murmuration of a starling

I read an article today, claiming Shakespeare “massaged historical record … for dramatic effect.” I need not quote the rest, or even give credit to the writer, who, I believe, massaged himself in lower areas by writing the insanity I attempted to digest with Trader Joe’s yogurt covered raisins.

The truth is, I got there by my own accord, so I can’t blame aforementioned mental masturbator; and, far be it from me to look upon another to blame my, as per usual, random — like, happened within a forty second timeframe — inquiry about the Ides of March. Not because I had to know about this subject for any particular reason (I am not even teaching it this semester), and not because I lacked the protocol-ish information one must beware in order to beware the Ides of March, but mainly because I was feeling less superstitious than normal.

Call it Spring cleaning, or whatever, but I suddenly feel the typically dark shroud around my brain has been lifted. (Note: I think I lifted it, myself!) You know the one, the one where I remain dark and twisty, analyzing every conversation, every move, and end the process beating myself up over it? Well, consider me naked of shroud, because I am too old and too tired for this shit. (That, by the way, was a line I have been waiting to use since early 2004, when a Brooklyn-born, class clown-y guy in my Honors Poetry class read aloud his very first line to his poem regarding the classroom process that is, well, learning.)

I re-bought a book last week that I had previously read, and considered a life-changer. I will not mention the title of this book because with it comes a lot of opinions, and like I mentioned before, I don’t give a shit what those are regarding said piece of non-fiction. (This in no way means that I care not about the people reading MY writing, but that if a book, whatever it be, changes your situation, then it is a worthy experience for anyone, and thou shall not put thy book down to changed person.)

I believe this book is magic, I once made a friend buy it in the middle of a crisis, even though she had the book buried, unread, somewhere in her closet. She finished it, and her life changed, too, which would lead to many texts, calls, and emails thanking me for said experience she claims she never would have had unless I forced her into buying what she previously referred to as “that book I just don’t want to read.” She, too, forces people to buy it, I’m sure.

The thing is, though, I do not believe it was because of me that she read, or rather, experienced this book. I believe this book, or at least what I learned from it, comes to you when you need it in life. Oh, but life …

Life. The very thing I seemed to be darkening for myself, with my shroud of analytics. But, no more!

I have recently (very recently, in fact) opened up the book, and began to write in it, the way I did the first time, on these fresh, unhighlighted, untattered pages. The experiences were different; the opinions different; the thoughts and memories? Different. In a good way. The thing that was not different, though, was that I was still, in some way, not allowing myself to truly enjoy the self she had finally forgiven and vowed to never leave. And I decided it was time to stop beating myself up.

Julius Caesar, in Shakespeare’s play, ended his life with the words, “Et tu, brute?” And in a world where people shroud their intentions, I have decided that enough is enough. I will not be my own Brutus any longer. (And that was the side of me that should have been wary of the Ides of March, because as it passed, shit happened.)

Shit, like life, happens, and it isn’t what you do, but how you handle it that really matters. And suddenly, I have decided that there is no person worth trying to uncover, except for me. (Note: This is in no way a negative take on life; it is more of a realistic one.) How about, for once, I just allow someone enough room to uncover themselves, while I take it slow, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride? I mean, it is Spring, right? The windows should be down, the music should be blasting, and I should be singing along; not analyzing the reasons a situation matches these depressing words Adele sings. Over-thinking is so last season.

Maybe Julius Caesar didn’t REALLY end his life with the haunting phrase. Maybe William “massaged” everything. But how is he different from any one of us? How else do we explore and observe what we intake, every day? How else would we make sense of all of this? And how else would we even be discussing Julius Caesar’s last words? He made them relevant to us! WE have to massage, in order to make things relevant. We have to take in a situation, figure out how it made us feel (not how it happened, necessarily), and add that to our gut-arsenal to recognize it should it ever pop up again. This massage, unlike the analysis I have been far too engaged with since birth, does not have to be painful. In fact, it, like a day at the Spa could, no SHOULD be a release of the tension and stress caused by the over-analyzing. William was a genius. He made love, love for me, in more ways than I can describe. Who knows where I would be if not for that very first reading of Romeo + Juliet? He massaged. We all massage.

We should massage. In fact, we massage when we analyze what he meant! And we have ALL done it, every one of us in school, whether we cared to or not. He is still relevant because of all he wrote, all he knew, and all we translate from all he wrote, and all he knew, too. Massaging, then, too, IS relevant! And from here, I’m going to start enjoying mine instead of making the process so painful.

Shroud off, and face down on the fold-up table I lay. Maybe I should light some candles; set the mood for what is next …

Game on.

            Once upon a gorgeous day at the beach, I sat in gym clothes, pondering the meaning of … an email.  The waves seemed to pause, perfectly, on the part I love the most; you know the one, where the water curls over itself, just before it turns white and crashes?  I love that.  This particular afternoon, though, the water wasn’t just NJ ocean colored.  No, this afternoon it was a brilliant shade of royal blue that seemed to lighten as it came closer to the coastline.  Once the waves got to that favorite point of mine, you could actually see through them, and I wondered why emails were not the same in that regard. 

            The email I pondered was simple:  “xo.”  Two letters, two sentiments that seem to go together perfectly, right?  The two actions, represented by the aforementioned letters, on such things as cards, candy, and a gold bracelet my first serious boyfriend bought for me — I almost flushed it down the toilet during a fight, but my mother caught it right in time, and good thing!  – these two letters are the peanut butter and jelly of affection; classics.  They mean so much, yet say so little, literally.  And there they were, inboxed. 

            To the naked eye, this may be a good or a bad email, depending on how you view my story.  And much like the ocean, this afternoon, the views may blend into different colors.  Unlike the ocean of today, however, I could not find any part of it to call my favorite, and as I mentioned earlier, seeing through it was impossible.  All I know for sure, is these letters seem to mean most when they come from this particular sender.  Is it because this is the most unlikely user of this combination of characters?  Perhaps, but the story does not really end there, but rather, it begins.

            While sitting on the boardwalk, watching my waves break, studying the curl as closely as I could, enjoying pure contentment that is spring break and beach living on a quiet, empty, roughly 70 degree afternoon, I was thinking about the letters of affection I have lately been receiving, while soaking up the vitamin D and endorphins that come with having a week off at home, with time to go to the gym.  I noticed a woman suddenly sit to my left.  Immediately, I felt anxious, as I am the very worst small talker on the planet, which stems from being a really shy person, and also because I really liked my expanse of quiet to sit and think.   I wasn’t unhappy to any degree, just in a thought web, and I knew she would talk to me.  I just knew it!  (And I hadn’t even really looked at her yet.) 

            I just do not feel comfortable talking to any random person.  In fact, I get completely freaked out by it, and this has been since I can remember.  One of my earliest memories is hiding behind my mother in an elevator in our apartment building in NY when a neighbor man was asking me questions.  Of course, she made me answer, showed me how to be polite, but to this day, I still get that very same two year old feeling of wanting to hide behind her leg when someone “strange” talks to me.

            “What?” you may ask, how could YOU be impacted by strange, when you are so … you know, strange yourself?  But, I mean strangers; the people I will not open my door for when they knock, the people on the grocery line, the people behind the desk at the gym, the ones who run next to you and want to talk, those people at the bar, they ALL make me edgy, angsty even.  This does not mean I ignore them, it just means that inside I feel slippery and anxious, the entire time planning my escape route.  And I just knew, based on nothing but peripheral vision, that this woman was going to be a moderate to hardcore yapper. 

            Just as I was about to make my move to the cell phone on my lap, to look at THE email again (not that it was going to change, I realized, I just wanted to see it again, to find if it inspired any other feelings besides a question mark, even though it had no punctuation itself), the woman to my left began to sing.  Out loud.  Loudly!

            No I wasn’t judging, I was thinking about how I was going to have to acknowledge her choice lyrics, which were, of course “Sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away, sitting on the dock of the bay wasting ti-i-i-i-ime.”  I quickly looked down at my phone then back up to the water I did not want to leave, but suddenly felt a mass amount of pressure to dart from.  And then … “what a day, huh?”

            I nodded, and smiled – a genuine smile, showing teeth and everything – but that wasn’t enough for my friendly neighbor.  “I’m here from California,” she said as I nodded and smiled, politely yet again, “and I’m visiting my mother.  She is sick.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” I offered, realizing that this woman just wanted someone to talk to.  And then she went hysterical, crying into her hand for about twenty solid seconds; heavy breathing and all, and then she just stopped.  At first I thought she was kidding, as I had NEVER seen anyone change emotions so fast – not even myself! – but she wasn’t kidding.

            “My brother lives out here, too,” she said, “but he’s all ME, ME, ME, all the time.  You know, he threw out all my stuff?”

            “Really?” I played with my bright pink phone, which had just died.  And all I could think was that it, too, hated small talk, and perhaps this woman with the Lenny Kravitz hoop nose ring and the baby pink lace tank top, and three plastic shopping bags, one inside the other.  She opened the inner most one through the hole of the knotted handles, pulled out a kids plastic cup with the red top, from a restaurant just down the street, and did not miss a beat in her story.

            “But then I met a man, at Soul Kitchen, you know what that is, right?”  I nodded, and she continued.  “We were both volunteering, and then some of us were going out for drinks, so I asked him to come along.  Then, he asked me to take a walk on the beach, so I called my girlfriend on her cell phone and made her follow us, but from afar, because you never know, right?”

            “Right,” I nodded again, this time, finding myself intently listening.

            “Then he asked me on a real date; we went on a beach picnic and he had two bicycles there you know the ones with the baskets?”  Obviously, I nodded, again.

            “It turns out he bought them for us, he told me later.”

            “Wow,” was all I had time to offer before she continued.

            “I thought I’d go back, but I’m still here.”  This made me think of an ex-boyfriend of mine, who once put up an away message on instant messenger that said “If I didn’t wake up, I’d still be sleeping.”  Hmmm,  I thought.

            “But I always go for the bad boys,” she said looking out at my waves.  And just then, as if they heard my name, my ears perked up.

            “I was in the Navy,” she said, “I had four kids, they are all in California,” she sipped her sippy cup, and continued, “and they want me to come back.  It is my daughter’s thirtieth, and I am going to surprise her, so …” she trailed off.

            “Will you bring him?” I asked.

            “He is so nice, but I don’t know; that is still up in the air.  You know, as long as I have been divorced, my grown up kids still want me to get back together with their father, and bringing a man to the other side of the country for her birthday will probably beg her to ask me ‘what the fuck, Mom?”  I stared at her face, suddenly, the nose ring, the freckles, the straw-like, messy ocean hair. 

            “I used to be pretty,” she said, “not glamorous, but pretty, a swimmer girl next door type.”  I nodded again, smiling, respectfully, thinking about where I had to be, suddenly, and about the email that had been on my mind. “But, I always went for the bad boys,” she said, again.

            “I understand,” I laughed, referring, ambiguously to my own behavior, since I can remember.

            “Florence Nightingale syndrome,” she said, as we both looked out at the ocean, once again.  “We want to fix them, and make them good.”

            “But what would we do with them once that happened?” I asked, truly wanting the answer.

            “That’s a good question,” she asked.  “Look at those girls, out there,” she said, pointing to the bikini clad teenagers walking on the wet, more compact sand by the water.  “I mean, it’s a nice day, and all, but a bathing suit already?  I didn’t think it was warm enough.”

            “And speaking of bathing suits,” I said, with another smile, this one not as genuine, “I really have to get to my spin class.”

            I got up, answered five more of her questions about the local gym, and walked away, thinking about the email I received, not skipping a beat from the very last thought I had before she popped my bubble with her pin-like singing.  Did it mean so much to me, because of the sender?

            And just then, I realized, that if I continued to like bad boys, and analyze their emails, I, too, may end up on a date, thirty five years from now, after a night volunteering at Soul Kitchen, telling some nameless girl to my right about the first time I ever went for a nice fellow. 

            So I walked in, responded to the email, with a flattering line, and went to the gym, wondering if I would get a response.  And wondering if I would be wondering about the response that response would inspire, which unlike my ocean would not be see-through at all. Maybe bad boys are just like the ocean; an ever-changing constant that I visit to ponder, of and at, knowing it will always be the same, but different.  Knowing that every little kid, no matter what technology comes out, will jump over the wave as it hits their feet, and laugh.  Just like the words of a bad boy … but, wait!  Maybe this wasn’t some message to me from the Gods of the Ocean, who listen to me think through every season, and have been given my actual problems, written out, just so I could relieve myself of them, because I know they could handle them (they handled the Titanic, and other cruise ships, icebergs, animals, airplanes, people, pirates, submarines, wars, etc., right?  What are my problems in comparison?  The ocean makes me feel small, and therefore the issues at hand small, too.).  Maybe this was a bit more about showing me that we ALL deal with the same kind of things, be it a bad boy, a heartbreak, a loss, an email, a gain, LOVE, or even an analysis of a person we date. 

            And so, maybe I am not going to end up like the lady to my left, after all. I mean, it took me how many visits to the ocean to be able to see through it? Thirty years of visits!  In all weather, and even moving to it! Maybe the letter-sender, and some of my other choice bad boys, are just like the ocean, too; going wherever the wind blows, until something feels right, or traps you under it (in a good way, of course). I mean, that is what “the bad boy” does, right? That is really why I received those two letters, and ended up getting to this point on my wave.  Only I just decided that I refuse to crash when the wind turns this, or any, situation in a different direction.   I am going to surrender to the air, instead of crashing and ending.  I will remain like my very favorite part of the wave, instead; you know the one, where the water curls over itself, just before it turns white and crashes?   I think it’s time I hang, time to pause, right there … 

“If you let me,” she sings, over and over in my head, “here’s what I’ll do, I’ll take care of you.”  “And it won’t stop,” because, according to Diddy, “it can’t stop.” 

 It seemed that it was time to stop, for me, as soon as I started to post on this little page I created with good intentions.  Intentions are funny, though, in that peculiar, not so “ha ha” kind of way. My intentions unlock floodgates, as even they are hammered at, and into, by the deconstructing lunatic on the other side of the screen. 

 I’ve had too many secrets to share after posting about the little wish I planted eighteen years ago. Secrets and wishes, though, I have recently come to find, are the landscaping; the landscaping of the house that houses everything you are to this point (with room for all we will be, eventually).  My house has been addicted to endorphins as of late, and has seemingly found joy in buttoning up the “if only” jeans that have recently cut the line of the closet in which they used to hide.  But, who would have thought it is the house that could impact the greenery of the wishes and the secrets outside, in the exact way they have impacted the house itself?  Taking care of the curb appeal has pretty much fine-tuned the structure itself; a few screws here, a nail, some sandpaper, and I am back on the real estate market.  Only, even people who couldn’t see it were suddenly putting in offers.  And that, is when the fun began. 

“They” say it is not what you are, but what you feel that creates your reality, and the future in front of you.  This goes back to the Master Key and Plato, to Emerson and Thoreau, Lincoln, and Oprah.  (No, I am not that into her, but, she is a credible source to this society, right?  And, for better or worse, she endorses my message.); and it all began with my best friend going to the army in 1998, when I figured out this “secret” to imagining what you want so hard you feel it, and it comes.  No matter who tells you otherwise.

I can’t say I am, or was, anyway, a live in the past kind of girl.  It’s just that the aforementioned wish took me back quite a bit, in both the literal and the allegorical, one could say.  The problem is that stepping into the spiderwebs that have grown in the house that houses, and has housed them, for so long, is that there is a lot of trimming to do – outside, to even get inside.  In order for me to really make the move inward, I had to start fighting my way through the ivy, the vines, and the weeds; the wishes and the bullshit that were keeping the light out. 

Once inside, though, it was hard not to lean against the rickety, desperately in need of a good paint job wall, to take a look at the box of pictures collecting dust in the corner.  Sure, I put them in a box for a reason all that time ago, before I closed up shop, and turned the lights off, for what I thought was forever, but I tend to believe it is exactly how a roommate I once had saw laundry – the longer it sat out, the closer it was to clean, even if it was not washed.  And you know what?  She eventually wore the dirty clothes, as clean ones.  Sure, she smelled, but more power to her for owning it.  While I wasn’t thrilled then, I am happy to report that the box of pictures does not smell – and it does not hurt, like my nose did from her.  The longer it sat out, the less gross it was.  

In the midst of all I had to do to start cleaning house, I found myself, ass on floor, enamored by the images of the best friend I had, his arm around me, on my seventeenth birthday – right after I got my license, right before we finally made out, during his two-week leave from the army. 

And then there was that time in college I wore that horrible orange and gray sweater to the party we had, that left the pickle green kitchen sticky for three weeks, until my (other) dramatic roommate began to cry hysterically at said stickiness, and began to pour, with impressive force, actually, an entire bottle of vinegar down to the ground.  (It worked.)  The very next day, I had kissed my high school flame, who just happened to message me on facebook two days ago – and ten years later (fourteen years later than the high school beginning).  He wants to hang out. 

And in college, while this was happening, I was listening to that cd of the indie guy, who had a voice that put goosebumps on my teeth.  And he got in touch on facebook yesterday. 

But facebook is, after all, the one place the guy who broke my heart last year never wanted to see me on, we made that deal to never, ever claim friendship on the site that could potentially damage what was blooming, from afar.  Those wishes, unfortunately, were only watered with tears, which started the blurry and foggy view of the house you are reclaiming, currently, that became somewhat abandoned when he did the same to you. 

And just then, a text message breaks you from the tangled web you left behind, in a knot, because it is that eighteen year old wish, wanting to come face to face. 

And you sit, and you realize that all of this happened just when you started to take care of your house, again – when you simply made the decision to do so.  And the people!  The people came in when I just opened the door!  They have been there; they understand you; they do not make you feel as bizarre as your forever friends do about being who you are. 

They make you laugh, and come over to drink wine, just to hear the story of the session that not only threw you off-kilter, but left you there, practically tipped over in some Matrix-like position, in your almost clean house that houses everything you are, and you haven’t even gotten to the kitchen yet!  And then, they tell you that you are normal for trying anything to forget that person … even though it doesn’t work.  At all.  Just before you tried anything to stop thinking about the presence of the absence of this person that you are pretty sure you were supposed to stay without, but realized, through telling this particular bud the story, that you never actually lived without him.  Ever. 

And the buds?  They bring their houses to yours; their boxes of pictures, their new bikes, their wine, their kids, their thoughts on all the things you have been facing all alone.  And who would have thought that these people would get it, again, better than the people who watched you deconstruct the construction of yourself, that you had been working on your whole life?  (Besides, of course, my mommy; she always gets it.)

And through every conversation, there are realizations, that you are not alone at all; and that you never have been.  You just arrived to the address you existed within to finally live.  And when you pay attention to the stories you are offered by your new friends, you find comfort in the parallels, because you realize that your feelings, your experiences are archetypes, of sorts; that as the wind messes up the hair that the guy you thought might get you over the guy you can’t get over just played with, you realize that this wind is blowing through the secrets and the wishes you have decorated yourself with, so no one could see in your window.  The same wind is blowing through other people’s just touched by the one they were with, not they one they want to be with, hair.  And suddenly, hiding because of it just seemed like a waste of life.  A waste of MY life.  And who the hell is worth that? 

It was recently I realized that I let go of the light; I shut it out so I couldn’t see the damage.  But it didn’t go away, it just became more and more corroded.  The thing is, as soon as you let in just a little bit, it floods the room soon after; just like the friends, old and new, who rushed in, when I cleared the space in my head that has been occupied by negativity, and by the sinister king of negativity that had been reigning in there for so long.

My wishes were dormant, but they meant more than I gave them credit for; they were like my GPS – only with a dead battery. 

As soon as I plugged myself back into the energy, by opening up the windows, they let me find my way back – while giving me oxygen to breathe correctly and fucking LIVE!  Just like that song in my head, that continues to play, over and over again, when I let myself take care of myself, all the tools, all the people, and all the fun began to take care of me, too.

“If you let me,” she sings, over and over in my head, “here’s what I’ll do, I’ll take care of you.”  And that’s just how it went.

I made a wish about a week after my twelfth birthday and last night, exactly two weeks after my thirtieth, it appeared.  I can’t say I thought much about this wish after I made it, at least not in the way I have thought of other things or people.  No, this wish was a bit more calm than the usual; a little less obsessive.  And, while being innocent, it was wise beyond its years.  {Isn’t that always the way?}

 

I mean, what have I gained in the way of knowledge since my pre-teenage wish?  My boss once described my will as “iron.”  I can look back over eighteen years and pinpoint moments and people, things and events, obstacles and illusions, losses and wins, that helped to seal that will in iron.  I read a lot.  Had a lot of love, a lot of wins, a lot of death, a lot of loss.  Wished for so many of the wrong things and people.  Got a few degrees. Decided I want another.  Got THE job.  Got my heart broken.  Moved into THE apartment. You know, became a grown up; an independent woman who gets what she wants … eventually. And I even get to teach Mr. Henry David Thoreau! And I did, yesterday, in my American Lit class.

 

You know the deal, he went to the woods because he wished to live deliberately and front only the essential facts of life, and learn what it had to teach, so that when he died he would not discover he had not lived.  Badass, eh?  So, I ask my students, “could you do it?” and the question was met with a resounding “no.”  “But, if you could,” I continued, “what would you give up?”

 

“Facebook!” one yelled, as if it had been on her mind long before I asked, “texting!” a guy who never speaks said from under his hood, “I’d give up my phone altogether,” another one said, at the same time someone else whispered “money.” 

 

“So these things keep you from living deliberately.  When your head is down, reading those texts, you’re missing the world around you.  So, you close the text, and on that very screen, a push notification from Facebook comes on to tell you that someone you haven’t talked to in ten years either wants to be your ‘friend,’ or likes your status, and real life happened right in front of you, but you missed it.”  As the words came out of my mouth, I was transported into a text message conversation with the last person I was “with.” {I stick “with” because we lived three thousand miles apart, and yet stayed in constant contact.}

 

At my best friend’s bachelorette party I kept my head down, looking at his toneless words, and missed everything.  I then missed memories people currently have with them wherever they go, stories that go with pictures I have in frames; I missed the reactions of those around me, funny comments I just didn’t hear, and men who I just ignored. Someone else could have been perfect for me, but I missed him, and his friends, too, so I could text this person when I couldn’t hear his voice.  I loved him, I think, in my own way.  I suppose I loved the idea of him, what he seemed to be when I filled in the holes, you know?  I covered the silence and projected what I wanted. Isn’t that the way of all thirteen year olds?

 

With Thoreau on my brain for two days, I decided, after two presentations and some other bizarre goings on, that I would not go to the woods, but to the beach, and turn off everything and everyone. Then I would watch my most favorite girly and corny movie, 13 Going on 30.  I realized how different {positive} this time, of all the other zillions of times, would be, now that I am thirty.  And with my furry body pillow, I cuddled, as the phone lay, off, in the room next to me, and I just enjoyed the time.

 

I realized, as it was almost over, that this was the first time in years that I sat through an entire movie, without pausing it for a conversation or email, a website check or even a friendly visit.  Although this might seem small to you, it was practically miraculous to me. All this time spent on pause is not because I want to be checking email or texts, but because I wanted my job, so I was on it; I wanted a guy, so I was waiting to hear from him; I wanted to help my students, so I was available.  All too available, and none too deliberate in my life.  Sure, it was a short break from the world, but I obviously needed it.  And isn’t that what it is all about?  Giving yourself, or creating for yourself, what you need?  Isn’t that part of having an iron will, and experiences embedded inside, so that you learn to do what you need for you?  Hell yes.

 

The happy ending brought tears to my eyes, as it always does, but with them, a new thought:  “what would my thirteen year old self do if she woke up in my apartment tomorrow morning?”  And I ran down the list:  she thought she’d be a fashion designer, so chances are she would not be thrilled with my career (though I think she would be proud of my shoes), she would probably go nuts on Facebook, seeing how everyone turned out, and how I interact with them now, she would run crazy bills on my credit card for things like dark brown lip-liner and pale lipstick, black eyeliner, and bellbottoms, and spend her time reading Cliff’s Notes to get ready for work.  And then, she would answer the phone, (after she figured out the touch screen deal of the iPhone, right?) and girlie-die knowing who was calling.  She would then look for the number of the best friend she told everything to, and call her to tell her the exciting news, only to be met with confusion.  She’d have to do Lamaze to go through with the next conversation, and would be so happy, after she hung up with dreamy caller. Unlike me, though, she wouldn’t deconstruct it to death and make herself crazy with what he meant or what she said; she’d just smile and relive it, because it made her happy.  So, what have I gained in the way of knowledge since my pre-teen wish? 

 

Today, I thought about that old wish’s appearance all the way home.  It could never work; we are too different, we are too far, it doesn’t like to read, it has a lot of baggage, it made some bad decisions, how could I bring it to a party?, it curses up a storm; says “fuck” a lot, has awful grammar.  But, it is still so sexy, and what it lacks in book smarts, is made up with experience and worldliness; with street smarts and responsibilities.  “Could opposites attract?” I couldn’t help but wonder, and realized suddenly that my wish was old enough to vote and join the army, though not old enough to buy cigarettes or rent a car.  Eighteen years old, officially, this is a wish that could pose in Playboy if it wanted {though it absolutely does NOT want to, it still could}, rent a room in a hotel, get married, skydive, operate heavy machinery at work, go bungee jumping, receive a lap dance, pay taxes, and cash a savings bond.  This wish, on its eighteenth birthday, with all of this new freedom and independence, found its way back to me, as if it was a mission of sorts.  This might not be for the happy ending, but for a lesson I need to learn. 

 

“But, what could my preteen self really know about what I, right now, need to learn?” The question continued to swirl within and throughout my brain, which continues to fossilize with age and become more and more set in its ways with every second. 

 

And then I saw her, the twelve year old, laying on her grandparents’ bed, having just lost her grandfather days before, escaping everyone in the other room and their apologies for her loss.  She imagined something deliberately, and wished for what she wanted, what she felt was an essential part of life.  The thirty year old version of this girl?  Well, maybe she should take a backseat to her counterpart, and let go of what she learned throughout the past eighteen years, because it could be keeping her head down, when she should be looking at and experiencing everything going on in front of her.

 

The pause was good, and I need to work on more of them in order to learn what life has to teach me, instead of deconstructing it, and therefore myself, into nothing at all, only to discover I had not lived.  Sure, I always wanted to grow up and be thirty, with “a cool, unordinary life” as the wish went, but now that I am thirty, I need to pay attention to the intuition that got me here, and not the things that take away from what I came with to this world.  Otherwise, I might as well keep my head down forever, deconstructing a life that should be deliberate and full, not picked apart to nothing so I may look back on what I did and find just that – nothing. 

 

I seemed to understand all this when I was twelve and making a wish during an escape I knew I needed.  See? I knew how to take care of myself then, after all.  Maybe the wish took so long to serve me; to make sure it was right for me.  Then again, maybe it won’t be.  But, at least I’ll find out.  And isn’t that why we go to the woods in the first place, to learn?