I’ve been going nonstop lately. This is unusual for me because I like to take things slowly, revel in the space between moments. I’ve noticed that I increasingly feel rushed. Time feels like grains of sand slipping between my fingers, as if I’m perpetually late. I notice it in the way I walk, how strolls turn into brisk walks. I notice it in the way I think, how daydreaming has become stressful, efficient logistics sorting. While I can appreciate my survival instinct to adapt to high-stress environments, I don’t want this version to stay for too long. I fear I might lose the part of myself that knows how to slow down.
I’m restless because I’m not sure I trust myself to survive anywhere. I’m scared I can only thrive in niche, limited environment. Places where I have the privilege to enjoy the aesthetic of things and chase my newest passion without worrying about survival. I’ve been able to embrace a very childlike lifestyle lately. I optimized my life for being able to play without consequence by either transforming or avoiding normally taxing “adult” responsibilities. Cooking became a field for creative experimentation and art for the tongue. Washing dishes became a welcome mental break. Getting toilet paper, talking to Xfinity support, and coordinating PG&E was conveniently handled by my roommates.
I’ve cultivated an ability over time to need to do very little work I find draining. I worry that I’ve gotten too good. That if (or when) a time comes where I need to handle it all on my own, I’d be crushed under the weight of a million tiny responsibilities. The problem is that I’m a perfectionist. I’ll feel the urge to do these small tasks with every ounce of my being, which burns me out for everything else important.
I don’t want caring too much to be a problem. I know people say that to embrace self-love you have to set boundaries and learn to not care, but what if I just want to find a way to increase my capacity to care? What if I want to be able to dedicate every fiber in my body to doing laundry or cleaning the window, or taking the trash out?
After the residency I did this summer, a nucleus and lifestyle that gave me almost no time to stop and think, let alone process what was happening in my life, I’ve returned to an unfamiliar flavor of my “normal” life. Familiar objects misplaced or disappeared. Second nature routines now awkward and clumsy. Part of me feels like I’m in the sidelines, watching all of life happen.
For the past couple years, I was satisfied. I felt whole. I felt grounded no matter what I did. I knew I did well at my job. I knew I did well at my craft. I knew I lived in a nice and affordable home, that I had a personalized space to welcome people into. I knew I had people I could rely on if trouble came around or if I needed someone to listen to me rant.
My life was stable, and I could guess with pretty high accuracy what the next few months would bring me—more fun trips, group movies, morning bike rides into the fog with an Arsicault croissant waiting at the end.
I was happy to experience life. I still feel grateful for every experience, but I’ve lost that spark of wonder in recent weeks. Want has consumed me. I’ve had a taste of a drastically different life, and it’s enough to dive into a new ocean and see where I turn up.
For the past couple years, I’ve been steadily doing all the things I want and love: developing my taste, creating meaningful artifacts, and cultivating lasting relationships. But I think it’s easy to become settled in a life that fools you into thinking it’s iterative, when you’ve started to grow stagnant. And it’s probably better to jump when you’re at the top of your game, before you lose the momentum of what’s grounding you to take it into a new adventure.
I told myself I lived my dream life. And in a lot of ways, I did. What kind of privilege is it to be able to have dreams and actually work towards them? To be paid to make things that people love and live in a beautiful home nested in a beautiful land.
Yet here I am writing furiously into my iPad on a Thursday night with a knot in my stomach I attempt to appease with creative cocktails and garlic shrimp chips.
Something isn’t working is how it feels. Something needs to change.
I need to know what I would choose in the absence of anything. I need to pull off a confidence trick, claw myself out of a hole I dig. I need to destroy myself and listen to what naturally emerges. In the way mushrooms sprout spontaneously after rain, I want to see what sprouts in me and nurture it to its natural resting place.
Big changes, or disasters, are useful in forcing you to make a lot of drastic choices explicitly. There’s a reason we call disasters cataclysmic. Destruction offers space for reconstruction. Wounds offer space for regeneration. Apocalypse offers the chance at an alternative reality.
As much as I talk about embracing destabilizing change, I still wonder if I’m too fragile to survive. I avoid pain and suffering as much as I can. I wiggle out of responsibility and logistical overhead. I find the path of least resistance and sneak along the bushes.
I imagine drifting in a moonless ocean. It’s dark. All I can feel is the water lapping against the edges of my body. No waves. No gulls. Nothing but the steady parting and rejoining of the water. I’m floating. But for how long? Will I sink slowly, painstaking inch by painstaking inch, or will I learn how to swim?
I’ve been told my superpowers are “resilience, consistency, and optimism,” and it’s true that I have a tendency to bang my head against things under I figure out how to do them. So maybe it’s time to trust myself to learn how to swim when it really comes to matter.
I’ll swim. Towards some fantasy shore. Even if the horizon never changes. I’ll just keep going. There’s so much out there. A horizon imbued with promise, full of things to discover and appreciate. So much magic to work with for building portals for intimacy.
I’ll jump and imagine a different alternative, to dive deep, lungs bursting at the seams, and when I surface, I’ll explore the new land I find.
this is so beautifully written