Monday, May 3, 2010

From a Distance

Why do we hold on to the notion that we have to spend a lot of time with someone to be close to them? I like my alone time. I like to have time to think and process. I need to have space and room to breathe and move about. I need to have time with strangers too. Just time with people I do not know who I can react to in an honest way without putting too much thought into it. I want to get to know myself that way. I want to know my prejudices and my real thoughts. I want to know what effects me and what doesn’t. And when it comes to my closest friends and family, my soul mate and my kindred spirits, I'd rather have small memorable moments than long stretches of time with them. I like to "miss" people. I love the feeling of yearning for someone or something (food, lol). And I love the moment when it comes back to me. And I love the way it makes me appreciate the goodbye moment. Distance is not for the weak, the fearful or the anxious. It’s not for those of little faith. It’s for the bold and the attentive and the audacious. It’s for the ones who can hold on to the truth indefinitely without getting discouraged. It’s for those who can treasure a goodbye as much as an embrace. It’s for the ones who love fiercely and exponentially in small increments of time. It’s for those who live for moments saturated with honesty and openness and love and not just for measurable time spent with one another. To converse with a friend while standing in the aisle at the grocery store can be as powerful and memorable a moment as any. To have coffee with a loved one you haven’t seen in years can fill your entire empty world up in 20 minutes. Stop wasting so much time spending time. Time runs out. Moments are endless.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Cut From The Same Cloth

This post is a long time coming. But I warn you now, my thoughts won’t be cohesive. I think I’m done with trying to make my world make sense to anyone else. I’m through with giving you a little Polaroid of my life that contains the part of me I want you to see. So I’ll write what I think. What I feel. And it won’t matter and it won’t be good enough for most. And I won’t care. It’s funny to me that the very few people who know that I write say things to me like “I wish I could write my thoughts the way you do.” That’s funny to me because I really don’t. I really don’t write most of my thoughts and most of my feelings. God, not even close. There’s way too much going on in my head. And I’m afraid that if I write it, it will be true. I’ll have to face it. I can’t deal with that type of vulnerability. And I’m all over the place mentally. I’m a happy person. Whatever that means. I think I just said that so you won’t think I’m a mental case before this post is through. But I am. Happy. Little things make me happy. Like surprises. Good news from anyone. Even people I don’t know. Just good news makes me happy. But I spend a lot of my time also trying not to be devastated over things completely out of my control. Like tonight, I’m driving in my car. And I’m thinking how much I love driving in my car. Alone. Listening to NPR. And a story comes on about a girl who had her lips cut of by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). And I don’t pull over and cry because I know it won’t help. But not understanding why this happens, how this happens, how it is possible for anyone that I share this world with, to cut someone’s lips off is overwhelming my thoughts. I’m not even thinking about the girl really. I can’t let myself imagine what she’s gone through. Not right now. All I can think about is the person with the knife in his hand. He wakes up to the same miraculous sunrise that I wake up to every day. And then he cuts someone’s lips off. And I don’t understand that. And I hate that I don’t understand. It makes me feel out of control and powerless. Aren’t we all cut from the same cloth? How can he have so much hate inside him? Speaking of being cut from the same cloth. I was catching up on my friend B’s online journal the other day. He was giving me a hard time for not writing. So instead of writing, I go and read his journal. B writes my story. Often. I love reading anything he writes. Not because we have a lot in common, we don’t really. I mean, yes, we grew up in the same town, went to the same school, and the funny thing is that his dad got me my first job in a law office when I was 15. But other than that, we’ve lived different lives. But his reaction, his feelings, his thoughts, the discussions he has with himself are all so similar to the way I am. And I love that about people. I love finding something in common with someone I have nothing obviously in common with. I love knowing we are cut from the same cloth and even though our experiences are different, sometimes deep down inside we are seeking the same things out of life. Anyway B, this one’s for you. I’m writing. And yes, it feels good. Thanks for the swift kick in the ass. I owe you one.