These words are the result of Nothing.
I’ve been quiet for a very long time; most recently, for the bulk of four months.
That’s not to say that I’ve been silent or that I don’t speak my mind to people, nor that I’ve been completely isolated of people. I’m not repressed in my thoughts or feelings (though I do sometimes withhold or choose to express only certain thoughts and feelings).
But, by the nature of the way I am, and by circumstance of where I live, I am silent, alone with myself and my thoughts, my memories, my perceptions, the tides of my feelings for nearly nineteen out of twenty-four hours on weekdays, maybe twelve hours on weekends. I bask in the dreams my mind concocts at night, consider which of the dreams I concoct during the day that I want to follow; I watch, with peaceful habit when I’ve thought too much, the tall trees brushed by invisible gusts and breezes; I listen, my mind aching and yearning for adventure, to planes from near or far flying over this quiet tract of land, to the repetitive birdsong of my contented woodland neighbors who put my mind at ease.
Of course, in this well-connected and media-driven world, there are always ways to reach out, across the Atlantic and back to my home to communicate with my parents, my friends. There are always ways to distract my mind when it becomes too full of worry, of dismay at the stillness I now live after so many years of trial and turmoil — never mind that stillness is what I sought, never mind that a deep peace was what I need. When the ghosts in my mind start screaming that I’m not doing enough, that I need to meet people, that I need to have some kind of adventure; when I can’t convince my body-and-soul to listen anymore to the quiet in the woods that I nevertheless always love; when writing and coloring and doodling is too frustratingly unsatisfying, I watch for hours and days some soul-wrenching series on a widescreen TV, a luxury I’ve not taken for much of my life.
It’s the stories that keep me, the well-written screenplays exploring gangsters’ lives in the 1930s, creative genii inventing worlds and monsters in believable and unbelievable ways to pull viewers in and make us look over our shoulders in fear at night.
I watch them with a passion, with a thirst for adventure that doesn’t exist in this phase of my life, with gratitude that, when my mind is filled with too much danger or fantasy or incredulity, I have complete control to turn it off with the press of a button and set the stories aside to embrace, again, the cool breezes playing with palm fronds and shimmering leaves or the languid, grey days.
This is the therapy I give myself daily, for months, as I ease myself into the truly-peaceful life I feel is mine.
Finally, it is hot in a way that is familiar to my Southern-born skin. My mind pulls out long-ago-formed dreams of lazy walks on remote beaches under tall palm trees, of owning and creating a retreat so thoroughly, intoxicatingly relaxing that those who visit are changed while there, are converted to peace and beauty even after they leave, become so completely the antithesis of stress and commonplace angst that they change the world in the wake of their everyday lives.
I know this has been the dream of people, in various forms, through many ages; that even the hippies in my parents’ day were ultimately after this goal: to spread peace and love. It is the goal of many, even today, through so many venues of spiritualism and activism….
When I was a child, I watched and loved Fantasy Island. It was, to me, the most beautiful dream of a place where people went to live out their fantasies, where real magic happened and people left utterly changed for the better. My mind always wandered into reality and wished, hoped for, wondered where this place was in the world… wondered how one would create such a fantastical place.
I still don’t know how to create the place of my dreams such that others can enjoy it, can walk away changed from being in it… but I am certain that is what I am working on, more than any single piece of writing, more than visiting any single land, more than meeting any single culture of people, more than any single love affair.
I didn’t leave “to travel,” and I always knew it, even before I left Atlanta five months ago. I didn’t go to “see the sights,” to visit museums, to wander through cities — even if I love doing so. I came to Europe to find peace, to find myself again, to get lost wherever I was in ways I’ve not been lost before – since that is the best way I have found to face the demons I’ve carried with me, and to make peace with them again.
I came here to be terrified of being alone, and, through that terror, to remember that I’m most well when I’m alone.
I came here to feel morbidly unloved, and, through that desolation, to love myself and let myself be loved.
I came here to be bereft of everything, to have utterly nothing but the clothes in my bags, to find that nearly everything I owned was of no use to me – even most of my clothing, my computer, my iPhone and all of my apps, my pencils and pens and coloring books, my notebooks and fountain pens and the gifts others gave me… none of it satisfied me; none of it fit. I came here to discover that I am more well in myself, whatever size or weight I am, whatever little I was creating, whatever temperament I was in, however many days I thought I was wasting, however few people I had close to me…
I came here to learn what I always knew and forget, sometimes.
I came here to fall in love with myself again.
You know those people who you see and just fall in love with them, instantly? That boy or girl who is just so fantastically beautiful, who moves in ways that mesmerize, whose smile is so charmingly profound that seeing it sends you into fantasies – whether the smile is directed at you or elsewhere? You know those people whose faces you can see in your mind, whether your eyes are open or closed, to whom you feel connected even if you’ve only spoken a few times?
You know those people you fantasize about, who are larger-than-life… or sometimes just small enough that you want to put them in your pocket and carry them with you everywhere, like a totem that you can pull out whenever you’re unsure or alone or sad or frightened that will instantly make you smarter, brighter, happier, braver, more alive?
Everyone has them, I think. And it hardly matters if they are as wonderful as we see them, as we imagine; it hardly matters if they love us or don’t know we exist. They’re like angels, like fairies, like imaginary friends, and they make everything, everything better.
Well…
Imagine…
If that person…
Was you.
I don’t mean: Imagine you were that person for someone else. No doubt you are, for someone. Knowing you are might even make life harder for you, for you undoubtedly feel you are not worthy of such adoration, and you might feel you now have to work harder to be the person you’re expected to be… and those expectations are sometimes unreasonable. Unbearable.
I mean:
Imagine if you felt, knew, believed in and saw yourself as that fantastically-inspirational love.
This is not a pep-talk. Such pep-talks rarely work, I have found.
What it is, is a suggestion.
Because, what I have found through loving many, many people in such bright-and-beautiful ways, in holding them as the ultimate prize, in adoring them with fantastical ecstasy, in giving them the position of muse and profound inspiration…
And finding that they yet hold themselves accountable for countless things, despite their successes or failings…
What I have found in being rejected countless times, in having my gushing adoration refused and ignored and placated and even sometimes accepted for a time…
Is this:
No matter how many people I love.
No matter how many people I adore.
No matter to how many people I give myself and all of my talents and passions and skills and knowledge.
No matter what I do.
Every single person I love is a reflection, in the most profoundly simple way, of me…
of what I love…
of what I do and can do…
of what I enjoy and can enjoy…
of the way I am with others and how I’m seen with others…
exactly as beautiful and quirky and broken and together…
as old and young, as spirited and complacent…
as kind and as cruel.
I am drawn, over and over and over again, exactly to me.
So, you know that person who you hold so magically beautiful that you cry when you can’t have them, when you sob because you’ve been rejected, when you ache to have them near?
That person
is
YOU.
And that’s the trick to never being alone, to doing nothing at all or all kinds of things. That’s the trick to everything.
We’re just looking in a mirror, talking to ourselves, seeing and sharing the beauty in everything.
That is me.