They say life can only be lived forwards but is understood backwards or yadayadaya something like that Schopenhauer said [which I would know not from reading the original treatise but pop philosophy books and inspirational quotes. Go figure] I realize I’ve been living my life like a fish in search of water. So eager to define happiness, and have a goal, I didn’t realize that the amorphous primordial fluids of life in which I am surrounded and was loathe to leave constitute a life well lived- Yes, well lived, because it is still in the process of becoming. Because I’m really alive, and hope to remain so, it always will be.
I was thinking back to how my Parisian boo made me feel kind of unexplicably soft and warm and moux and tender. When I think back to it, it is all fuzzy sort of and just an impressionist painting, not a moment captured in time. I never really understood what I felt or why I felt that way. It was so new, and he was such a mystery, even though from the time we met it felt like we had been together so long. I remember saying yes to life, getting into his car, and not knowing what awaited me.
I used to compare him to a love I once had and lost all too quickly, and I remember his kisses, so few, so vividly. I also remember how strangely quotidien it seemed, and how it wasn’t quite my high fantasy, but it was wonderful anyway. I remember the atmosphere suffused with tenderness now, though I can also remember it like a flash photography because the contrast with my everyday darkness was so stark. Here I had no idea what could come of it all, yet I consented to let my heart be wrenched out of my body.
It’s so hard to realize when the sacred and those sane, everyday moments coincide. It’s hard to believe that magic happens everyday, and is just a part of life, but it is.
I’ve been feeling kind of bummed about business school and pissed not knowing if I was on the right path. Yet somehow, a signpost has just appeared not quite telling me to change course, but that the journey to my career is not over, this is not the pen (what is that word again?) not the next to last step. Yet somehow, here I am, writing poetry, reveling in the chaos of it, excited about life again.
Sure, I’m not a robot and I haven’t stuck to my schedule today, but I do let the gods of poetry interrupt when they will. And somehow it all came out of business school, which is a lot of work, kind of boring, and leaves me with confused mixed emotions about the whole thing.
I thought I was so lonely among my classmates, that I was the only one so scared and anxious. I feared they would judge and belittle my fears, since they seem stronger, more organized, older, and that I had nothing to complain about in comparison. Instead, they knew, they supported me, they got it. I might be the only one that likes that sometimes critical professor but that doesn’t mean I’m alone or they don’t like me. I dare to hope I am surrounded by lifelong friends I live and work with, as I’ve longed for since graduating college. I’ve got some great people around me.
I feel like a person again. Yes, I’m on a dangerous, uncertain, scary, sometimes seemingly hopeless quest. I don’t have a plan like I thought I would by now. I don’t have a realistic dream. I haven’t rationalized my life away.
Instead I’m writing poetry and dreaming of someone three thousand miles away. As my human resources professor says, “Is this great stuff or what?”
I guess the only question left to ask is: If a fish is in water, does it drink? Not sure. I sure was feeling thirsty, and then I remembered I was a fish. Kind of like that one time I was struggling to make myself understood to a francophone, and then my friend reminded me I speak French. O yeah…
Time to take a shower.
PS. A wise man posted this quote: “Happiness is not a place, it is a direction.” Sydney J. Harris