As the day draws to a close I’m sitting here thinking about all the things I will be giving up in a few weeks. Soon I will be moving on from this place that has been less a home and more my base of bad habits for five years. Soon I will need to be an adult, close to my family, hopefully buying a place of my own and growing roots that I have avoided to do for as long as I’ve been here.
Why am I moving on?
I sometimes think of myself as dancing with uncertainty. There are times when I get to sit out and enjoy the music but a lot of the time I’m out there swirling every which way and trying to figure out how to place my feet. This has been going on now for almost 7 years. These days, however, I’m getting tired of dancing. No matter how sweet the music, I am longing to sit down with my loved ones and breathe. That’s why I’ll be moving back home.
I have lived here in the land of luxury for five years and enjoyed a lot of it. I’ve enjoyed the wine, the cheese, the good food but I can’t really say that I have had fun the entire time. I am hoping I will find that when I get back home. I’ve grown into an adult and learned to appreciate adult things but the fun I associate with home did not follow me to my new place. I hope I will find it again when I go back, along with all the things I left behind.
Okay people, seriously, living with boys….How are you supposed to get used to that?
I finally have a boyfriend. I finally enjoy all the benefits of a serious relationship (I think) after all this time being single. But as a long-term single lady I’m having to get used to so many things I never existed. Like….. pants-off-at-home. Why????
I love my man. I love how he treats me and listens to me rant whenever I’m feeling insecure. I love how he unclogs the drain when I’m okay with letting it do its own thing until it clogs up completely. I love how he reaches for my hand even though I’m huffing and puffing through my insecurities But he is a boy.
For some reason we have pants-off policy in the apartment. Meaning that as soon as we come home I hear a rustle and see Calvin Klein. My alcohol cupboard went from wines to spirits. I live on a strip of 50cm in my own bed while snoring and flailing arms live on the rest. Football is no longer “lots of guys kicking a ball” but “a game of strategy”. I have a guy’s underwear in my drawers and socks tend to show up everywhere like weed. I even have to treat my bedroom like a gas chamber some times because…well…boys…
So I ask myself how does one go through the stages of getting used to changes of a man? I will, I know I will, but just….how? There is another person in the house, loving but annoyingly different at the same time. Patience and love is required. Maybe I’ll even start showing off my nice bras. But until then… WTF?
It is a day-to-day thing. You walk around in the city of your choice, work, play, meet your friends and then….you come home with a story. You might stretch your fingers a little bit from the tingling that calls you home, dying to write, to connect with the world that the rest of your circle doesn’t know. A blogger discovering his/her true freedom that comes from just putting some ideas on a screen.
The writer within you lays dormant every day. Paying the bills comes first, then the routine and the comfort that comes from having a regular life. But then a small touch of magic rustles your heart which makes it impossible for you to move on. You need to put that idea down before it leaves to someone else more willing to appreciate its soft movements. Your writer calls for expression and you need to heed the call.
I just realized this myself. It is a call of the soul, of a nature that has been buried deep for too long and now just longs for expression. I love that.You are suddenly exploring stories and ideas that have been crossing your mind for years but you haven’t been awake enough to let them manifest. And your soul cradles it like the stuffed toy it has been missing.
All of a sudden your head is in space or the distant future. You are looking for ideas or places to make your story possible and that allow it to grow. Any information that connects it to reality you write down and connect to the story line so that your audience will believe, will understand and eventually fall in love with it. Doesn’t that make you feel more real?
I love the fact that you can bump into people randomly throughout your day and never realize who they are until you discover their depth by seeing how and what they write. Can you imagine looking at your friends and family and discovering their thoughts all of sudden? That they are so much more than what you know them as? Can you imagine doing that to yourself, discovering your possibility and your ideas?
We don’t really explore each other enough. The questions that ask who our people are never get asked and instead we are happy to know them well enough. But then they show us their blogs/books and we turn into Alice, tumbling into Wonderland and realizing that the hole is so much deeper than what we originally thought. It makes you realize that the world as we know it is only a small percentage of what it is.
But then it quiets down, disappears under the surface in order to recharge and wait for that opportune moment to bring that soft touch upon your cheek and whisper: “I am here. Tell everyone.”
I’m avoiding company tonight.
I was invited out for drinks and decided against it because I felt melancholic. I am in need of solitude and reflection.I started to cry, thinking about my latest romance gone bad but then this thought crossed my mind that if my fate is to be single for the rest of my days I need to love myself enough to make up for it. I stopped crying and decided to write. Somehow I feel most like myself when I do.
Do you ever feel like you forgot yourself, who you really are, and it has taken you forever to go back to that person? Right now it feels like I am discovering who I am again, after such a long time, just by writing. I used to write stories when I was little and I would go beyond the teacher requirements just because I loved it so much. Then one day a teacher I respected put me down for writing “childish” prose and I stopped. She attacked the most vulnerable side of me so I had to put my defenses up and hide it. I spent the next fifteen years running around trying to find what I am good at, occasionally writing, but never really realizing what I wanted to do. I envied the creative ones but never classified myself as one. Now, finally, after all this time, I’ve started to realize that my creative side comes out when I write and that I would like to improve myself until one day I write a story that appeals to an audience.
All of a sudden I’m exploring story ideas, getting lost in prose and linking ideas. I feel like a fairy dancing midst flowers, picking its favorite ones to create a bouquet. And for some reason, the circling fairies, also known as the shining neighbour stars that have twinkled just for me, that showed their interest in my writing make me feel better. We’ve been all been here, haven’t we? We’ve all hesitated in writing that first word, wondered if we were good enough and then just decided to plow through anyway because that’s what we need to do. Thanks, everyone, for being first and finding your way. I respect that so much.
I don’t consider my blog special if I compare it to the multitude of others that are out there in the internet universe. It is a tiny star in a galaxy, not bright enough to be spotted by the big planets circling space, but it’s still there making its rounds. I have of course wondered if I should try to increase its size and readership, make it appeal to the writing and reading aliens that travel the blogospheres but lately I’ve started to wonder why I should do that.
We all want to make an impact, to know that we are significant and that we make a difference in the world. When I first started blogging every single visitor was special just because they read my words. I felt I mattered. But then I started to realize that if people read but don’t interact with my content I had no way of knowing whether the things I said were “good”. The visiting aliens might come to my little star but if they don’t leave their mark then increasing their number will be pointless.
But then I thought that even though my blog will never turn into a galaxy it is still my little star. A place where I can make myself better, improve my writing and maybe improve my wordpress programming skills. If by chance a visiting alien feels better about himself or herself after visiting my star and reading my words, I will have made the world a better place in my own little way. So while I wish the big galaxies well, my little star doesn’t have to be one.
It is soul food only for me, a swirling mess of red and white with lumps and bumps and defined softness that only food contained within a can for too long can provide. This unlikely pair is Heinz spaghetti and fish balls, a combination weird for others but always reminds me of home.
I remember going to my uncle’s place during weekends to be watched over while my parents were away. If we found ourselves hungry after playing he would go into the kitchen and find a can of fish balls (i.e. haddock ground and shaped into balls) and can of spaghetti, put it into a pan and heat it. It wasn’t difficult for a teenager to do while the parents were out. Occasionally he would even make “pink sauce”, made from ketchup, the fish ball water and flour. We would slurp up this soft combination, grateful for something quick to eat before starting another game.
These days I find myself in a different country from my youth and the ingredients for this strange dish are found in two separate stores. When I first saw the can of fish balls I felt joy over finding such a small connection to home. I bought it, knowing that the can of spaghetti was easier to find. When I finally brought those two cans together in a pot, my incessant homesickness abated a little. Now, a few years down the line, my palate has changed to accommodate the various ingredients found in this country and my homesickness is gone. However, I always remember to buy the two cans when I walk past them even though I would never place the pure ingredients (i.e. haddock and spaghetti) on the same plate.
In the past I have been quite open with telling people about my crushes and seeking advice. It seemed like a good idea at the time since it could potentially mean the difference between a relationship or rolling on alone. But lately I’ve started to question if this is the right way to go.
A few days ago I was out with friends, enjoying a cocktail or two and invariably the discussion turned to men (read: I was complaining about my latest situation) as I was feeling slightly hurt and confused. There were a couple of people there that normally don’t hang out with us and who had never heard the story so I was asked to explain everything. Reluctantly I complied and told the story of how I met the guy I like. Both proclaimed that I was doing something wrong and both gave me unsolicited advice on how to act next.
When I returned home I started to feel incredibly bad about myself. Maybe I had being doing things the wrong way so that I had already screwed things up for myself. But I didn’t feel like taking their advice completely because I didn’t trust their opinion. So I was left with feeling more confused and more hesitant to act which, under the circumstances, were not needed in the vortex of emotions I was already feeling.
So I decided to be more discreet and choosy about whom to tell about my love / crush troubles. People talk, especially about relationship issues, and everybody has an opinion. So the ones of you that are going through the same thing keep that in mind when you are bursting with the need to tell someone. Treat yourself in the delicate way that you deserve and don’t tell the people likely to judge you just for being yourself.