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I’m not a joiner and other lies I tell myself

My new life here in the desert has been a revelation. The ease with which I’ve settled into this beautiful place, and into my bright, light-filled new home, has been rather astonishing.

It’s a change of scenery that has helped me to see, for the first time, how limiting so many of my long-held beliefs, about life and about myself, have been.

I’m not a joiner. I’ve said so myself, many times, and smugly. I’m not particularly social. Not creative. Not a morning person. Not daring. Not disciplined. Not happy. Not worthy. Not. Not. Not.

But here I am taking delight in all that is new. New vistas, new interests, a new sense of comfort in my own skin and, surprise, surprise, a new circle of friends. Most importantly, though, I’m able, and willing, to look at myself, and the world around me, with new eyes.

I still enjoy, even luxuriate, in my own company, but now my solitary evening walks are balanced by early-morning hikes with friends. And after decades of being consumed by high-stakes, angst-inducing musical aspirations, I’m engaged in a mellow, but extremely fulfilling, love affair with my camera.

I feel at once happy and relieved and a little regretful. Could it have always been this easy?

I remember the precious days and nights I squandered in the dark, oppressive apartment I called home not too very long ago. I can recall the heaviness I felt there, the despair that posed a very real threat to my well-being and, in my darkest moments, my life.

I think back and remember not leaving the house, or even showering, for days at a time. It’s embarrassing to admit now how low I really was but, mostly, it makes me sad to know that I allowed myself to feel so badly for so long.

That’s not to say the loss and the longing aren’t still with me. But I think it’s safe to say the worst is over. The grief has evolved into a mere undercurrent of sadness and the despair has finally given way to hope.

Sometimes the memories bubble up to the surface and overwhelm me, the brief flashes of pain more acute for the very fact that they are unexpected. But I’ll take a quick, sharp jab any day over the incessant ache I was living with before.

Even as I navigate my days with a lighter step, I no longer think of my broken heart as either an ailment to be cured or as an injury to be healed. I see it instead as a chronic condition that can be managed, a pain I may never fully recover from but that I can learn to live with and live well.

Because the heart is a muscle, it can’t be broken and then somehow mended. Instead, it must be stretched and broken down, and then stretched again, in order to grow flexible and strong.

Splendid Isolation

… It is the desert’s grimness, its stillness and isolation, that bring us back to love. Here we discover the paradox of the contemplative life, that the desert of solitude can be the school where we learn to love others. ~Kathleen Norris

Where the Past is Ever Present: Facebook

“Don’t look back, you can never look back.” ~ Don Henley

The party was in full swing long before I got there. I had hung back as I so often do; resisting the pressure, the nagging feeling that I was missing something; that I was, perish the thought, out of it.

But, finally, about six months ago, partly out of curiosity but mostly in an attempt to stay current, to fully experience the times in which I live, I gave in. I signed up for Facebook.

I pretty much knew what to expect. I enjoyed, at least initially, the predictable flurry of high-school friends and acquaintances that came out of the woodwork. And, forewarned, I had braced myself for the residual teenage angst that followed. Funny how the popular kids still prevail in middle-age, banded together, all these years later, in chummy little cyber-cliques.

And as someone who never had much success mixing friends (Earth Day 1989, in particular, memorable for all the wrong reasons), I knew entering the world of online social networking meant the end of my heretofore comfortably compartmentalized life.

What has surprised me, though, is the realization that we now live in a world in which it is virtually impossible to leave anyone behind, even when doing so might be the most prudent, and even the healthiest, thing to do.

Gone are the days when friends drifted apart naturally, often without explanation or even acknowledgement. Indeed, we have entered an era in which they very concept of the long-lost friend or the long-lost love has gone the way of the 8-track tape and the rotary dial.

Of course, you can take the overt action of ignoring or even “unfriending” someone. But, thanks to six degrees of separation and the vast, tangled web that is Facebook, you never know when a painful reminder will appear on your computer screen. It’s harder than ever to forget let alone forgive.

Some of this is old news, I know. My group of classmates originally reconnected back in 2002 via an MSN message board. But after an intense flurry of emails and posts, and a couple of real-world reunions, things calmed down considerably. A few friendships had been genuinely rekindled, but most everyone else returned to their current lives, their families and jobs.

But Facebook is different. Maybe it’s the constant status updates, the relentless, real-time musings, the in-your-face minutiae of old friends who, in spite of their accessibility these past few years, had remained safely tucked away in the corner of my consciousness reserved for the past.

As so many of us of a certain age reconnect online, I can’t help but wonder about those who have grown up with social-networking sites. What will it be like to never have the pleasure of reuniting with anyone because you’ve never been able to lose track of them in the first place?

And what about perspective? How will the ability to effortlessly stay in touch with everyone we’ve ever known affect our ability to move forward, to grow emotionally, intellectually, spiritually? How do we learn from the past if we’re never truly able to leave it behind?

I wonder, too, about the creative process. How many artists and writers have found their muse in memory, their inspiration in the hazy, lovely ache of nostalgia?

These are some of the things I find myself struggling with as I start over, alone, in this new place.

It can feel a little daunting: this new terrain, the forging of new friendships, the discovery and evolution of self. It would be easy to rely on comfortable connections, to broadcast the details of my new life and wait for the comments and encouragement to come forth.

The truth is, it’s just not my style. And so I go it alone, without a Greek chorus, without the people of my distant and recent pasts looking over my shoulder. I focus instead on the path ahead, a path I have chosen for the very fact that it will lead me, finally, away from them.

Shifting Sands

I came here on a whim. It was a Saturday morning in May and the ringing of the telephone woke me. It was mid-morning, actually, and while I don’t remember for sure, it’s safe to say that I was hung over. I answered the phone, a little groggy but doing my best to sound alert, as if I’d been up for hours. Little did I know I would be on the road before lunch time.

I wish I could tell you that I set off in the spirit of adventure. But, the truth is, I started out by dragging my feet. I’d been depressed, in a state of mourning, really, for nearly a year and the process of packing and getting out of the house that day, for what I thought would be a quick weekend trip, felt overwhelming and a little daunting.

When I finally did return home a week later, it was to get the rest of my summer clothes. And, then, when I went home a second time, nearly three months later, it was to pack up and move everything else.

I’ve been here alone in my new place for almost a month now. It’s the off-season in this starkly beautiful desert town and sometimes I feel like I’m the only one here.

The heat has been particularly harsh these past few weeks but I don’t mind. Sometimes it feels good, at least for the first minute or two, a welcome contrast to what is, for the time being anyway, my hermetically-sealed, air-conditioned existence.

I’ll stand outside in the triple-digit heat and soak it in, allowing it to work its way into me and through me, warming me all the way to my bones. I imagine that the heat will purify me, my body, my heart, that it will cleanse me of a lifetime’s accumulation of emotional and spiritual toxins, a sort of sauna for my soul.

Sometimes sadness and grief still wash over me, but with much less frequency than they used to. All I know is that I feel lighter here, stronger, and more hopeful. Even better, I feel a renewed sense of faith these days, faith in the beauty and mystery and promise of life, as well as a renewed faith in myself and my own promise.

Some people are surprised at me, puzzled by what I’ve done. One friend has even expressed his concern, saying he worries that I don’t have a plan.

The way I see it, sometimes you don’t need a plan. Sometimes it’s enough just to take action, to do something, anything. Sometimes it’s enough to just get yourself unstuck, to not allow yourself to stagnate or wallow anymore.

My plan was to create momentum. My plan is to begin again.

Hiding in Plain Sight

For the handful of you who check in here every now and then, I thought I should explain my absence.

I’m taking a break from my life. Indeed, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say that I’ve run away from home.

One morning about four weeks ago, I woke up in my own bed never suspecting that I would fall asleep that very night, two hours and over 100 miles away, in an empty condo in the California desert. Spontaneity aside, what surprises me most is that I’m still here, alone and with no immediate plans to return home, taking an emotional and spiritual inventory and trying to figure out how best to live the next chapter of my life.

It’s beautiful here, exquisitely quiet (summer, of course, being the off-season), but lonely, too. I read and write, mostly, and take photographs. I swim or take a long walk most evenings, which are, without fail, the loveliest time of day here.

What I’ve learned so far: I love living with what are, for me, the bare essentials. I feel lighter here with just my summer clothes, my camera and laptop, my journal, and a box of books. In spite of the sometimes oppressive heat, I feel refreshed somehow if only for the fact I have fewer choices.

There is no Internet access where I’m staying and I’ve found the act of unplugging to be liberating. I check my email every few days at the public library which is where I sit now, writing this.

If I take one thing away from this experience it will be the realization that I need more balance and more boundaries when it comes to the Internet. I’ve learned that, for me, life is best lived offline and in the real world.

That said, I will be back.

Walking slow

Walking slow down the avenue through my old neighborhood. ~ Jackson Browne

Beauty in the Details: Graffiti Art

Time Time Ticking

“There are just so many summers and just so many springs.” ~ Don Henley

I know there are thousands of people, millions even, who can relate when I say that this past year has been a tough one. But spring has arrived and signs of renewal are everywhere. Hope is the pervasive sentiment of the moment, both here in blogland and out there in the real world.

Me, I’m feeling better these days but still often sad and overwhelmed. Maybe it’s all the unstructured time I’m faced with since losing my business, the lingering grief and incessant longing I feel for a man I may never see again, or the dawning realization that my forties are half over and that this decade, the first of a new century I could barely conceive of as a child growing up in the ’70s, is drawing to a close.

Or maybe it’s the shocking tragedy of Natasha Richardson, someone who, frankly, was barely on my radar during her lifetime but with whom I now find myself identifying, because she was born, like me, in 1963 and now she’s gone.

They have always struck me as unseemly, these collective, pop-culture moments of voyeurism and morbid curiosity that overtake us when tragedy strikes the seemingly charmed lives of celebrities, those familiar strangers we have never met but somehow feel we know.

Because people die every day. People die tragically and prematurely and in anonymity every single day.

But I think it’s because Richardson’s life was privileged and presumably happy and fulfilled that her accident is so disturbing. She was, after all, someone with whom many of us would have gladly traded places.

If there is one thing I learned years ago, though, it is to never, ever envy anyone. That said, Richardson did appear to have the two things I continue to long for: an enduring love and creative fulfillment. They are the two dreams I still allow myself, that I assure myself, even as I start over at the age of 45, there is still plenty of time for.

The thing is, tragedies such as Richardson’s point out the very conceit of the midlife crisis. Because when something senseless and shocking happens, especially to someone who has otherwise been so fortunate, we must confront our deepest fears and, in doing so, we recognize as lies the platitudes we rely on to make ourselves feel better.

Granted, aging isn’t what it used to be. I would rather be a woman-of-a- certain-age now than at any other time in history. But, and I don’t care how many magazines articles tell me otherwise, 40 is not the new 30. Forty is 40. If you are 40 and very, very lucky you have many good years ahead of you. But those years are not something you can expect or feel entitled to.

And, while we’re on the subject of platitudes, I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that age is not just a number. All those accumulated birthdays serve an important purpose. They allow us to steadily mark the passage of time even as they remind us to stay conscious and engaged and grateful for the fact that we’re still here.

The truth is, none of us will know when we reached the middle of our lives until we’ve reached the end. Because, impossible as it would have been to comprehend at the time, Richardson’s life was half over before she turned 23. In that respect, she was very fortunate to have experienced and accomplished as much as she did in the short time she was given.

And I know that I’m fortunate, too. I have this day, this moment. Every morning I’m given the gift of a little more time. More time, and another chance to get it right, this, my beautiful, fragile, uncelebrated life.

La Jolla at Sunset