I was going to get into my car to go sit at the beach to write. Then, I looked around. From the sunroom of a 1930’s historic surfside flat, I can see, hear, smell the sea, sand, salt.
So what more do I want?
If I’m honest: someone to share it with. But not the difficult kind. Like where I have to talk, explain, empathize, create relate: I don’t want it so much I’m willing to give up anything anymore.
It finally happened. I had my heart broken. Not just my heart, but the very foundation of how I see mankind. An inability to trust even those in public around me. I had nothing but my own shaky two feet to stand.
Before I left, I had already stopped doing all the things I loved. Surfing had become another life, and the alternate reality I’d been told I had been living either disappeared or became a reality. I left everything I knew to follow my heart… the hopeless romantic. I had someone who would go through life with me, despite the expense to myself that blindsided me into a Ferris wheel of anxiety, self-doubt, and depression. Add in being thrown into surgical menopause, acting as a caretaker, and reassimilating into being in the States again, the 2020 holidays were a time of just getting through.
Fast forward to 18 months later: although a condo deal fell through, there’s a steady job, a great flat…. and the anxiety, depression, and the want for the feeling I had about life in Korea.
I am still missing me.
Where did I go?
The fun, light, smiling person who loves the ocean and gets out to surf and makes friends?
I am not that old and tired.
Where am I?
It’s not who am I. Not anymore. It’s the where. Where is the smile and energy? The easy-going, the carefree?
This side of the world feels so heavy. I sigh, and I feel the weight rise and fall.
How can a page be blank if there are already lines?
What do the lines give me?
They give me a place to start, a foundation, an opportunity to create more in the space I’ve been given.
What’s the point of creating?
To innovate, to discover, to find solutions, to release, to relax, to just make art.
Why is there so much pressure? What’s this pit in my stomach?
The uncertainties, I guess. Life has thrown some pretty hard curveballs. I’m kinda wanting to avoid the RICE these days.
But I can’t live my life sitting in a tower, annoyed with people, and pissed off at myself for not being happy, for not surfing, for leaving Korea, for showing up like a goddamn mess.
No one cares. Maybe that’s the problem. I came back home, and it wasn’t home.
It’s a new country, but it’s looped on a familiar track.
I have no idea what I’m looking for: relationships haven’t been the answer. Why is it I’m not me now? But, I am. It’s back to where…
Present. That’s where I need to be. Present in the existence. Understand that existence truly is the ultimate. There are so many perfect reactions that must be supported for life to occur. Can’t we just slow down and appreciate that? It’s our existence alone that is the miracle – and in this existence, we have blank pages open daily for creating and maintaining the balance of progress and pain.
Do I handle this idea well? Hell no! I have this ball that sits in my stomach. I thought I had already filled my share of lines with heartaches and perils of romance. I guess life decided to hand me another journal.
So, I take this new path with some resistance, I’m guessing rooted in the fear of the unknown.
Which brings me back to my own line: Revelation lies in the beauty of the unknown.
So, maybe I’m not a blank page, and maybe it’s not a blank slate. And maybe, just maybe: I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. By the ocean, learning to be free… filling blank pages by the sea.