Like a Dandelion Puff

I spent a good long time today standing on the pier against the water on the edge of Havre de Grace, looking at the Susquehanna River. I was completely alone, and it was cold, and windy. I had taken my pictures, and my camera's batteries had died. I had music in my ears, Imogen Heap, but nonetheless my brain had reached a kind of silence even as I felt the pulse of her rhythms. I think we all have moments like this, when we are struck with, to put it simply, the moment we are in, in that moment when we are in it. When there is nothing else we can do but stop and catch it, delicate, fragile, held protectively in cupped hands; don't breathe on it or it might fly apart. The oil on your hands can weigh down a butterfly's wings enough to stop it from flying forever, enough to kill it. This is the sort of moment I am talking about - I know you know what I mean.

For me, this was a moment when I was thinking of many things without really thinking about them.

I was thinking about how beautiful Maryland is, how gently she nurtured me back to emotional health. How I was so grateful to her.

I was thinking about Elizabeth Gilbert, something I had just read that she wrote. She discussed, in Eat Pray Love (a book about which I cannot say enough good things, or be more emphatic in my endorsements of it), her ideas about love, and relationships. She said that, in our culture, to fall in love is enough to justify nearly anything. We will accept anything, do anything - we are in love. And so we marry, merely for love. Our culture has embraced this, loves the romance of it; a quick glance towards Hollywood gives us all the proof necessary to assure us of this. We just LOVE the idea of love. But, Gilbert goes on to say, such is not the case in most of the rest of the world. Even in countries where marriages are not completely pre-arranged, the role of the father in the decision of marriage is of paramount importance, in that each member of a young couple must prove themselves worthy of the other to their respective parents. The father would ask questions, piercing, difficult, unabashed questions, and if the answers were not satisfactory, no, you cannot have my daughter.

It falls to the parent, in these cultures, to ask the questions, and to not rest until satisfactory answers are given. Gilbert says, somewhat wryly, that she has already had to figure out how to "be her own husband" as she waded through her post divorce years, but now, in a sense, she had to discover how to "be her own father" as she ventured back into the romantic world. We rely on love, and when we fall in love, we feel like everything will therefore be fine. I love him, and that's all that matters, right? But the work cannot be ignored. The parent is no longer expected, indeed, no longer required, to become a part of his children's romantic affairs. So who is there to protect a person when her emotions run giddily down the hill, throwing flowers in the air and kicking off both shoes? Who will step in and say, "I know you're excited, but let's sit down and be practical for a moment." The answer, of course, is that I must be both the girl careening wildly down the hill and the girl at the bottom waiting to scoop her up, fix her hair, and get her home for supper on time. I need to become that, myself, and for myself. I must be my own protector, my own guardian, my own lover and father. I must make my own demands on myself, for myself, to Life.

This is a difficult idea to come to terms with, the idea that you are enough, that you are good enough to warrant proper treatment. Strange that this is difficult. But it is a challenge to look Life in the eye, squarely, and say with confidence, "Are you going to take care of me, and let me take care of you? Are you going to love me for me, not for what you think I am or should be?" It is difficult to think that you can demand things from Life, that you can put your foot down firmly and not raise it again until you are content in the result you have reaped from your efforts.

This confidence is coming to me, but it is slow. It takes thought, careful thought, and careful tending of one's self. It takes silence, it takes emotion, it takes being as hyper aware as possible without being overanalytical - it is daunting, flat out. But it is also tangible; I feel it, swaying delicately on the tips of my fingers, a butterfly gingerly perched with an almost weightless grip.

I was thinking, too, in that strange moment, about my future, or rather, I was thinking about not thinking about it. I have been wrestling, for always, with the fact that I do not know what it is I want to do with my life, with my self. I wrote this recently to a dear friend in an email.

I love change, I really do. In a way, I love it so much I think it is almost something of a character flaw of mine - I get really antsy if things stay the same for too long. It's caused me grief...I'm 24, which, yes, is really young, but have tried and discarded so many career choices already. I am continually searching, losing and finding and losing, and I just feel, sometimes, like I'm circling. The reality, though, is that I am not circling, I'm always moving forward...I think it's just that it feels like I'm not taking very much with me. Perhaps this is a good thing - I am light. I was recently saying to Sean that, in a way, I envy those people who know what they want to do with themselves, who have some sort of "bug", an actual need to do something, be something. And he, in firm possession of his own "bug" as an actor, sighed in a resigned sort of way and said, "well, that's funny. I sort of envy you that you don't. I know so many people who have this so called "bug", and the problem that can come of this bug is that, if you're not careful, it becomes your whole identity. And when you rely on something like that to define you, you end up in a pretty precarious position. You, though, are not defined by anything. Your identity is fluid, Chel, you don't have to worry about being anything in particular from moment to moment. And, for me, I think that that is pretty great." Sean and I spend most of our time joking and laughing together, but he's also pretty awesome at bringing my perspective right back where it needs to be, when it needs to be brought back.

I had a great deal going on in my head this afternoon, to be expected as I embark on what is quite literally going to be a 100% entirely new life. But I knew the moment the moment ended. Caught in the wind, floating away from my hands like a dandelion puff, I felt it go. The almost crystalline luminosity of the moment wobbled and shimmered back to normalcy. I took a breath, heard Imogen Heap again, saw the water, noticed the bird perched on the beam next to me. Hmm, how long have you been there? I laughed, the bird looked at me coolly, unperturbed by this ungainly creature beside him.

What do you know, you who has never been above the clouds?

I concede him this with a nod, you have a good point there, and turn on my heels and head back.

I reach the door just as the album ends, just as my mother arrives home, just as, I had forgotten, we were due to go out to dinner. I was exactly on time.

When you listen, listen closely, and be true, life has a sort of ease to it.