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cmmax2 · 3 years

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12/9

Next week I’m reunited with the ocean. I’m sure my friends will be thrilled by the minute possibility that I might shut up about the ocean for even just a short while. As part of my year 30 ruinations on joy and impermanence, I’ve wondered why the ocean has felt like such a siren this year. Why do I close my eyes and picture the incandescent sea foam spirals? Why do I fantasize about the sounds of cars outside my window subtly transforming into a lullaby of crashing waves? What if my affinity for city life is just my way of drowning out my own peace? I sometimes wonder if I’m building a life commissioned for someone else. But perhaps it’s simply an allegory, the human need to make sense of impermanence. The ocean, like everything else, never meets the lips of the shore exactly the same way twice. It’s beyond the scope of understanding or taming — it’s unabashedly everyone’s, while also belonging to no one. She’s the muse beyond the millennia, she’s guided like us by the sun. We exist not among the natural, but as nature itself.

I wonder if I’m simply building a backstory for shortcoming , any reason other than insecurity and fear for why I feel so far from where i want to be. It’s impossible to look back on the last few years and not feel incredible pride in my growth - always moving, nothing permanent or still. I think about how despite my more introverted nature, I’ve embraced my still existing need and belief in the power of community and connectivity. A constant cynic, I’m leaning into the gardens that invite joy to flourish and grow.

So I’m writing now - despite it’s challenges. I struggle to do anything I can’t do perfectly. Why write if I don’t have the most original thoughts or the perfect, most beautiful words? Why write if I’m not a writer? I think it’s because every token of investment in myself moves my game piece forward on my candy land path of self-love. Maybe because embracing all the pieces of myself makes me feel more and more alive. My morning coffee (or 3), my walks, my music blaring sing-a-longs, they aren’t the coping mechanism between life’s chain links - they are the whole damn point. It’s not about life hacks or leveling up, it’s about the smallest most inconsequential moments that exist as symptoms of being human.

My therapist told me once that when you write things down, you take some of the pressure off your brain. And my brain often feels quite heavy, so I think maybe it’s time to embrace journaling, and sharing even when it’s a little (or very) uncomfortable. More later.

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cmmax2 · 3 years

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As I approach the halfway point of year 30 on earth, I can’t help but feel as though it’s been among the most significant. Part of that feeling stems from realizations that joy can come out of pain. Living through some of the most grief filled and difficult global situations in recent history has put so much into perspective. Purpose feels lofty. I’ve rightsized my expectations for myself, an aspiration to live as as truthfully and fully as I can.

Maybe the human experience is more about the simplicity of being authentic, grounded and connected to your needs and the needs of the community you are a part of. Why have my happiest moments been found as I walk Peter around the neighborhood with breaks to marvel at the transition of the leaves? I find myself overwhelmed with contentment as my friend’s kids giggle and discover things I’ve taken for granted. Singing, poorly and loudly as I drive to Virginia, the monuments completely lit up at night, I feel like I’m experiencing it for the first time despite it being a continual backdrop for years on end. Hanging up pictures for a gallery wall, I am fulfilled by the slightly crooked positioning of my labor, and the understanding that even with my nail and hammer, nothing is permanent. There is room to change, grow, and evolve. Staring at pictures of my favorite memories and art I’ve selected myself (with major appreciation for the artists- side note: please buy local when you can and please celebrate our working artists!) everyday as I watch tv, listen to music or do work at my desk is an achievement I didn’t understand till now was worth celebrating. I’m struck by the power of making choices for ourselves and also the comedy that so much of who we are is already baked in, in front of us and awaiting our discovery and celebration.

Taking a beach trip for my birthday this past summer felt impulsive, but as I stood at the the periphery of the ocean, the waves and my surrounding dimmed till all that was left was the repetitive thrashing of the water and a calming silence. My eyes brimmed slightly with tears and I was completely washed over with amazement and joy. It was something spiritual, something so immensely outstanding, vast and constant. It’s like it’d been waiting there for me till I was ready to accept its gift. It’s something that exists for everyone, in a scope beyond our understanding. It’s beyond taming or controlling - a body we’ve abused for years and yet still, she waits for us. It might seem ridiculous to find such solace in nature (though I suppose I would hardly be the first…or the millionth), but now in moments of chaos I find myself fantasizing about a life by the ocean.

As I unpack what joy looks like for me, I’ve begun to accept that it doesn’t come without effort and patience. Joy doesn’t exist in a straight line. Maybe it even comes as a counterpart to our resilience and investment in self. I used to thing living authentically entailed major declarations, labels, perfection and the like. I’ve come to realize that being yourself is the bravest thing you can do not because it is one singular acceptance, but because it is microscopic and life long acceptances. So I enter a phase of learning to truly love myself, over and over again, of knowing that internal validation is a far better fuel than the fickle external markers I have come to rely on. Easier said than done, but having a guiding star in the sky has provided additional comfort. There are days where it feels like I’ve reverted to old habits, old thought patterns, and unhelpful ways of being - and on those days, I try to lead with kindness and compassion for myself. Again, easier said than done.

We now live in a world more curated than ever. The question of what exists as truthful interaction, and what is performative (or even para-social) is plaguing. (Is tagging annoying? Do i post too much? Too little? Should i delete my phone??? Maybe i should just…breathe) Scrolling through social media and seeing the image of others and the world around us that have varying levels of truth and reality, i wonder if similarly to my 2021 sisyphean gallery wall project, joy comes from how we choose to surround ourselves. Do we blanket ourselves in the things we truly love, or do we create and project what we think people want to see? Do we take the few seconds to remember how much love is around us? Do we remind ourselves that even in our experiments and failures, we can consider ourselves the lucky ones - able to return to the people and things we love and who love us back? It all sounds incredibly trite, but I have to wonder if the cliche I’ve always run from is born from a universal and simple truth of honesty and self-investment reaping joys that can’t be found in our wallets or on LinkedIn or even in the words of the people closest to us. I’m sure the back half of 30 will come with additional insight, but for now, as I write this with my dog sleeping on my right and my coffee on my left, I think I might be exactly where I’m supposed to be.

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