Tag: travel writing

This Side of Nothing

It’s not what I thought it would be.

I gained a good thirty pounds, I’m sure.  They still say I’m sexy, and maybe I am…. Sometimes I feel so, and mostly I just don’t know.

I never thought I’d be so comfortable lounging around in the late English summer, breezes blowing coolly across a grassy lawn and stirring the leaves in the trees so they sound like ocean waves coming ashore, RAF planes flying overhead at indiscriminate intervals.

I didn’t think I’d feel so comfortable after starting to fall out of love, to rest so gently on its precipice.  I’ve always thought:  If I’m out of love, I’ll be alone.  I won’t be me.

But I’m not alone.  And I’m still me.

Maybe I’m even more me than ever.  I certainly express more of what I think and feel, in the moments of thinking-and-feeling.

And he’s not too bothered, not enough to wish me gone.  Perhaps it’s because I still love him….  Perhaps it’s because he loves me.

I’m just, more or less, alone.  Exactly the way I like to be.

Falling out of interest with falling in love, but sitting on this precipice, nonetheless.  Not in love nor out of it, but just loving.

It’s funny, because it’s what he talked about from the beginning, what he’s been so concerned that I feel, more than anything:  That I’m comfortable.

I didn’t want to be comfortable.  I resisted fiercely.  

I’ve grown so accustomed to being uncomfortable, to being on the verge of falling off a cliff of some sort or other, to facing my fears, to facing my demons, to mirroring others’ demons so they can face them.  It’s not always fun, but the coming-out is; and it’s always rewarding.  You inhale a great breath as you walk out of Hell and you never know where you’ll end up.

Before, you were often there, or rather, you’d come around again to check in with me, to check in on me.

C: “How are you doing with your injury?”

M: “It hurts, and it’s very swollen.  I have to take the pain meds pretty regularly, and I get really tired.  But it doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”

C: “…How are you otherwise?”

M: “I’m lonely.”

C: “What about the 50k guys that were swarming you?”

M: “That’s why I’m lonely.  Swarms mean there’s no connection and the real people can’t get through.”

C: “I understand.  I am kind of a needy male, too.”

C. & M. text conversation

I told him when I met him that I’d lose you, if I fell in love with him, if I ever wound up with him.  Was it Fate or some strange connection between us, some strange agreement made long ago in an unspoken language?  Whatever the case, the timing was as queerly precise as ever.  And, boy, did you seem angry.

But I guess I’ve walked out of Hell again; and, instead of you (or anyone, really, except for him), I’ve ended up on a very cozy, quiet farm in the east of England where the birds chatter all day and for most of the night, where the farmer is flirtatious and kind, where the horses nibble grass all day long, and the foxes cry at night like complaining factory machines.  The doves, however, drive me crazy with their plaintive coos that sound, to me, like a sleeping baby with a bronchial infection.

And I am alone all day long; kept watch over all night long.

I thought I was coming to Europe to run – actually, to sail – away from my problems and into myself.  Greece was gorgeous, but it didn’t work the way I had planned. I was sad that I had nowhere to go next, that my plans were dashed.  And you made it clear that I was not to come visit you, expressed in no uncertain terms; and I couldn’t alternately arrange to visit my friend in Italy.

So, I returned to England.

Sex with the Englishman I’m with is grand, but it is not enough.  But I knew that with you.

Nor is it an escape.  I knew that with you, as well, but I never knew it so well as I know now.

Supplant “sex” for “travel,” “TV,” “books,” “writing,” or “work” and the truth clings intensely in all cases:  

Not a single one is ever enough, in itself.  Not a single, solitary activity can ever be a viable escape.

You want to know what our problem was?  I’ve wondered for seven years.  

It wasn’t money, neither having exorbitant amounts to spend frivolously nor suddenly having next-to-none.  It wasn’t that we loved our love life and explored voraciously.  It wasn’t your history or mine; it wasn’t even your jealousy or my vehement heart.  

It was our isolation, yours and mine, from each other, and from ourselves.

Particularly from ourselves.

I find myself as isolated as I’ve ever been in my life, now, for most of the day, for most days.  I still wake up vibrant and excited when I know I’m going somewhere new to explore and see things I’ve never seen before, to indulge in my passion of connecting with strangers, to let my curiosity guide me.  I can wash my bare feet in frigid ocean waters as comfortably as burying my toes in warm sands under the intense sun.  I wander sweet-scented woods, wondering at the ages of gnarled trees and all they’ve seen.

The difference in my thinking is that I’ve realized that no one thing can be everything, no matter how much I love the activity.

Because: In-between atoms, what is there?  In-between the protons and electrons and neutrons, what is there?

There’s a whole lot of nothing, with everything floating, colliding, meandering.

And that, I’ve realized, is where I like to be: In the ‘nothing.’  

The past, the present are somewhere in all of that nothing, all of my feelings and all of yours and everyone else’s, too.  There’s an endless supply of possibilities… maybe not everything you or I would wish to be, and most certainly some things we don’t favor, but plenty that we do, or might, or could.

Right now, between us, there’s not much.  There’s our past, but I’m not really holding onto it anymore.  I daresay there’s nothing between us, except perhaps my love for you (which may or may not reach you) and whatever you feel for me (which may or may not reach me).

And I’m okay with that nothing.  I can sit very peacefully in nothing, having spent a lot of time in it, listening to the cacophony of guilt and accusations and suppositions and wishes and dreams racing through my head.  Having let it be, having remained doing nothing, being nothing, I can listen to a whole lot of things.  I can remember nearly anything I want; I can look and examine the past or the present, or dream about and even try to plan the future.

I start to realize that the only reason I wanted you with me, the reason I wanted to see you again, the reason I wanted to re-start our “something” was because I was so desperately afraid of the nothing.  I was afraid it would consume me, my feelings, my everything.  

Us.  

And you.

But: There’s nothing between us now, and it’s not consuming what we were.

There’s nothing between us now, and it’s apparently not consuming you.

There’s nothing between us now and I still love, can still love you.  And I still do.

There’s nothing between us now…

And you’re still you.

And, better still (because it matters so much to me, and in me is all of what I love, including you and us):

There’s nothing between us now.  

And I’m still me, too.

Photo ©2007 MLM

Listen, if you will.

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).

Lawn Chairs on the Farm

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.

Shefford Victorian Sea

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.

River Fireworks

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?

Filly Newborn

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.

Jordan's Mill Flower

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.

Farm Rainbow

Seduction

So many mornings, I wake naked with a sheet or light quilt draped over three-quarters of my body, the wind coolly sneaking into my room and kissing my arms, shoulders and back; and I find myself half-dreaming of resting in a lover’s bed.

This morning, with the sun not as hot as yesterday, not as proddingly demanding that I leave my comfort, my dreams turned to the ocean, to a bed near the beach where similar soft breezes and gentle sunlight awakened me as tenderly as a careful love. I could remember the white sands beyond, hear the faintly crashing waves orchestrate with quietly-rustling leaves; and my body is quiveringly seduced as thoroughly as by the scent and structure and attentions of a well-attuned man.

Could it be that nature itself is calling me, beckoning me to the edges of land and foamy water? If so, I’ve felt it for years….

It’s said that youthful impressions are the strongest made; and I’m sure of it.

My first and greatest love, le mer, is calling me home.

Protector

I woke this morning to vivid, almost-awake dreams of deep, dark blue waters, of a high, hot sun, of salt air thick and lush on my nostrils, of a strong, deeply-tanned man – the owner of the long, white sailboat – preparing to dive with me.

The sense of freedom and vastness, of purpose was so clear – more clear and explicit than with any other dream or idea I have: the purpose was unspeakable, and the only way to describe it is: Life.

I find myself in the midst of the world, preparing my journey with food, beverage, music and travel across land – and yet, I find myself restless, dis-eased, anxious. Surely it is my sense of food in relation to restaurants, my sense of media in relation to television, my sense of marketing in relation to advertising; and it is hard to break through these notions.

Sailing, however, is both new and old, instinctive and primal and inventive, nakedly natural and so very human. It is demanding on physical, mental, emotional and consciousness levels; it requires an openness to the sea and to peoples and to lands – a forever learning, amidst warmth and love of the sun and wind and skies.

I do not know how I will get there; but I feel I must make start making my way to the sea, no matter what I must do or give up to do so. My skin longs for the heat of the sun, the cooling breezes, the nourishing salt water; my mind begs and prods me for the simplicity and nuances of laying hands on line.

I want to disappear into her, back to my origins, back to the sea… to be myself and protect what I love most: to be Meredith.

Sketches of the South

It’s on days like today that I understand my laziness, my hesitance to move, to do anything but bask and take in this hot Georgia sun, to await cool breezes petting my skin and dancing through my hair and through the shimmering leaves, carrying the sweetness of roses and gardenias and dying lilies and fresh-mowed grass, of simmering pine and leafy trees of deepening green, soaking up the sun as I do….

On days like this, I don’t even wish to speak, to disturb this lovely prelude to summer.  I sit and watch glistening leaves and pale petals, and listen to nothing:  tinkling wind chimes and calling birds, and the soft percussion of leaf clapping upon leaf.  Every moment of this is a vacation – with the dilettante-like luxury of never needing to go anywhere, of never wishing for escape, of never tiring of the same things:  blue skies and billowing clouds and fluffy roses.

It’s a cultural thing, I’m sure:  this laziness arising with drawled speech and meandering stories and long supper tables laden with food at small white churches and old family reunions. The Old South is alive and well in me, and in this land; and, returning to this lazy world after half my life spent no farther south than Southern Ontario, the scents and sensations and simplicity of this land are irresistible.

The trees beckon, waving full boughs to those inside, whispering songs to which no words can reply.

So I return, realizing that I always return, always wished to return to this place that breeds laziness in the most beautiful of ways.

For Sarah M.