The Labor Day Weekend Begins
I don’t know where the idea came from, but something told me I should write.
Maybe because I’ve labored all day, fall-cleaning my apartment. Maybe I should finally paint my walls the colors that would make me happy. My landlord says he’s cool with that.
Maybe I should go for a really long bike ride (too windy, too cloudy, looks like rain, I don’t trust the forecast), or purge my closets, or run errands, or find an outdoor music scene, or seek out a random guy and ask him to take me out on his boat or his Harley.
First, there is not a Harley guy in sight. (There’s a biker(ish) bar one block from my apartment. Maybe that’s not my scene anymore, but how will I know…? Where’s my sense of adventure?)
Second, it’s too cold to go swimming and there is no BBQ in sight. Okay, that’s a lie. I actually do have a grill, a gas BBQ grill, given to me by my sister and her boyfriend over two years ago when they bought their house and found themselves with an extra grill, given to me for free to go with my new apartment, which apartment came complete with a deck, owned and frequently used by my landlord and his family. A welcome deck, mind you, but I’ve rarely welcomed myself. And, anyway, I never got around to buying propane, because, well, what…? It just wasn’t convenient to run up and down my stairs to cook out for myself? (I don’t have a problem with my stairs. I am fit as a fiddle, thank you very much (OMG, did that sound Missourian?). How is this any different from going back and forth from my Missouri kitchen all the way to the back of my Missouri barn? I cooked out for myself every single weekend, every single summer. OMG…please don’t tell me I am waxing nostalgic for Missouri! (I miss my porch!) I still love grilled food; I can cook up a whole batch and freeze it for meals forever.
It’s not the effort that’s holding me back.
Or, might I just have to engage in conversation and risk a relationship in the process? There was a breaking point for me in Missouri. Conversations and relationships and simple conversations could – and did – become taxing, draining, scary, ugly, and sometimes downright dangerous.
Truth be told, at first, when I arrived in Wisconsin, I couldn’t justify the cash outlay for a tank of propane. Frugality had become a way of life and $50 for propane seemed excessive. Frugality is still a mindset for me (I still wash my baggies!), but now cooking on a grill, especially in the summer, actually makes frugal sense and anyway the cost of propane is no longer an issue, which means to say, money is no longer the root of my evil, which means to say I can no longer blame my unhappiness on my financial situation.
I am running out of excuses for my unhappiness/dissatisfaction/melancholy/inertia.
So then I tend to, once in a (frequent) while, wonder what’s changed? Or not changed? What is the problem?
I believe I am the problem. I believe I am not worth the effort, the effort to determine the means to my happiness, my satisfaction, my purpose. That’s my best guess, anyway. What else could it be, right? Is it possible for a person to actually be incapable of happiness?
I think I got really used to the idea of being alone. I believe I lost the ability – and probably the desire – to socialize. Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that anyone else could contribute to the quality of my life, nor I to theirs. But anyone else other than whom, I must ask? Anyone other than myself? And how the hell am I defining quality? The quality of my life now, in Wisconsin? – after the really, quite scarring experiences of Missouri? There is no comparison.
I don’t understand what I’m waiting for.
And if I could, I’m not sure if I could muster up the courage to go after it.
But, wait. I remember now.
I am home.
I am loved.
I have conquered once and I will conquer again.
I have survived.
I have mustered the courage, the strength, the desire
time and time again.
At least for a time.
Nothing is forever.
Now is what matters.
Be now. Stay now.
Tomorrow will come.
There is always tomorrow.
I think I want to go to tomorrow.
Tomorrow wants me and I will be there.
I want tomorrow.
For as long as I shall believe
For as long as I shall hope
Every single day
one single moment at a time.
Just as I finished my editing, I spotted my landlord on the deck and decided to deliver my rent money. He offered to grill my burgers and I proceeded to grill his mind on the subject of God and life and purpose. Turns out he is agnostic (or atheist, he's not sure) and a discussion (borderline argument) ensued. As it turns out, I do have an opinion. And, perhaps, a purpose after all.