on love and somethingness

I've been thinking about what it means to be truly unique. Earlier today I was struck by a Google search result: "uncommon baby names." I was disturbed by the parent (worse so, all the many parents) who searched for such a thing, hoping to distinguish her child with a stand-out name before he or she was even born. The Ashley-Sarah-Jessica-Katie's of the world lament those standard titles. Give me Cornelia, Daphne, Daisy, Valentine. Personally, I can't stand those contrived names and aren't the Katherine Elizabeths of the world just as lovely?

We don't believe that though, do we? We really think that bestowing some grandiose name will lead that baby into a life of SOMETHING-ness, a life of power and celebrity and color and recognition.We're so afraid of being boring. Being shy is synonymous with being disabled. Americans are constantly provoked to stand out, to be SOMETHING, to be THE ONE AND ONLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's an intense amount of pressure to be expected to amount to something so intensely important. And to be honest, everything feels more boring when our expectations for what is respectable (what is acceptable) are so incredibly high. Anyone who's been depressed (or even just been human) knows that on some mornings getting out of bed is an applause-worthy accomplishment. But what space is there for small human achievements on our resumes? 

Being human, being alive, is work. Taking care of our physical bodies, the spaces we occupy, the other humans we love, and the ever exploding incomprehensible boundless expanses of our human minds, which constantly question and analyze and bleed into every moment of our days, takes time and patience and love and a lot of energy. When did we forget that it takes hard work to be a human? When did we stop believing that that work is important? 

These days, no one sleeps. We don't eat real food. We abuse our bodies and we suppress our minds. We throw away relationships and forsake our families all in the name of making a name. God forbid we take a day off work because we're sick or refuse to move across country for a high-paying job because we don't want to leave our family and everything we love. How startling it would be to believe that we don't have to "become" anyone, that we already exists perfectly, exactly how we are, and no job, no amount of money, no plastic surgery or extreme dieting, no perfect person or picturesque home can give us any more than we already have, just by being human. 

There's a song covered by one of my favorite bands (The Avett Brothers) called "Where have all the average people gone?" and I love that message. Life used to be simpler, and I find myself wistful for a world I never knew. The web, the media, this iPhone, all that crap the parents cringe over and croon about, it really is doing terrible damage. We weren't meant to write and edit virtual biographies about ourselves. Not everybody is "somebody" and that's supposed to be a good thing. What do we love about celebrity? Maybe it's thinking that if you could only be SOMETHING, then you could finally be worthy of being loved. Because these days, everyone's staring at their toes (their phones), trying to say the right things, instead of looking in your eyes and listening quietly and caring to really know you, know you. 

I've been thinking about what it means to be truly unique and a few individuals come to mind. It wasn't anything in how they dressed that struck me. It wasn't any names they dropped or their experiences abroad. It wasn't anything glamorous. It was vulnerability, an openness to the awkwardness and discomfort of the human experience and a willingness to admit that they'd been wrong, embarrassed, or absurdly delighted. It was confidence, that easiness in breathing that comes with knowing that no matter what, what they say matters because it matters to them. It was gentleness, the quiet calm of a good listener. It was just being human, a break from the noise, an silent acknowledgment that you and I are not separate at all but completely the same. And through friendship or mentorship or a brief exchange of words, rejoicing in that sameness. Most simply, it was love. 

The best cure, I think, for chronic individualitis-- that voice that begs to know what makes you different, how you compare to your peers, what makes you worthy of recognition, worthy of love-- is a quiet visit with someone you care about or someone who cares about you. Nothing sexual, nothing colorful, maybe even not that beautiful, maybe raw and sad and shocking. But that togetherness, that knowing that it's okay, we understand each other, and thank god we can at least be human together.

relentless

Sundays are the best and worst of times. A broad of expanse of hours with absolutely no expectations or responsibilities followed by the sinking feeling that it is just a dream: I must wake up and return to real life in the morning. These days, real life has been exceptionally hard to accept. This morning, around six a.m., I trudged outside, wrapped up to my eyes, and scraped ice off my car windows. The bitter cold makes me bitter. It's a lot of waiting around, waiting to warm up and just waiting in the sameness trying to feel at peace. It seems like peace would be a quiet gray thing, but color and warmth are what I'm craving most right now. My heart is heavy.

I try to placate myself with new schemes; I think part of the problem is that I'm bored at my job and sit for hours in front of a blank screen, making up projects for myself. After sitting for so long, you start to wonder why am I here again? What is this all for? I try to remember what life is all about but the question is always too big to answer.

I want an eternity of vacation days in my bed and a million free dinners. I really don't want to grow up, don't want to have to do a single thing. It's a big, heavy weight that presses me most when I wake to do the exact same thing, every single day. Relentless is the word that comes to mind. The worst part is that I don't have it bad at all, and I don't understand why I'm not content. I think of so many single parents, working 10 hour days, 7 days a week, how completely exhausting and terrible that must be. Why can't I be grateful or even just okay?

I'm trying to muster up my patience and create peace. I take deep breaths all the time, and I slow down my mind as much as I can. This new adulthood though, it's challenging me to pieces.