One I know for sure:
Things, and people, and places that have aged. Wrinkles, rust, chipped paint, wisdom, laugh lines, a certain slow buffer in living.
I want to hear music in a language I don’t understand. I look at a book with pictures of humans in places I have never been, living lives I could never fathom. I am hungry for the thought of other realities, the unknown unknowns.
So much of America is youthful speed, vacuous activity. I wonder if I would be better suited to a life somewhere with more age. I am fed by history and by the delicate timbre of my father’s voice – it immediately buoys my heart.
As I lay in bed, reflecting on various aspects of my life, some more satisfying than others, I think of my family and breathe a sigh of relief. I vibrate with their memory and move forward. I am fed by my sister’s ability to expose her vulnerabilities, and by my mother’s capacity for strength and resilience. I am fed by their well-earned laughter.
Last night, I am in a bar bathroom. As I pee in one stall, I overhear one woman helping another woman make herself throw up.
“It’s okay, I’ve done it lots of times. You just put your finger down your throat.”
My heart sinks for this betrayal of life. Of course, it is not an unfamiliar experience for myself and for many; the self-hatred, doubt and frustration that ultimately would lead one to perpetrate a violent act against oneself. Sometimes it is obvious, like purging your body of the food that is supposed to sustain it. Other times it’s less immediate, perhaps more of a prolonged lifestyle pattern that reflects an irking self-loathing. Perhaps the thing that keeps so many of us from being good to ourselves.
Once upon a time, my experience of such a state lead me to the brink. If I wanted to survive, I had to answer a few questions frankly: “Do you want to live or die? Do you believe you are worthy of being alive?”
Once I found the answer was yes, there was nothing to do but live with utter honesty.
I believe in good and evil, and a boundary between them that is subtle but unmistakable. We lie to ourselves all the time. And we are really good at numbing the feeling of remorse. In every moment, we make a vote for good or evil, even in the thoughts we choose to think.
I am fed by transformation and the process of unearthing my darkest demons. I am fed by the feeling of growing closer and closer to myself, of telling the truth and letting go of everything else. When I am fed, I feel that I am as big as the universe. What does hugeness feel like?
It feels like invincibility, and flying. The feeling that no person, event or circumstance is threatening.
I believe that being and doing are not opposed, they are the same thing. Their antithesis is judgement and resistance – anything that chokes up the freely moving flow of change and action.
I am fed by a flame and by empty walls, and by a story that is colorful and confusing. I am fed by the mere thought of humanity in places I have never been. I am fed by the way life circles back around itself, when old friends and lovers re-enter and show me so clearly what has and hasn’t changed.
I am fed by being fully submerged in the narrative of my life. And by the intimate relationships I can have with songs, rainfalls, and neighborhood streets, so that I am never alone.
