see the water. Meanwhile, a little girl fell down and cried. It was nothing like the picturesque scenes from Cathedral Square or Eiffel Tower.

I thought about my friend, about how nice it would be if my friend were there with me too, and I SMS-ed my friend. It was nothing compared to having my friend walk with me on the beach or exploring the rainforest to see orang utans.

And yet, I sat there by the river for an hour, soaking in the sights and sounds. I was mesmerized. It was not picture-perfect. It was in fact chaotic and messy. But that, that is life. Dirty water, wailing children, sitting alone.

And I am humbled.

tHe LasT

The last time I met you was long ago, in another world, in another lifetime.

The last thing he said to me was, “You must take care of yourself.”

The last supper Jesus took, with his 12 beloved apostles.

The last, the last.

The last book, the last chapter, the last page, the last sentence, the last word.

The last straw, that broke the camel’s back.

BirTHdaYs

Birthdays, seem to take forever, especially when you can’t wait to grow up. Birthdays, come and go so quickly, especially after you stop trying to count them.

Birthdays, are deeply personal, deeply reflective. Birthdays, have a way of making you think about life.

Sometimes, holding on can be really difficult.

kNOwLeDge

Every once in a while, knowledge happens.

Like the other day when I finally understood what my ballet teacher had been telling me for ages, to tuck in my tailbone.

Like the other day when I finally discovered that despite all of my narcissistic fantasies, I am only human.

An all-too-human human.

tHe LitTLe oLD LadY

Today I passed a hunched little old lady on my way to the train station, sitting in a wheelchair. She was selling packets of tissue. A lady approached her, gave her two dollars, and walked away.

What I thought was a hunched little old lady suddenly yelled at the top of her voice, shouting to the world that she was no beggar, that she makes an honest living by selling tissue.

In her voice and in her eyes, I saw the fierce determination of one who wasn’t willing to give up, no matter what life had thrown her way. Hunched and little though she was, bound to the wheelchair, she had a stature and presence that could equal any one of us walking by.

And I thought, I don’t want to grow old.

pOiNTs Of VieW

A cup half full. A cup half empty. Two ways of looking at the same thing. Yet how difficult. To cajole your mind into discovering the other side of the coin.

There is me and you and them. There is this and that and the other.

There is life and death and what happens after.

Multiplicity. Like a kaleidoscope. Or being in a house of mirrors. A circle with infinite angles.

Will one day the mind topple over with too many points of view?

PoSsiBiLiTieS

These are enervating thoughts, the thoughts of despair. They crowd back, unbidden, when human life as it unrolls goes ill, when we lose control of our lives or the illusion of control, and it seems that we are not moving toward any end but merely blown. Our life seems cursed to be a wiggle merely, and a wandering without end. Even nature is hostile and poisonous, as though it were impossible for our vulnerability to survive on these acrid stones.

Whether these thoughts are true or not I find less interesting than the possibilities for beauty they may hold. We are down here in time, where beauty grows. Even if things are as bad as they could possibly be, and as meaningless, then matters of truth are themselves indifferent; we may as well please our sensibilities and, with as much spirit as we can muster, go out with a buck and wing.


(from Teaching A Stone To Talk by Annie Dillard)