Wednesday. It’s been one of those days that feels like a sigh – not quite boredom, not quite the feeling of being lost or giving up, not quite confused. It’s as if something is missing or lost or overdue, but for the life of me I don’t know what it is. When I try to translate this feeling into words, it comes out as: “I don’t know what to do, or what I want to do, and so few things matter (in the grand scheme of things).” Shit, that sounds worse than it is. When it comes out that way, it sounds like depression, but it doesn’t quite feel like depression.
By mid-morning, I had already canceled parts of the day: the run, the long walk to the office, the work project with an approaching deadline. I took a shower hoping it might help or provide clarity or at least get me moving. In the shower, I reflected on a few recent dates I had gone on. Cute women, good and wide-ranging conversations. I got stuck where I always get stuck: the idea of two people liking each other enough to put in the time to get to know each other, to move from a date to dating, to whatever lies beyond dating. This process feels like a long shot or something I no longer know how to do – not because of the women I met, but because of… well, I’m not sure why. It’s like wanting the end result but not seeing a clear way to get there.
The new plan, after the shower, was lunch, coffee and some reading, then a long walk along the Bay. Or maybe I need to sit at Vesuvio with a beer and a book. Maybe I need a city walk to the Ferry building where I can sit in the sun (also with a beer and a book). Part of the malaise is that I have options and don’t want to make a decision. I’m not even sure I want the beer and the book.
Three books arrived in the mail today (Bookshop.org, not Amazon). Two are collections of poetry that I haven’t been able to find in any of the bookstores. The third, Rare Good, is a collection of personal essays on art, autism, and astonishment. I follow the author of Rare Good, Steve Edwards, on social media. I read and repost his essays when he shares them. I like both his style and his substance. His personal essays reveal the type of attention and kindness that I wish to practice more of in my own life, the kind of writing I wish I were gifted enough to pursue. A lot of his essays have that, “life is hard, but at least we have each other” feel to them. Steve was diagnosed with autism fifteen some years ago at the age of 35. His wife suffers from constant migraines. His son has auditory processing disorder along with several other conditions. Despite these challenges, or perhaps because of them, Steve and his family seem to revel in and celebrate life’s simple pleasures: small town life, bluebirds in the backyard, cooking together and taking walks. He seems generous with his time and thoughtfulness and grace. There’s a cruel irony in how struggle teaches us patience, grace, and gratitude.
The challenges created by our various needs pile up and compound in a backlog. How we deal with it all is a mystery to me. It is also simple: we have no other option. In this way, we are just like every other family attempting an honest run at life.
We get up each morning, make our choices, and work. What is outside of our control is outside of our control.
And maybe that was what the day’s feeling had been about. Maybe that was what was missing or lost or overdue: not making my choices but instead waiting for some epiphany to land in my lap, not setting myself to some sort of good work (be it work work or writing work or the work of being present out in the wider world).
I finished reading the essay and moved over to the small table where I eat and work and write. I thought about this blog and how negative I can be. So often, I feel primed to focus on the negative, on the outrage, on the problems of the world. Frequently, what’s missing from my memory or my retelling of events is astonishment – those small details like the white egret I saw elegantly stalking the marsh. Joy is so easily masked, so frequently forgotten.
With this in mind, I grabbed a book and a notebook, put on my shoes, and took a walk in the sun, hoping to open myself to astonishment. At my first stop where I had planned to read I ran into a friend. We sat and talked for a while. I didn’t get any reading done. We parted and I made my way along the Embarcadero towards the Ferry Building. At the Ferry Building, I skipped the beer and kept walking, turning towards Market Street, then Montgomery, and eventually up to Vesuvio on Columbus. I ordered a beer, paid in cash, sat in the alley in full shade from the late-day sun. Across the street, the treetops glowed a bright, rich green in the light. I read some poems, jotted down a few observations, finished my beer, and walked home.
At some point along the way, the sigh had lifted, had been replaced by the conversation with the friend, or the walk along the Embarcadero, or the sights and sounds of tourists visiting Fisherman’s Wharf. I remember telling one of the dates that I get stuck between believing there’s some purpose in life and believing that our purpose is to exist: get up, make our choices, go about our day.