As of late I’ve been thinking about chapters. (As I’ve
gotten older I’ve become opposed to using metaphorical lingo and clichés. I
can’t take me seriously when I’m using someone else’s stale, unoriginal words. Oh man, "my journey." Don't get me started!) (Brett and I
suddenly realized this weekend that I’m a rather irreverent person. I’m debilitatingly polite… and yet so hateful.)
Anyways the ole Chapters metaphor. Life chapters. Yes. You
now how life passes you by and you didn’t even realize anything was happening?
For the sake of this post I’ll let each life stage or main event be called a
chapter even though I prefer that as a feature of the literary world. And
here’s what I’ve been thinking. Some chapters, like greatness they say, are
thrust upon you, while others you knowingly walk into.
You might choose to play soccer as a little tike – so that’s
a chapter you walked into with presumptions and expectations, whereas the day
you are beat up in front of the whole school, you suddenly and unwillingly move
into a chapter of awareness and introspection and before you know it, a whole
chunk of your personality is forming around those thoughts and feelings. So in
this case, Jimmy didn’t get to choose to end the Innocent Childhood Chapter and
move into the Adolescent Years of Horror Chapter.
Maybe you choose to take a job in a far away land. So you
pack up and move. Chapter 5 to chapter 6. People remember their lives in these
stages, marked by an event that would shape all the next things that come. This
post is about the chapters you choose to walk into. So I’m thinking about chapters
right. I got all the school chapters, the childhood chapter, that awful college
one, the one full of aimlessness, my brief angry phase, and even a travel
chapter, though that one gets to bleed over a little. My tendency to think about decisions for years before making
a move and my love for extended stays in foreign places both relate to the
point I have yet to make. Why don't you make it, you say?
It’s that I live my life constantly thinking about all the possible lives I could live and I very much dislike the concept of having to commit to just one.
When you get thrown into a bad chapter, you tend to take the
stance of “this is what it is and we will deal with it, make the best of it,
work to change it.” When you choose a chapter, presumably because you think it
is a good move or an exciting plan or a fortuitous risk, I still feel like I
need a minute to let go of all of the other moves I won’t be making.
When I chose to go to SCAD, I was as excited about college
as I was going to be but I still had little wonderings about the other schools.
Am I making the right choice? Will things turn out better if I go somewhere
else? What the crap will I do with an art degree? When choosing my next exotic
leisure destination I’m always completely thrilled by the plans, but I still
have to take a moment of silence for all of the other wonderful countries that
I won’t be seeing. It’s not ungratefulness, it’s a process of letting go. I’ve
written before about why I like to travel places. It’s not so much the food and
the sights but it’s imagining what my life would be like if I lived there. This
is what I would see. This is how I would get around. And once I’ve got a good
mental picture, I can paint in the rest, the dreamy overly-optimistic, life I
would lead. Sometimes I have to take a minute to mourn my little British life
that I had for chunks at a time. All those summers in Wales, wandering
mountains and forest trails, shopping in tiny markets, and hearing new accents
everyday – I loved that and at the time, I was pretty happy to imagine my life
there. When all of that ended I had a harder time letting go of that life
painting than I did that relationship.
All of this is true for large decisions as well. Should I
live here or there? I love this house but this one is in a better location.
Eventually, I’ll pick and I’ll be really happy but I’ll also need a minute to
frame my painting of the other house, so I can hang it up and let it be.
Sometimes I’ll glance at that painting and think fondly but I think that’s ok
and I think people should acknowledge that that’s ok. Last week I was running
through the list of things I’ve got to let go of but being aware of these
things doesn’t mean that you aren’t happy with what you have. So I’m probably
not going to live in Britain and I suppose I’ll never live alone again. My
sweet little cottage will have to accommodate furniture that I don’t approve of
(unless I hurry and fill it up and “Oh! There’s just no room left. I’m sorry.”)
I’ve got to let go of my dream of being a homeless wanderer,
I can’t jet off at a moments notice, and oh the economical delight of buying
groceries for one. I reckon I’ll never have a party girl phase but I also won’t
learn the lessons of someone who marries really late in life or never marries at all.
How would I be different at 60 years old?
I think it’s normal to think about these things. (I’ve also always
been overly confident that my feelings are true across the board.) Movies and
magazines portray big happy choices as things that have no repercussions or any
cherished bits that are left behind. I take a long time to make decisions
because I want to be sure that I’m going to love the painting. And you know, I
always do.
Brett had some similar thoughts but he was more focused on
the chapters that we haven’t seen in each other, those whole chunks of our
lives that the other will never really understand. For instance, he has a hard
time with how much my family makes fun of Ellen. He’s only seen a sweet, excitable
Ellen and get’s frustrated when we tease her. “You just don’t get it!” I sneer.
On his end, well he was a Mississippi frat boy.
It’s a good thing I missed that chapter.
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