As a child looking at my future self, I don't know what I saw myself doing. I think I thought it was going to be easy and that I would be married by now and that life would just flow without being difficult or confusing or crappy. I think I wouldn't have necessarily viewed the future as I see it now. Living in a shoebox in a shithole apartment, eating overpriced pizza and worrying every time I used my atm card that it would get rejected because of lack of funds. I guess I didn't necessarily see myself struggling to make something of myself in the profession that I love and hate at the same time--always feeling like I had to prove myself and always feeling like I wasn't doing enough even when I don't know how to do more. I didn't see myself struggling to get down a beer on a date, struggling to get past date 2, past a kiss, past whatever comes after and somehow into something meaningful. Something meaningful is impossible to come by.
Sometimes I feel like i'm just in the waiting line for something miraculous and amazing and life changing to happen. When am I going to feel like I'm on the right path. Fine, I may have the occasional bout of de ja vu, but does that mean I am going the right way?
I do think that in life everything has a way of working out how it is supposed to and I know I'll look back on my life in London as something beautiful, hard, and life changing. So why now, do I only feel like it is a struggle? How long will I be struggling until I feel like I'm in the right place? So many unanswerable questions. I don't want the status quo. I don't want to feel like i'm going to poor for the rest of my life. There are moments of clarity and laughter in between nights of contemplation. I feel guilty for complaining when I know that life is beautiful. I know. I know it is. And despite all the struggling, it is worth the feeling when I get something I am proud of published in print. That feeling, in and of itself, is priceless. It's worth it when I meet that person that makes me weak in the knees ... as hard as he is to find. It's worth it when despite living in a tiny shoe box with three others, I realize I have met amazing individuals because of said shoebox. Life is full of surprises. I guess all we can do is keep breathing and stop waiting in line for something, anything miraculous to happen, and rather enjoy the ride. Cheesy? Maybe, but true. Thus, I am done complaining from now on. I wish that was true. I have a hard time just enjoying the ride because I'm always worrying about my future. Is that the curse of being a twenty-something going through a quarter-life crisis? Perhaps. Everything is temporary and I think it is important to remember that when I am feeling down about a current situation. Maybe even, try and enjoy it.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
I wouldn't have loved any less
I know it's been a while. In journalism school they constantly nail it into us that we have to be present all the time twittering, facebooking, sending our stories to everyone and anything that can read and I think it frightened me a little bit. So much social media and so little privacy. So much attention to things that don't really matter.
Someone once told me that writing was cathartic to them but they didn't actually want anyone to read it. I am beginning to understand that a little more than I ever have. I always used to think the point was to get your work out there, to get it published because then it becomes some sort of accomplishment. Because it means that your words are somehow worth something if a magazine or newspaper wants to publish them. It matters so much to the ego whether some random person we've never met wants to pay us for our work. But why? I wonder if all the rejection is worth it? I mean that as a general question about life, not just writing.
When putting myself out there 90% of the time ends in rejection. Does it make that 10% worth it? yes, but sometimes that 90% starts to weigh heavy on my soul. With writing with love, with relationships with trying to be who I want to be. Is all life a series of rejections in the midst of a few defining moments when we actually feel redeemed?
I've applied for a million jobs it seems and pitched a thousand stories. Most of the time I hear nothing back, but for the ones that I have, I would never say it wasn't worth it.
I've loved with all my heart and I've given all my heart to someone. Twice. Only twice in my twenty seven years and both times I ended up in a pile on the floor with a deadening feeling in my chest and unmeasurable amounts of mascara running down my face. And after these two experiences would I have done anything differently? Maybe, but I wouldn't have loved any less. And I would do it over again in a heartbeat.
It always feels like I am never going to love again. Like falling in love with someone else is impossible and I am incapable of it. My love for this man is too strong to ever get over. It hurts too much and that feeling of devastation never gets easier to appease. I go to parties and the boys that I used to think were cute are just potentials for heartbreak, potentials for rejection and nothing more. I want nothing to do with them.
It's the smallest things that break my heart again. A missed phone call. A waiting text. A photograph. I still have hope for us, but I know that hope will someday soon turn into heartbreak at the realization that I am only fooling myself. Some day that hope I have in him will turn into hope of finding love with someone else. A love where "I love you" is not just three words, but actions.
Someone once told me that writing was cathartic to them but they didn't actually want anyone to read it. I am beginning to understand that a little more than I ever have. I always used to think the point was to get your work out there, to get it published because then it becomes some sort of accomplishment. Because it means that your words are somehow worth something if a magazine or newspaper wants to publish them. It matters so much to the ego whether some random person we've never met wants to pay us for our work. But why? I wonder if all the rejection is worth it? I mean that as a general question about life, not just writing.
When putting myself out there 90% of the time ends in rejection. Does it make that 10% worth it? yes, but sometimes that 90% starts to weigh heavy on my soul. With writing with love, with relationships with trying to be who I want to be. Is all life a series of rejections in the midst of a few defining moments when we actually feel redeemed?
I've applied for a million jobs it seems and pitched a thousand stories. Most of the time I hear nothing back, but for the ones that I have, I would never say it wasn't worth it.
I've loved with all my heart and I've given all my heart to someone. Twice. Only twice in my twenty seven years and both times I ended up in a pile on the floor with a deadening feeling in my chest and unmeasurable amounts of mascara running down my face. And after these two experiences would I have done anything differently? Maybe, but I wouldn't have loved any less. And I would do it over again in a heartbeat.
It always feels like I am never going to love again. Like falling in love with someone else is impossible and I am incapable of it. My love for this man is too strong to ever get over. It hurts too much and that feeling of devastation never gets easier to appease. I go to parties and the boys that I used to think were cute are just potentials for heartbreak, potentials for rejection and nothing more. I want nothing to do with them.
It's the smallest things that break my heart again. A missed phone call. A waiting text. A photograph. I still have hope for us, but I know that hope will someday soon turn into heartbreak at the realization that I am only fooling myself. Some day that hope I have in him will turn into hope of finding love with someone else. A love where "I love you" is not just three words, but actions.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Bike Rides in the Snow
As I rode a bike through the snow last night, following my Estonian roommate to an undescript party of his friends, I smiled, realizing this is why I love traveling. The unexpected. The random roommates, friends, and characters you meet on every step of the adventure.I'm in Amsterdam for three weeks doing a journalism internship at a city magazine. I live in a beautiful apartment footsteps away from a snow-veiled Vondelpark. I take the tram everyday to work in a stunning high-ceilinged, wooden-beamed office with huge windows overlooking a frozen canal.
As I followed my roommate into the dark--snow and wind pierced my scarf-covered face with every blast of the bike petal. As my boot slipped and I almost did a swan dive straight into the concrete, I recalled all the times I've ridden bikes on other worldy adventures.
On a tropical road in Luang Prabang, Laos surrounded by orange-robed monks and shimmering temples. Stopping iradically at food stands to pick up grilled fish on a stick or drink the occasional Bintang.
In Siem Reap, Cambodia--getting caught in the sunset--the salmon pink infusing into darkness and enveloping the city in black. Sweat dripped down my brow as I raced Denny and Daniel through the garbage-laden roads, swerving near motorbikes and cars, the smell of grilled beef infusing the humid air.
In Ubud, Bali--the weather unbearably hot. I pushed myself a little more only to linger near the surrounding rice fields encapsulating me like a dream in a whirlwind of beauty, heat, and greenery.
In Ft. Lauderdale, Florida during a hot spring night on a hot spring vacation. Following my two friends on bikes, my sundress flowing through the warm breeze, stopping near the beach to climb up coconut trees and wade our feet in the warmness of the Atlantic.
I love riding bikes in new cities. Amsterdam is my first in the snow. This city is like a fairytale. The canals that wind in and out of the city urging you to get lost and find your way again. The pancakes, the cheese, the Stroopwaffel! I hope last night was the beginning of many more Amsterdam bike rides.
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