edge of the continent

You know, sometimes you just need to be reminded that you are, indeed, “the bom”

(this lovely sentiment courtesy of a colleague’s nine-year-old daughter)

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Itching to find my groove, my nitch, a “thing” to call my own. It’s been such a struggle, and every answer I thought I found was okay… but not quite right. What I figured fit me well… didn’t. What seemed logical for me… wasn’t. But I have been floored by what appears to be a truth I had dismissed long ago: it was impractical, I thought, and ill-fitting, and not what I (let alone anyone else) saw for me. I’m relearning to pay attention, to tune in to myself and observe, and it’s been a bit of a revelation: now I see it is so practical, and it fits perfectly…

And I was wrong. Everyone who has loved and cared for me saw it all along; I just couldn’t — wouldn’t — see myself they way they did.

a night of dreams… a string of vignettes:

I am arguing with a loved one… told how I was never liked and never cared for, and how she wished to never have anything to do with me again…

I am dragging large plans into an unfinished room; the room is small, its walls concrete and illuminated by a naked bulb. I placed the plans on the table as two colleagues continued their conversation, oblivious to me…

I am running through streets grainy and low in the early morning light. I held a friend tucked awkwardly to my chest; though his health had been improving these last few years, now he was ailing and soon to die. I keep running, my head disconnected from the arms and legs propelling me through intersections and turns leading to help, or maybe a cure I know is not there…

I am behind the wheel of a sporty black car as I maneuver through a concrete metropolis of ramps and narrow curves, and emerge to find myself on the top level of a parking structure the size of which I’ve never seen. I step out of the vehicle and stare at the city just beyond the edge of the structure — there are two colleagues (one from the concrete room) speaking quietly to one side but not to me; they are only people to be found. The sun breaks open onto a morning silent and pale…

I woke up from all of this, and understood.

It’s a wonder that any truths can be discerned from all the fictions we tell. We carry two versions of ourselves: the person we are striving to become (because we choose it/because it is pressed upon us/because it is socially demanded) and the flawed, insecure, works-in-progress individuals we actually are. Tales are spun to create the more pleasing face we wish to show the world, perhaps someone more emotionally mature and independent… most are conscious of the dichotomy we create between the world at large and the places we call home, and although uncomfortable with the facade the reality is accepted and the game is played in order to get by.

But sometimes the fiction is mistakenly recognized as truth and becomes a disturbingly negative pseudo-reality; truth and fiction can become so tangled that freedom seems difficult to find. How long before the lack of real honesty with one’s self corrodes the soul? Such heavy, constant weaving of tales and of being so far removed from one’s own personal truths is bound to lead to some rather unhealthy consequences… and here I am, watching it, wondering, waiting.

Today: clear blue skies, a warming sun tempered by cool ocean breezes, and a quaint Point Loma chapel as our destination. Summery dresses with strappy sandals, natty suits with ties, and the occasional Hawaiian shirt trickled into the pews in a murmured anticipation of the ceremony to come. I met the groom at the door — handsome, composed, a little nervous — he is my age, and I marveled over his making such a remarkable decision so young. The bridal party was charming in their bold island dresses and the bride herself was simply radiant in a strapless ivory confection. With passages read and vows exchanged, guests spilled out onto the church steps to the sounds of a mariachi band, festive music that perfectly matched the happy occasion.

We drove to the couple’s home in Chula Vista for the reception where we were greeted by orchids on the tables and an excellent spread of fresh fruits, wines, grilled meats and a particularly fine paella… the casual, summer afternoon-into-twilight feel was lovely and relaxing. The mariachi band reappeared and later gave way to a Hawaiian group that provided laid-back island grooves for the dance floor. The couple was beautiful, joyous; their families a terrific blend of her Mexican-American roots and his Hawaiian-Portuguese background, both perfectly reflected throughout the wedding.

A man I know recently suggested that people should marry for companionship, not for love. When I see couples such as today’s newlyweds, I am inclined to disagree: marry for both.

Small squares of groom’s cake were handed out to all of the single female guests; I had to look it up, and I found that part of the tradition is the belief that a single woman who sleeps with a slice of wedding cake under her pillow will dream of the man she will marry. After a little more searching, it appears that eating one hundred chicken gizzards in one setting and washing it all down with the whole heart of one chicken will produce the same result. I’d rather deal with cake on the pillow, thank you.