It feels like a lot has happened and tons of progress has been made. Largely because I pushed my self, pushed the envelop of my assumptions about my self and life, and when the hypothesis comes back well tested, you can’t cry too much over spilt milk.
I’ve read about people who have just kept working all there life, justt unable to relax or feel like they’ve “made it”, that they have arrived. I always thought I was one of those people, that nothing would satisfy me, even that it was a sin to be satisfeid when there’s so much unconquered, unexplored territory.
But if half of happeniness is the combat, the other half is liking what you have, or at least tolerating it until it changes. Because it will- it always does.
Someday I will lament my fleshy, incredibly womanly body, how soft and graceful and feminine I am now, not gamine in the least, but womanly, volumptuous, a promise of the maternal and of material pleasures of th flesh, much as now I just see shame and depression in the extra weight I am carrying. But it’s all for the best.
There are two main battles to be faught, two balances to be won
between discipline for own’s own good and self hating/self shaming indulgence or harsh slf punishing restriction
between healthy selfishess and altruism- altruism and selfishness both having a point of excess, motivated by slef loathing rather than self love.
it’s a balance, and as a wise woman recently told me, “le monde n’est pas aussi droit qu’on le croyait,” which is to say, the world is not as straight/as black and white, as you woul dthink, and this is the fruit of maturity.
And for me, persnoally, it’s always been a struggle to hear my own small inner voice when trying to mak sense of, and take the best of, all other voices.
I’ve often been tortured by the qustion of “where, ” I should be, “where” I might belong, and “who” I might belgong to/with, but the truth is the real question is
“who am I?”
And while the shimmering every changing illusory self is an illusion, like so many other things in this world, the truth of it hasn’t come to me in the form I thought it would.
Living abroad has at times cemented my bonds with my roots, with my core identity of nation, creed, class, and so forth, but what has really done is make me realize these things don’t truly define me, however much I perceive them as truths.
I am an individual, and none of those things define me.
Not my country, not my language, not the way I make love or the number of partners, not who my husband will be, not what people think about me, not even the country I chose to live in, or the job I do. I’ve been looking for myself, all over the world and across thousands of metiers, jobs, professions, vocations, poems, places, plazas, rivers and streams,
but I am just the current of the wind, or the ocean, or the stream, maybe a rill or a babbling brook-
As Pocahontas says, “What I lov most about rivers is, you can’t step in the same river twice.” And I really am not the same as I was from one day to the next, especially in France, I just have this impression of constantly growing, expanding, changing, and the only thing I really know that I don’t want is to stay still- the only thing I do want is to keep traveling, growing, expanding, maturing, learning, being, alive, not stagnant.
But when I was looking though old facebook photos, evaluating my life to see if I’d wastd it at all, if I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, the answer was a resounding NO.
The only thing I’d wasted was nmy own experience of the events, because I was anxious about the future and sometimes second guessing what had passed. I was tryingto make sense of things I couldn’t yet, and often still cna’t, make sense and probably don’t need to make sense of to live happilly ever after, today, and every day.
I’ve always enjoyed pondering, but all my ponderings have brought me to the place I started. Every mile leads me home, as I once read in a tatoo shop.
I know nothing, and this is what makes me wise.
I know nothing, I believe those who say they know are fools, but I know nothing so I don’t really know whether they are or not and strive not to judge. I know nothing, and I’m the fool.
The meaning of life is to live it.
You shall love life more than the meaning of it. -Dostoevsky
And sometimes all we need to do is stop, for one moment, wishing for whiter teeth, a better job, a more convenient country, and just appreciate where we are, and the beauty of our strivings, if they are worthy of admiration.
I have striven for love and been filled iwth love, I have strove with fear and lived in fear.
The journey is the destination.
Happinenss is not in the destination it’s in the journey.
What a strange and beautiful, contradictory and paradoxical, and maybe simler than it seems, world we live in.
What a privilege to live.