"Never be afraid to sit awhile and think." ~Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun
"Solitude never hurt anyone. Emily Dickinson lived alone, and she wrote some of the most beautiful poetry the world has ever known... then went crazy as a loon." ~Lisa Simpson
This past weekend I unexpectedly found that I had virtually an entire Sunday to myself.
All by myself.
No husband. No kids. Even our cat was at the groomers.
That wasn't the intention. But a combination of a golf-playing husband and impromptu playdates for the kids meant that the next thing I knew I had 7 uninterrupted hours all alone.
I can't remember the last time that happened. I'm either at work. Or at my very loud home. Or driving my kids around. Or out with friends. And my adult-onset-inspired-by-iPhone-ADD means that I don't even know how to sit still anymore. Free time is meant to be filled. There's always something I could be doing...revising my manuscript, laundry, shopping, cleaning, organizing, texting with friends, planning a party. And if I don't fill it, someone else will do it for me. I can't turn around without someone needing something from me. It never, ever ends.
I didn't always used to be that way. I'm an only child, which means I've spent plenty of time alone. I enjoyed it, in fact. Even as a kid I had a very rich inner life (no surprise that I love to write). I'm a daydreamer by nature, which is much easier to do when I let my brain just revert to screensaver mode for a while.
Not that I mind my normal. I think the saddest thing ever would be to go through life not being needed by anyone. To be needed is to be loved. And in my mind, to love and to be loved is pretty much the entire point of everything.
But every so often a recharge of the batteries is needed. My forced vacation from myself was pure bliss. The silence was deafening. And invigorating. Of course it also made me realize that if this were my everyday life I'd end up taking laziness to new heights (or lows). I'm not sure I'd ever change out of my yoga pants or put down my kindle. Or do little things like remember to eat.
When my family noisily descended back into my life by early evening I felt refreshed. Even my son said I looked different. Okay, technically he said, "mommy you look weird." But I'll take it.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end
Over the holiday break we took the kids up to San Francisco, a city that holds a very special place in our hearts. I lived there for 10 years with my then-boyfriend now-husband, during which time we got our first real jobs, quit our first real jobs for new jobs that paid more money, got married, had our first baby and basically lived out the bulk of our twenties in your typical narcissistic yuppie fashion.
We moved for a variety of reasons, personal as well as professional, and I recall being devastated at having to move to LA of all places. A city I had always ridiculed in my vaguely superior, NorCal girl kinda way. We swore that we would visit regularly and not let our then-one-year-old daughter (and any future children) become "one of those LA-types of people."
Last week was our first trip back when both kids were old enough to take it all in. So we went to town. Visited the old apartment and favorite restaurants. Shared with them some of the memories that lurked around every corner:
See that grass over there? That's where mommy played volleyball every Tuesday night!
That's the hill mommy used to walk up every day on her way to work!
This is the restaurant we used to eat at every Sunday morning! We'd grab the Sunday paper and stand in line for hours at a time until we finally got a table!
Oh remember? That's were we had those fabulous tapas after we went to that champagne bar that night!
And so on and so on. The kids couldn't care less about our nostalgia. They just wondered why everyone always wore black and walked so fast. And as time went on, I realized that I didn't even recognize the person I was describing. I mean volleyball and champagne bars? Really? Not to mention the other vestiges of that person I once was-- eating out for almost every meal, knowing the subway and bus routes like the back of my hand (no one drives in the City), or alternatively being able to parallel park on a hill at a 45 degree angle, with a stick shift. Or being able to hail a cab at night, in the rain in about 5 minutes flat. Never going to the gym because walking up all those hills kept my ass in shape. Having no one to spend money on but myself. I was a different person.
Who am I now? LA living has left me without much of a winter wardrobe, and I'm cold when it's 60 degrees out. I drive everywhere. I have to think 5 steps ahead everywhere we go. I try to keep to a budget so I no longer can take impromptu weekend trips to Hawaii. I wear colors other than black and gray. I no longer rush without seeing-- a child's point of view has taught me the beauty of a sidewalk crack or the excitement that only a garbage truck can bring. I'm a little older, a little grayer, a little rounder, but infinitely more patient, kind and wise.
And I wouldn't have it any other way. Well, except for maybe the spontaneous trips to Hawaii part.
We moved for a variety of reasons, personal as well as professional, and I recall being devastated at having to move to LA of all places. A city I had always ridiculed in my vaguely superior, NorCal girl kinda way. We swore that we would visit regularly and not let our then-one-year-old daughter (and any future children) become "one of those LA-types of people."
Last week was our first trip back when both kids were old enough to take it all in. So we went to town. Visited the old apartment and favorite restaurants. Shared with them some of the memories that lurked around every corner:
See that grass over there? That's where mommy played volleyball every Tuesday night!
That's the hill mommy used to walk up every day on her way to work!
This is the restaurant we used to eat at every Sunday morning! We'd grab the Sunday paper and stand in line for hours at a time until we finally got a table!
Oh remember? That's were we had those fabulous tapas after we went to that champagne bar that night!
And so on and so on. The kids couldn't care less about our nostalgia. They just wondered why everyone always wore black and walked so fast. And as time went on, I realized that I didn't even recognize the person I was describing. I mean volleyball and champagne bars? Really? Not to mention the other vestiges of that person I once was-- eating out for almost every meal, knowing the subway and bus routes like the back of my hand (no one drives in the City), or alternatively being able to parallel park on a hill at a 45 degree angle, with a stick shift. Or being able to hail a cab at night, in the rain in about 5 minutes flat. Never going to the gym because walking up all those hills kept my ass in shape. Having no one to spend money on but myself. I was a different person.
Who am I now? LA living has left me without much of a winter wardrobe, and I'm cold when it's 60 degrees out. I drive everywhere. I have to think 5 steps ahead everywhere we go. I try to keep to a budget so I no longer can take impromptu weekend trips to Hawaii. I wear colors other than black and gray. I no longer rush without seeing-- a child's point of view has taught me the beauty of a sidewalk crack or the excitement that only a garbage truck can bring. I'm a little older, a little grayer, a little rounder, but infinitely more patient, kind and wise.
And I wouldn't have it any other way. Well, except for maybe the spontaneous trips to Hawaii part.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)