Moments
I was talking to my little brother last night, as I was driving around Beverley Hills, deeply regretting my decision to go out and explore. I was bitching, while on the phone, about how much this is just not my scene. How I was surrounded by trendy people, and how I just wanted to find a goddamn diverse neighborhood and have a little quirkiness thrown at me. I was mostly joking, but also not. I feel privileged about where I get to stay, what I get to experience. But it's still not me, this wealth and shallow awareness of others eyes and judgement.
Anyways, I'm talking to him on the phone, and he's laughing, and I get a quick flash moment of awareness of his almost palpable need to be me in that moment. It's not jealousy, or a hatred of his life right now. It was just a quiet voice reminding him of what he used to be, used to want. Quiet but potent. A reminder of a past self that constantly wanted MORE, was discontent and addicted to the search for something better. In many ways, my brother has EXACTLY what he's always wanted. A ridiculously beautiful, adorable wife. An overwhelmingly cute baby. A house, a yard, living in a cool city, a job that pays well, potential for movement and growth. But underneath it all is the fear that drives our family. The fear that this will not be enough, that this is all there is. I swear, it's genetic, this fear of this being it. Some ancient ancestor had such a strong, intense sense of discontent that it imprinted itself in their genes and wormed its way down through every iteration of them, expressing itself in small ways and large.
I see it in myself, and have dedicated a large amount of processing power to keeping it under control. I love being happy, enjoy contentment. I will fight fucking hard to feel that way. So when I see that genetic variable rearing its ugly head in my siblings, I just want to tear it out, want to somehow help them do the same work I've done.
I woke up in the middle of the night, after that conversation, from a dream about being a detective who needed to solve a case involving a murderous horse, a cranky old man, a gorgeous young surfer dude, and my sister-in-law. But the first thought that popped into my head was "It's the moments. Every single moment, that's what's enough, what has the potential to be enough.". I thought about what that meant, and thought about myself as an old woman. What would I remember? I will remember the sharp images, the intense beauty. But they don't have to be the meaningful moments. I will remember, I think, driving through Arizona. Striated cliffs, orange and pink and burnt umber. I will remember faces, smiling at me in baffled wonder, people realizing who I am and who they are. I will remember sharp bursts of love, some healthy, some not. Having sex on a futon after days away, the heart numbing realization of I don't love you even as the words "I love you" were torn from my mouth. Peeking through a shelf in a library, the fall of his perfect caramel colored hair hiding his perfect brown eyes.
Moments. Just moments, connections, threads in a life that slowly expanded to fill as much space as possible. And there is nothing to fear in the threads that get cut off. There is nothing to regret in the inability to walk down that part of your web, because it will always be there, in your past, waiting to be remembered. And there will always be threads reaching out, seeking and creating new paths to explore. Getting old doesn't change that. Having a family doesn't change that. Falling in love doesn't change that. Failing in love doesn't change that. The potential for growth is always there, and something to be treasured. One of the few things that can stifle that potential is discontent. The constant plucking at threads that are either no longer there or never existed is dangerous and pointless, takes away from the resources needed to create new ones instead.
You can't tell someone to treasure every moment. You can't shove the knowledge of how beautiful their life is RIGHT NOW into their head, much as you'd like to do so.
Anyways, I'm talking to him on the phone, and he's laughing, and I get a quick flash moment of awareness of his almost palpable need to be me in that moment. It's not jealousy, or a hatred of his life right now. It was just a quiet voice reminding him of what he used to be, used to want. Quiet but potent. A reminder of a past self that constantly wanted MORE, was discontent and addicted to the search for something better. In many ways, my brother has EXACTLY what he's always wanted. A ridiculously beautiful, adorable wife. An overwhelmingly cute baby. A house, a yard, living in a cool city, a job that pays well, potential for movement and growth. But underneath it all is the fear that drives our family. The fear that this will not be enough, that this is all there is. I swear, it's genetic, this fear of this being it. Some ancient ancestor had such a strong, intense sense of discontent that it imprinted itself in their genes and wormed its way down through every iteration of them, expressing itself in small ways and large.
I see it in myself, and have dedicated a large amount of processing power to keeping it under control. I love being happy, enjoy contentment. I will fight fucking hard to feel that way. So when I see that genetic variable rearing its ugly head in my siblings, I just want to tear it out, want to somehow help them do the same work I've done.
I woke up in the middle of the night, after that conversation, from a dream about being a detective who needed to solve a case involving a murderous horse, a cranky old man, a gorgeous young surfer dude, and my sister-in-law. But the first thought that popped into my head was "It's the moments. Every single moment, that's what's enough, what has the potential to be enough.". I thought about what that meant, and thought about myself as an old woman. What would I remember? I will remember the sharp images, the intense beauty. But they don't have to be the meaningful moments. I will remember, I think, driving through Arizona. Striated cliffs, orange and pink and burnt umber. I will remember faces, smiling at me in baffled wonder, people realizing who I am and who they are. I will remember sharp bursts of love, some healthy, some not. Having sex on a futon after days away, the heart numbing realization of I don't love you even as the words "I love you" were torn from my mouth. Peeking through a shelf in a library, the fall of his perfect caramel colored hair hiding his perfect brown eyes.
Moments. Just moments, connections, threads in a life that slowly expanded to fill as much space as possible. And there is nothing to fear in the threads that get cut off. There is nothing to regret in the inability to walk down that part of your web, because it will always be there, in your past, waiting to be remembered. And there will always be threads reaching out, seeking and creating new paths to explore. Getting old doesn't change that. Having a family doesn't change that. Falling in love doesn't change that. Failing in love doesn't change that. The potential for growth is always there, and something to be treasured. One of the few things that can stifle that potential is discontent. The constant plucking at threads that are either no longer there or never existed is dangerous and pointless, takes away from the resources needed to create new ones instead.
You can't tell someone to treasure every moment. You can't shove the knowledge of how beautiful their life is RIGHT NOW into their head, much as you'd like to do so.
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