Tonight I came home to an empty fridge. I’ve been avoiding getting groceries. I’m not sure why – it’s just a bigger deal to get them here than it used to be. It’s as if it requires moving a few heavy boulders, climbing a small hill, and then catching a swing rope across a ravine. Ok, maybe that was Indiana Jones or that old Atari game Pitfall. I don’t know why I have this aversion to getting groceries. The store is no further than it was when I was back home. If anything, the roads have less traffic on them… Yet, my fridge is frequently empty. An empty fridge is a good excuse to go out to eat. I’ve done that a lot since I’ve moved here.
As I sat at the bar drinking my beer and waiting for my burger, I sent a text to my friend Ray – his dad passed away either today or yesterday – I’m guessing he’s pretty overwhelmed. I also got a text from my daughter, Carolyn. She’s having a tough time with a few things. We agreed to talk on Sunday. I sent her pictures of the cat to cheer her up (and because she asked). I miss Carolyn. I miss a lot of things. Tears came to my eyes. I’m not even sure what I was thinking about – maybe the life I had not too long ago and the beauty of everything at that time. Actually, I just remembered – it was article in the Huffington Post (16 Little Things Happy Couples Do For Each Other Every Night). B and I did some of those things, little notes, good night kisses, after dinner walks, foot massages, prepping coffee …. for me the funny one is giving a foot massage – I am not a foot person, and I’m pretty sure B is the only woman I’ve ever given a foot massage to (never thought twice about it)…. The list was sweet and made me feel that happy/sad combination that hits me more often than I care to admit.
I’m a lot more emotional than I used to be. Everything is at the surface and the slightest thing seems to bring it all up. The poem I need to write is “The Boy with Tears in His Eyes…” I’m not sure how I see myself right now. Older, slower, maybe wiser…different, for sure. Tonight I was the guy at the bar, by himself, looking at his phone, with no food in his fridge.
As I ate, I talked to the bartender a bit. We talked about neighborhoods and places to rent or buy – she’s relatively new here too. Memphis is one of those towns that is cool, but also pretty rough. I’m constantly told to be careful. She’s nice to me, or at least conversational. I paid my tab and walked home.
I thought some more about the poem. I thought about how nice it was to have someone to talk to about my day… I miss that a lot. I thought about how I would have never guessed I’d be living in Memphis. I thought about how this might be nice place to build a life – all the activity of a city, but surprisingly more manageable and quieter. I thought about how I wish I wasn’t doing this alone – it seems easier to build together than to try to merge after the fact. When I got home, I did what I often do – re-read and edited some of my writing. I thought about new things on which to opine (this post was not part of the plan). I wrote the title of the poem “The Boy with Tears in His Eyes” (didn’t get any further than that).
Sometimes, when I think about who I am and who I’ve been, I think about how other people can or can’t relate to my experiences. That’s a lot of what life is, trying to connect to people through shared experiences or through sharing experiences. I also think about other people I’ve known, and how their experiences have, to some extent, defined them. I thought about the woman who wrote about cancer and how she was a part of the club. We’re all part one club or another – a set of experiences that define (or at least categorizes) us and that might only be understood by people in the club. I’m part of a club called parents (specifically, step-parents). I understand the hustle and bustle of kids and their schedules, the not knowing your place as a parent, the agony of homework, the times of frustration and pride. B is part of a club of people who have been touched by cancer. She is also part of a club of widows. My friend Ray just became part of a club of people who have lost a parent – always gone too soon. As I thought about these clubs, I’ve also thought about all of my recent experiences. Losing my fiancee. Leaving everything I know behind. Being new to a city. Being alone. These are the clubs I’m just joining. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band – the singer’s gonna sing a song, and he wants you all to sing along.
And as I write this, I’m thinking about how, sometimes, we seek out those people who understand our experiences – or at least speak the same language, can sing along with us because they recognize the tune and maybe some of the lyrics. The language of loss. The language of cancer. The language of parenthood. The language of wandering. The language of solitude. People in recovery seek out other people who have experienced recovery. Single parents seek out other single parents. And while that makes perfect sense – an easiness to the connection, I wonder what that means for love and for growth. Are the people in our clubs the only ones who will really get us, really speak our language? I hope not. Does speaking the same language hold us back from learning a new language? When that easy communication fades as we join other clubs, will we have learned to adapt? I honestly don’t know, but I think I prefer the unfamiliar. I want someone who wants to teach me their language, and wants to learn mine. I want us to be patient with each other as we both grow – to me that seems like a recipe for success. We will forever be changing, joining new clubs – together and alone. I’m reminded of how awesome it is to see the world from a different perspective – find that person. I’m reminded of how much growth comes from the active pursuit of compassion, the active pursuit of understanding something outside of your own experiences – however uncomfortable it may make you feel.
Maybe it’s not that complicated. Maybe all we can really do is love the person in front of us. Try to learn to speak their language…. or at the very least, look at them and say, “I don’t understand a fucking word that’s coming out of your mouth, but I adore you for telling me and you look beautiful saying it…”