trying my best
I’m seated at the window of a cafe located just down the block from my apartment. Here, even at ground level, it feels like I can see it all.
Many trees have decidedly bloomed overnight, expanding into fluffy canopies of green overhead. When the wind blows, I watch as tiny leaves shower down and land on top of unsuspecting people’s heads. The remaining trees are holding stubbornly onto their tiny little buds, like birds perched on branches – biding their time.
I can see many other signs of spring from here: open restaurant windows and store doors propped open, freshly planted rows of daffodils, and even (I would guess) a first date. The air is rampant with pollen and hope – the world feels small – and time, deliberate.
As the weather begrudgingly takes a turn for the warmer, I’m realizing how deeply I’ve burrowed myself under the blanket of winter lethargy. Quietly avoiding the overwhelming world of to-dos and obligations and unread texts and emails closing in around me. All the things I’ve been waiting on and putting off and I’ll do it once it’s spring.
April 1st arrives, and it’s time to snap out of it. I schedule a haircut (in a panic, when I see my stylist is about to depart on a long vacation). I finally sort through a maybe-important-but-not-really stack of mail that’s been sitting under my monitor for weeks. I tuck away some winter coats and sweaters. File my taxes just in time.
Suddenly life feels out of my control, the hours spinning into a mundane blur. Wake up, work, workout, errand, see a friend, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat. I’m losing count of the days even as I try to keep track of the goings-on.
And when asked, the only way I can describe it is life feels like it’s just happening to me, like it’s passing me by.
I feel like that all the time, a friend will nod in agreement.
Life at its dullest (and my mindset at its lowest) feels like an endless cycle of decisioning – how should I spend my time, who should I make time to see, when should I run my laundry, what should I eat for lunch today. Somehow these numerous decisions still amount to a what’s new? oh, nothing much conversation. What’s it all for, I’ll think to myself.
I don’t use the word hate lightly, but I hate this feeling of ambivalence and indifference all wrapped up in one. If I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of my life, shouldn’t I be enjoying it? Why does every day feel the same? Why do I care so much about everything? Am I doing too much or am I not doing enough?
As the self-resentment and questioning creeps in, so does envy. Everyone else must be thriving, less restricted by gravitas, not puzzling like I am over this unattainable quest for contentment. It makes me crave sitting in the passenger seat – just for a little bit. I fantasize about how much easier it must be as someone who moves through life without feeling the weight of every decision they make. For once, let me go through the motions without caring about the consequences or what it all means or who it might affect. What would it be like to know exactly where I’m headed but simply enjoy the ride there – no questions asked? To feel like existing, in itself, is significant?
When I get into these ruts of what’s it’s all for thinking, it’s often because I’ve been letting life and external players control the speed at which I’ve been running. I feel ungrounded. Yet I also know I don’t want to be in the no one cares passenger seat to life. Life is so much more than something I’m watching play out from my window view.
So as the first signs of spring usher in this universal belief in potential – and a desperate need for change – I instead put my foot on the brakes.
Pause. Am I going in the right direction? Can I embrace the discomfort of not knowing everything coming up ahead?
The more I redefine failure, the more contentment I find – no matter the outcome. And the less I question instinct, the less I hold myself back from desires I hold closest to my core. Can I let go of perfection and acknowledge the act of trying is a feat in and of itself?
I’m still in the driver’s seat, with a reluctant need for control and a disguised fear of failure. A heart set on chasing betterment and growth, and a stubbornness to give up believing life is more than numbing cycle of decisions. And I’m honestly not convinced balance can look like anything but a pendulum that I have to keep course correcting when it goes too far one way.
The car is still running. And the words are always running through my head, but my writing is rusty. By now all the trees have all shed their winter skin, their flowers proudly in full bloom as I sit down again with these words. I’m puzzling over the jumbled thoughts that arrive, struggling to materialize them into anything worthy of the world. I’ve started and stopped and rewritten and erased my thoughts so many times that my voice is starting to feel foreign, like I’m playing tug-of-war with my own ego. Stop, go, start again. The perfect combination of words seemingly can’t be assembled. I’m left with halfhearted attempts at paragraphs, hesitant explanations of who-knows-what going who-knows-where.
But trying is delicately human. For today – that’s enough for me.
I’m heading off to London and Paris later this week with no plans but to be inspired, rest, and write, so hopefully the next draft won’t take over a month for me to finish (and is more upbeat than this one)…but no promises!
Listening on repeat Boyhood - Japanese House
Watching (slowly) Beef. Also just binged Daisy Jones and the Six and would love to talk to someone about the ending. 😭
Reading nothing, honestly. I’m excited to finally pick up new books for vacation!
Dreaming about outdoor concert / festival season