So I’m blogging again. That’s big news for all 4 of my avid fans who’ve been waiting over a year for the next episode in this riveting saga. The bigger news is what underlies this bold move. I’m reengaging.
I’m reading a book right now that recounts one writer’s struggle to give up alcohol (“Lit” by Mary Karr). It’s so brilliant that I’m racing to the end with a sense of impending doom – how will I find pleasure like this - the pleasure of prose so well-wrought that you forget what country you live in, what responsibilities remain unattended to, the last time you ate - once I've finished? Somehow this book has inspired me to lift the stone I’ve been living under for the last 12 months and dare to step out again into the light of day. I’m thinking big thoughts again and, shall I say it . . . dreaming of the future.
The heavily abridged account of my last year goes like this:
• Moved to the suburbs of Paris to be with the man I love without once considering the possibility that this wouldn’t actually feel like living suspended in a dream.
• Learned that having step kids, even when they only share a toilet with you eight days a month, changes just about everything.
• Realized that work alone cannot fulfill you.
• Decided that other potentially fulfilling activities (making new friends, discovering things to enjoy about the place in which you live) require even more energy than work and have a spottier success rate. Abandoned them altogether.
• Devoted most of my time to work. Devoted what remained to feeling bitter about this.
• Aged. Visibly.
• Dreamed of ways to oust the socialists so that trains might run on time, hospitals would no longer shut down for strikes, my income tax rate might dip below 50%, and Sarkozy could pass his reforms so that the government wouldn’t go belly up before I collected a single retirement benefit. Recognized that a prison uniform would make me look even fatter than I feel. Abandoned plan of action (but dream of it still).
• Sulked.
• Grew tired of my own company.
• Considered the possibility that although I feel like my innards have leached out and I’m hulking a sack of skin from one day to the next, I might yet be able to resurrect my core to become human again.
• Opened my laptop and began writing.
• Started a blog entry.
• Actually felt personally engaged in something.
• Smiled.
It is a surprising moment for this new-found lust for life. I’m weeks behind on key projects at work with my annual review just a month away. My tenants in San Francisco, for the first time, have fallen behind on the rent. And to boot, Pete has not eaten a single morsel of food in the last 48 hours. I fear that something might really be wrong and I’ve morbidly, completely prematurely, considered the possibility that I might lose him. As anyone who’s even sat next to me on a public bus knows, for me, Pete is the gravitational force that keeps the earth from careening into the sun. I can’t begin to imagine how I might react to his loss. The vet will undoubtedly tell me tomorrow that he has the dog flu and I’ve been worried for nothing. At least, this is what I keep telling myself.
No matter what, the fire within me has been rekindled. The thing about Mary Karr’s story is this: she was far worse off than I. She was broke, unhappily married, addicted, and suicidal and yet she made a comeback. She rose from the ashes of the life she herself burned to the ground by making a few good decisions consistently (don’t have that drink; think about the good things; when all else fails, pray). I too will make a few good decisions as consistently as possible and see where that takes me. Write. Seek out the positive. Uphold your commitments. Reach out to people you like. Stay connected to those you love.
