The real reason we are all here
When I was 18, I read an article in a magazine about a young couple. Their dream was to spend a winter in the Canadian woods, and instead of talking about it and not doing anything, they took six months off to fulfill their dream. In the late summer, they flew to Ontario and started building a rough, simple wood cabin in the woods. The cabin had no power or running water. They barely finished it before the first snow, and then they spent all winter gathering fire wood, cooking meals on their wood stove, reading, and playing card games.
To my 18-year old mind, this was just about the most romantic thing I had ever heard. I was in my "wilderness phase", devouring stories about people opting out of the rat race and fleeing into the wilderness in search of a simpler life. Jon Krakauer was my favourite author, and right around that time I decided that I wanted to become a forest ranger. (Which, as you may know, was one of my less-than-brilliant ideas.)
I tore the article out of the magazine and put it up over my bed, as motivation to achieve something similar one day. Those two young people were my heroes, and what they had done was a major goal of mine.
My teenage room. I circled the article. On the bed is my boyfriend, whom I wanted to do this with. We didn't stay together, but I have nothing but good memories of our time together. He's a sweetheart.
20 years later, I live in a cozy small house in the wilderness(ish) of Canada, do the 21st century version of gathering fire wood (going to work to pay for the electricity that warms our house), cook meals, read, and indulge in my Netflix obsession (thank you, power!). Having no power may sound romantic, but in real life, it sucks.
In a way, I'm living the grown-up version of that 20-year old dream, and whenever I think back to my teenage dreams, I'm amazed at how this all happened.
Because I never had a plan. I stumbled through life like a blind woman, acting on instinct and some deep-seated compass I wasn't even aware of.
And, maybe, that's all anyone really needs? Some wild dreams, a thirst for life, and the willingness to just go for it, despite the fear?
But instead of feeling blessed and heart-eyed, I've been feeling - well, resentful.
The past few weeks have been pretty rough, to be honest. Winter can be tough even for the most upbeat people, and when you have a tendency towards self-pity, mixed with an (un)healthy dose of depression and never-ending snow and ice, you start to question your life choices.
I only had one question: How the fuck did I end up here?
Trudging through the snow, day after day, week after week, month after month?
Having an ache in my arm that's morphed from temporary to chronic over the last month?
Having developed adult-onset asthma, requiring an inhaler? (Seriously: What the fuck??)
I was annoyed.
The romantic article about that couple, my heroes, never mentioned anything about aches and pains, monotony and boredom, or just plain old annoyance with life.
It never mentioned all the fights they undoubtedly had. I mean, can you imagine living with your significant other in a tiny wood cabin in the middle of winter, with no internet or a hot shower, and no other people around?
The hairs in the back of my neck are rising at the thought of this. And not in a good way.
Here is the thing: my fantasies look like Disney movies. Eternal sunshine, no arguments, all smiles and happiness.
And I know that this is not reality. But in my most vulnerable moments, I forget.
And I compare my dark and twisted insides with the shiny, fake, perennially sunshiney fantasies I have in my head.
And that's when I question my life.
Which, written down like this, is pretty damn stupid.
That's why I write. Because my mind is a messy, messy space. Sometimes dark, sometimes light, on rare occasions (extremely rare) blessed with a short ray of insight - but always, always messy.
Here is the reality: life isn't all sparkly snow and a muscle-bound hero gladly fetching your fire wood. Shirtless.
(It's a pity, though, isn't it?)
It more closely resembles a reluctant heroine dressed in sweat pants and food-stained sweaters, swearing loudly at her hapless husband, who's lying in bed because he claims he's in pain, but she suspects he's faking it. At least partly. Marriage, amiright?!
(Disclaimer: she knows that he's truly sick. But she is unreasonable today. Because hormones. And winter. And unrealistic expectations she put on herself via her own overactive imagination. That imagination is a real bitch.)
The morale of the story? Sometimes you end up exactly where you wanted to end up, and you will still be dissatisfied.
Because practicing gratitude is a practice. It doesn't come naturally to most of us.
And it's scarily easy to lose track of our original goals.
Believe me, I'm as dismayed about this as you are.
But it's true.
We get so wrapped up in the mundane, everyday bullshit, we forget what we want. Or at least, I do, sometimes.
That's also why I write.
To keep reminding myself of what I want. In life, in love, and everywhere in between.
And also to remind myself that every good also comes with its dose of bad.
The articles never mention the bad. Or if they do, it's in a half sentence, wedged in between two great highlights.
But the reality is: the bad can last weeks. Or months. And it seems interminable and awful while you're in it.
Peoples' lives are mostly made up of normal, seemingly boring moments. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. When one of you gets sick, it's even more limited: try to get from sunrise to sundown without too much pain or suffering.
Your world gets small.
That's where you have to get creative.
Celebrate every tiny little highlight. Showing your husband this breathtaking piece of music, and ending up spending an hour wrapped up in beautiful music together.
Having him help you with one of the giant round bales of hay, and plowing the driveway after.
The articles may never mention it, but in real life? That's a fucking high point.
In fact, those are the high points you will remember long after the expensive holidays, attended weddings, and other obligatory family events.
It's the small things that we'll remember.
"This morning, with her, having coffee."
(~Johnny Cash when asked for his definition of paradise.)
I'm as guilty as you are for forgetting about the real reason we are all here.
We are here to enjoy this moment, right now.
That's it.
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Vol. 47