My Tent on The Beach

So I’ve been on the treadmill.  Sadly, no, not at the gym where, once I’m on that treadmill, I feel like I’m goin’ somewhere.  Now I can even do a program on the elliptical that let’s me believe I’m climbing the world’s greatest mountains.  I scaled K2 the other day and then went and had an iced coffee.  But as I’m learning to know myself better (I think never “well” although I’d like to believe someday that’ll happen), I know when my life starts to resemble a treadmill, life is knocking at my door…wondering what the hell I’m wasting my time on.  Admittedly, I’m prone to falling into a mind-dulling routine that can feel deceptively comfortable–deceptive because they’re exactly not comfortable.  In these moments I’ve trained myself to realize it’s time to get back to yoga.  Oh yes…it’s gonna hurt and I’m going to feel restless and like I want to stop every other second and go lay on the couch.  All of these are conditioned responses that I’ve taught myself to ensure that I get comfortably, blissfully stuck in “security.”  

This was a revolutionary moment last week–the moment I realized that it’s the moments I think I feel most secure that actually start killing my soul.  PhD work isn’t disheartening to me…it’s being stuck “somewhere” in a long process in which you cannot remember the beginning and you cannot see the end.  Living alone is not disheartening; living alone and doing the same thing day after day until you wake up one morning and your youth is all but gone and, worse, you can’t find anything to laugh at or take delight in…that is disheartening. Being in a relationship forever…that is disheartening.  I want to be in a relationship  now (well…not like right at this minute…you know what?  Why don’t you let the sentence play itself out, okay?!?) and not “30 years from now” whatever that even means.

As I continue to arduously dig around in my persona, try to gather up the little snippets of truth (if such a thing even exists) I find while hunting around in there, what I’ve come to realize is the biggest pattern is the want for security.  And safety is a red herring; there is no such thing as safety or guarantees.  Nothing is forever.  Nothing is even close to forever.  And if it was…if we really stopped to think about it…is forever what we would really, deep in our heart of hearts, want?  I’ve come to learn that it’s not in my best interest to want that and I’m actually much better, freer, more alive when I walk in the opposite direction of safe and forever.  Those things are false idols; I see lots of people everyday sinking all of their hopes into those baskets.  I do hope they know what they’re doing.

I find this whole revelation about myself so ironic.  For a long time I’ve been handed the burden of being the “reasonable one.”  I’m reliable, I’m solid, I can be counted on.  And yet, only when I run in the opposite direction–even against my own gut instinct–do I feel, not even most happy, but content.  It’s the damnedest thing. I never saw that one coming.  At all.

I often amaze myself in how mundane I am.  As young children we’re brought up to believe we’re unique, special…we have something to offer that is completely particular to us.  The older I get the more I realize what a huge load of crap that is.  Every problem I have is typical.  Every complaint I have has been uttered before.  I lead a typical life and I’m doing my best to come to terms with that.

In the meantime, though, I’ve fallen into a period that is so extraordinarily mundane that, dare I say, it’s boring.  I go to work, I come home, I go to bed…rinse, repeat.  It seems that no manner of working to be different or new makes any difference.  Three Wednesdays have passed since I really thought about it and I don’t know one from the other.  So I’m not really sure what makes the world go ’round…it’s certainly not invention. It’s probably routine.

I’ve been growing restless…I’m most sure the 100 degree temps around here aren’t helping.  This horrible July doldrums…that’s waiting…forget Advent or Lent…no, no…late July takes the cake. I’m fascinated at how many people try to explain it away or make it better than it is.  ”That’s why we love summer,” they’ll say.  I don’t love summer. I haven’t since I’ve had an actual summer vacation; that was in the 9th grade.  No summer is boring and hot and I spend every minute of it waiting for the end of October–when temperatures are reasonable and football is on tv; when crockpots make sense again and when I can justify and look forward to a late afternoon coffee.

But in this season of daunting waiting–3 months in the desert–I have to remind myself that every day and season brings with it a purpose.  I don’t know if I’ll be a better person for waiting through this fucking heat or the extra effort that equals any sort of social interaction…but I sure hope I will be.  Because this is suffering…in every form I can think of.

Wake me when it’s October 15.

Business-speak is a weird, wonderful world.  It can take whole series of actions and turn them into something codified, systematized…sterile.  You don’t talk to people, you “connect” or “reach out.”  You don’t examine things or think through thoroughly you do a “deep dive” to see what “bubbles up.”  You don’t make fun of things, you…well…no, you make fun of things…like business-speak.  Because it bizarrely takes the humanity out of being a human and working with other humans.  It’s a language of success determined to prove who is succeeding in a very particular way; learning the language, as it turns out, is halfway to being taken seriously.

The one that has stumped me time and again is “value add.”  It’s so wondrously clinical and yet is intended to really capture something really esoteric, really valuable…that which has the power to get you up in the morning.  The value add is what is unique to you…what you bring “to the table”…it’s what you and you alone can add into the mix, you hope with the intention of making a difference.  When you’re 7 or 12 or 18, it’s called idealism; when you’re corporate it’s “value add.”  And it’s always the “big” question…what’s the “value add” of a certain program, an initiative, a whole business.

I do think it’s always funny to talk about value add because it’s so emotion-less…its actual intention is to take the emotion out of what is actually really emotional; a personal investment; blood, sweat, and tears.  When it’s corporate, no one wants to see your greasy hair or armpit stains.  They don’t want to see all of the hard, thinking work…they just want the numbers.  And that’s okay…but only to a certain degree.  Value add just isn’t a cheap commodity.

And so it was with wonder and awe that today, on Southwest Flight 807 from Cleveland to Chicago, that I started thinking about value add not to a company bottom line but to the Universe.  ”What,” I wondered, “is my value add…to this plane full of people who excel in all manners of different things? What do I bring to the table that I can call my own, that I can turn to and say, “there…that’s my impact on this world…”?”  The answer wasn’t as hard to come by as I had originally thought it would be.

I believe, when I politely move out of my own way and let my self through, that I can sparkle.  Everyone can, I think, sparkle…but in their own way.  Yes, I can bring good ideas sometimes.  Yes, I can say things that are interesting…yes, I’m very loyal.  All of these are good…but not my value add.  My value add is my laugh that MANY comment on (sometimes not always in a nice way…but I usually don’t hear those b/c I’m laughing)…my value add is an ability to command a room…even light it up if I’m trying.  My value add (as I’m thinking that everyone’s value add) is my spirit…it’s the only thing that I own…that has my stamp on it.

I don’t know why I worry about bringing anything other than this laugh anywhere.  It’s literally the best accessory I have.  But the value add is the spirit behind it…I think…no…I know…

I was talking with a friend today who was describing a scenario from her life, an anecdote if you will, that sounded so incredibly foreign to me she might as well have been speaking a language that involves clicking and grunting.

And that’s when I really learned that it all could’ve been different for me.

I spend a good part of everyday examining, analyzing, deducing, theorizing about all of the factors that affect people–that lead them to make the choices they make and face the everyday lives they face.  And because I am privileged far beyond most people, I know that my whole life could’ve been something very different had that privilege not been there.  But that’s not the different I’m talking about.  For the first time, I think truly ever, I realized that it could’ve been different in a parallel way; not better or worse off…just completely, stand-on-my-head different.

And then I started wondering why it wasn’t.  How exactly did I get here, looking back at the journey with not a lot of whimsy but not a huge amount of regret?  What compelled me, really, to make the choices I have…some of which have seemed incredibly random?  How does luck work?  I sure think it does…luck and timing have created whole entire, huge tangents of my life that only began because of me standing in a particular place at a particular time and doing something of note.

I wondered what that parallel life would look like.  Would it be more fulfilling than this one?  Would I be someone completely different?  Would I feel differently about things if even one of two values that have been passed down to me had been something other than they were?

Sometimes I find myself longing for a do-over…completely.  Sometimes I look back at the sum of my years thus far, admittedly not many in comparison to some, and can’t help but think that I’ve done it all wrong…that one decision down the line somewhere changed everything…could a parallel me have been happier or more grateful?  Could a parallel me have been more fulfilled or less anxious, less consumed by the things I’m consumed by?

I know the “right” answer is “no” but in my heart I’m not convinced.  And then I wonder if I can fix what I’ve got…and then I sure do wonder how…

If nothing else, this blog is proof that time passes and does heal all wounds.  Of course, it also creates new wounds which “they” never really talk about…but the old wounds are gone, that is the truth.  And how weird it is to see a document of your life that you’ve put out there and see the growth and see the bigger picture among all the little details that have the power to weigh everything down. Life can surpass all expectations if one measures it carefully…as this account has…which is to say that every three months I muse at how wonderful the world can be.

Mysticism takes time.

I just wonder what this amount of fluidity is particularly due to (gasp…I ended that sentence with a preposition). Is it because I’m in my 30s and realizing what it means to seek something that not everyone else is doing?  Is it because I’ve spent a long time and lots of money on something not many actually follow through with (damn…another preposition)? Am I carving new terrain? (no….)  It’s just amazing that I read what I wrote 3 months ago and it seems like another life.  I know the players and the players have changed.  I know the scenery and it’s completely gone, replaced by different (not better or worse) scenery.  The only things that have remained constant are my subscription to Entertainment Weekly and my devoted practice of Televisionism. And those are shallow and pointless…(and even still I love them…)

In some ways, I’m glad I didn’t know the scale of the curve this past six years would take; I never would’ve agreed to that. I never would’ve signed up for the sadness and regret.  But at the same time, I never could’ve guessed the tremendous people who cycle through…some quicker than others…all passing on an important lesson that must be taken seriously and with fervor.

My most recent challenge has been to reclaim what is mine and what is due. It’s required a test of faith I never imagined…and the Universe always responds in ways that strike me silent and humble. I’ve gotten quite literally everything I’ve asked for so far…the manner in which it’s arrived has not always been my choosing…but in the end, I have what I’ve asked for and that which I really want…

The new challenge is to get over my humbled-ness and continue to ask…it’s all there for the taking…

So I believe it’s true that fortune, especially good fortune, works in incredible, mysterious ways.  My life has changed. And fortune is to blame.

My counselor says, “no….this is not fortune…it’s you finding your path.”  Normally I’d agree.  I love looking for my path and then talking about it in that very Tao-informed way.  But I’m not sure I can take any credit in looking or finding anything.  My life has changed because, and I completely mean this, the universe asserted itself and demanded that I respond.  And I responded…yes in a thoughtful way.  Yes in a responsible way.  But not because I wanted to…because I had to.  And lo and behold…I don’t know if the choice was “right”…but almost literally everything has changed.

Maybe this is a perspective thing: everything changed because some fundamentals shifted in this choice.  I now feel as though I can support myself and my near future is more stable.  Helpful, definitely helpful.  I now feel I have more power to govern some of the more toxic relationships in my life…I have new found weight to shift that I didn’t have before.  Also, very helpful.  I don’t hate what I’m doing…this is very good.  Never good to use “hate” as a regular descriptor in your day. But the effects of all of this seem exponential…If I’m a tree, even the tiniest little twigs are gathering in a new-found sense of life. It’s like I’m breathing again…after six years of not.

And here’s the crux, I suppose…I didn’t really have to do anything but make a choice…a choice which confronted me and not the other way around.  I just had to respond.  It is fortune, I think.  That mysterious hand that reaches in and intervenes when you, yourself, are unable.  It’s the answer to a prayer or the acknowledgement of a desperate cry for help.

Whatever it is…whew…it’s a life saver.

I have great potential to be a small person, I think.  It’s something I’ve known about myself for awhile.  A consequence of my rabid perfectionism. A sign of my ultra-competitiveness. A character flaw.  I can be a very gracious winner and a very, very sore loser.  I used to hide it better; it used to be that which would stoke the fire to go back to the drawing board, never lose, conquer or else.  Now, I find my energy wanes faster than it used to; my resolve can be less and less.  I lose more than I used to and I take it less well, in fact not well at all.

Perhaps this is the place of life in which having kids would be helpful.  There’s little room to look like a selfish ass when little eyes are on you.  But, like Charles Barkley, there are days I say I’m not paid to be a role model.  Today is that day.  I’m tired of doing a lot and getting no recognition.  I’m tired of being the hard worker and being rewarded with more work.  I’m tired of being the one to bend and never break.  I’m due for a break.  I’m breaking.  That’s it.  I’m broke.

Of course it doesn’t mean that tomorrow I’ll be un-broke.  It’s not a forever smallness; in fact, I think at the opposite end of the scale I’ve found an incredible well of patience that I never knew existed.  And maybe these two go hand in hand…when my patience has completely run out, when I’ve thrown everything I have at a problem and the problem ceases to loosen its hold…I’m just gonna throw a big, fucking tantrum about it.  I used to apologize for that.  But I’m tired and broke and I’m going to act like I’m three.  Do you ever see an unhappy three year-old?  Not really.  They either have what they want or they’re in the process of getting it–loudly.

Is it selfish? yes. Is it immature? Yeah, I guess.  But I’ve been an adult my entire life…I don’t recall ever having the luxury of selfishness…I’ve always been called on to take the high road, to be the bigger person, to take the responsibility because I could handle it when others could not.  I’ll just say this…living in Chicago has taught me many great lessons but none greater than the lesson of Lower Wacker Drive.  This street runs under the city, directly below Wacker Drive (and incidentally is where they filmed the Batman movies).  Anyway, you can get clear across the city in nearly half the time if you take LWD.  Is it gross down there? yes.  Do I want to live down there? No.  Does it get you from point A to point B faster than any other route? Yes.

Sometimes, the low road is the right one.  It may not be pretty and frankly it stinks but it’ll get you where you’re going in half the time.  It’s not always the answer but it sometimes is just the answer you need even if you might get choked by the exhaust.

I started my new job one month ago today.  And what a weird journey that’s been; it’s been an even weirder journey getting there.  As I was riding the 147 down Lakeshore Drive to Michigan Avenue this afternoon I remember thinking years ago, “that ride to United Way is a killer…glad I don’t have to do it.”  I also think that was the moment it wasn’t going to go away either.

And it hasn’t and I’m glad it hasn’t.  But it’s not where I expected to be…and so I guess I’m mourning a little bit recently over the passing of my old plan.  It’s definitely gone.  Not my dissertation or PhD but the way I thought I’d get there.  It all seemed so clear.  And on a dime it changes; one day I’m sick about filling out more student loan papers and the next I’m fully employed and up nights because of the good, final shock of it all.  Chicago has demanded I stay…and so I will. But that was never my plan.

I remember distinctly having time-oriented conversations with lots of folks when I first got here.  The first time I met Paul he asked me how long I was planning to stay. “5 years,” I said without hesitation.  5 years passed last August.  5 years of Chicago dust, angry wind, and hundreds of thousands of words of sociology under my belt and here I am…where I never could have imagined I’d be.  In some ways wonderfully good.  In other ways disappointed I’m not much further than when I started. Some days I feel liberated, others trapped.

And now I’m sitting here at my desk at “home” with a Blue Cross Blue Shield card in my wallet with this address on it and I’m worried about filling out beneficiary paper work for my term life insurance.

All told, August will be my 7th here.  I’ve lived 12 lifetimes in that time.  My friends have completely turned over 3 times that I can count.  There’s only one person in Chicago who has known me since I moved here. I’ve lived in 4 different places in this city and painted complete apartments twice.  I’ve been heartbroken once by a person and yearly by my program of study.  I’ve had one panic attack and am currently, actively not speaking to two people.  I turned 30 in Chicago.  And I just may turn 40 here. And is this home?  I still don’t know.

But I’m holding out hope.

Maybe a year ago, I was thinking about the fact that I hadn’t talked to a man who had been possibly the best friend I’ve ever had up until the fall of 2005.  I left my previous job to move to Chicago and go to grad school and “it” stopped working shortly thereafter.  I remember the moment I knew I probably wouldn’t talk to him again: I was inundated with the stress of classes, planning a conference, living on my own in an apartment above a freak who was scaring the living piss out of me.  It was a day like any other day and I was trying to make the best of things but losing the battle.  There was silence on the other end of the line and then, “Katie…I just can’t talk to you about school anymore…I can’t take it when I’ve had a very rough week.  I’ve been trying to decide on new upholstery for my couch and I’m just tied up in knots about it.” (At this point, you may be asking questions…go ahead…you know the answers).

And that was it…a switch turned off in my head and I knew that was it.  We’d taken it to the limit and couldn’t go any further. “I’ll talk to you soon,” I said and started counting as the days turned to weeks turned to months…turned to 4 years.  I’d felt tremendous guilt during that time…maybe I should call, maybe I should stop in on a trip home.  No.  I just couldn’t bring myself to do it…like something in my DNA told me it was gone.

So at some point over the course of 2009, though I can’t remember when, I did call and left a voicemail saying I was sorry…I knew he couldn’t talk about school anymore…and it hadn’t gotten any less stressful…but that I thought if I let it go now, there would never be knowing whether or not this was my fault for throwing something away.  I didn’t expect to hear back but about six weeks later he called; we talked about movies and tv shows.  I asked about his mom.  He told me I should call when I come home the next time…we’ll grab coffee.  He said he’d call next week. And I was glad when he didn’t.

It seems so counterintuitive to feel that relief…especially in our culture that’s so much like “we’ll work extra hard to save whatever we can.”  But it was just gone.  There was nothing left to save.  A friendship that spanned more crossword puzzles than I could count, thousands of miles through Italy, France, Czech Republic, Akron Ohio…all reduced to an awkward, stilted conversation about watching The Amazing Race for the 8th year in a row. Just let it go with grace.

And I think I have.  But what I know now is the feeling–that gut level weight that hangs right below your ribcage–of it being over…whatever it was.  I now know the moment, to the nanosecond, that what has been working so far just doesn’t take anymore and that sure grip that was once there starts to falter.

That’s one of the worst feelings in the world.

I’m getting a new post in within a month of the last so that is progress in my book.  After a couple months of hiatus, I’ve decided to fire the old girl up again (no, not me…thanks for asking) and give back to regular reflecting its glorified status of old.  In some ways, it seems obsolete this mode of reflecting…even I think if I can’t get it done in 140 characters, what am I doing?  But recently I’ve re-learned the value of capturing thoughts more substantial than mere snippets of frustration or mirth.  What I’ve learned in this time away is that there’s no legacy of those things…thrown away thoughts…that’s all they are.

What I’ve especially missed is the log of my own thoughts that writing like this creates.  We don’t think in a vacuum…we don’t have disconnected ideas…they all stem from exactly where we are at a particular time and place.  And as I’m having a go-around yesterday with Kristine about cycles and patterns of relationships and friendships and discussions, I realized I missed my own proof of those very things.  Over time, I can be my own advisor…because something I thought about 17 days ago might have been a problem then but might just be the perfect answer now.

So…I’m back to it…for my own sake.  Of course, things are a little different.  In the storm of the last couple months I got a job…like a real one…with a desk and a chair and a coffee station…and I can only wear jeans on Fridays.  And I may have sorta changed my dissertation topic…kinda…okay…really.  And I cut my hair…I might be moving to Illinois for reals (like my license plates and everything)…and I’m an aunt…and a godmother…to two different kids.  Cool.  And I’m not thinking about moving to a different apartment…in fact, I’m painting the dining room and thinking about getting a dining room table.  And opera is my new hobby. And I have business cards now.  And I almost started asking that people call me Kathleen…but then I got freaked out by the formalness of it so I guess I’m Katie for life. And…

With all this newness, I did think about changing the name of the blog.  It comes from a comment friends years ago made about not ever seeing the place I lived…it could be a tent on the beach somewhere and no one would be the wiser. With this new level of stability, maybe a tent isn’t the right place to think about being for good.

And then I remembered I paid for this domain name…so a tent it shall be.  Long live the tent.