“For a time, then, we stay. For a time. Till the changes.”
Joanne Harris, Chocolat
Our life has settled into a contract with its new landscape, allowing to be shaped by its busy architecture while also leaving its own mark on whatever it comes in touch with. It’s made a few twists and turns and a couple of backflips to get over obstacles on its way – before quickly resettling into a forceful but steady flow.
Getting up before the sun is finally getting easier now that even the sun doesn’t want to get up. The only souls I meet during my morning run in the city of ten million inhabitants are a couple of dog walkers. Saturday mornings are a happy exception: I join two hundred other runners to race two laps around Finsbury Park in the weekly Park Run event. I’ve made it from the fourth to the second fastest woman in my category (aren’t you proud, mum?) in a distance I didn’t much care for in the past. Afterwards, many of us gather in the park cafe for this latest British sports nutrition fad you should try: tea and cake.
I have some fruit in the office, as part of this new ‘old’ life, too. There are baskets of small, unripe bananas, mandarins and figs with the succulent taste of corporate wellbeing. Desperate for a gustatory reminder of our year in South America, I’ve been looking to find a custard apple in London’s best markets and whole food stores, to no avail.
So I sketched new plans on new projects in countries where fruit is being grown. Where people produce and don’t just consume. The advert panel on my browser flashes pictures of apartments in suburbs which I can’t pronounce. But basically what happened next is that when I disabled my out-of-office I mistakenly forgot to disable ‘me’, and soon came a friendly but stern management reminder that this was a “business”, not “a travel agency”. One shall not just butterfly around without a business purpose. One shall articulate her commercial story and take every opportunity to bore everyone to death with it. That’s the company policy.
For one solid week I cried over this unsolicited psychoanalysis. It was true and I needed to hear it. Out of all the wicked things one could be in this world, there’s nothing quite as lowly than a person who makes a career out of always wanting to be everywhere else apart from where she is, and transports that over-sized dissatisfaction wherever she goes weighing down not just herself but those who love her:
Many years ago, I had a dream where I was on a cruise ship. Walking along the corridors, opening doors that blocked my way, I climbed up narrow steps from deck to deck, and passed other passengers. After a while, I noticed that the doors didn’t change. Each deck I arrived on, I had been on before. Not only that, but the faces I saw were the same. The events repeated themselves. It was like being entertained by a 90s Microsoft screensaver. I was locked inside a matrix of de-ja-vus and to get out, I started harassing fellow passengers for directions. Their insouciant answer was that there were no exits, only entrances, but why would anyone want to leave such a great place!
I probably wrote this dream down all those years ago, because at that point I had nothing else to write about. I had finished my degree, broken up with my boyfriend, and been rejected for a grant to study in New York. Because there were no other viable cities on the earth, I returned to my old depressing waitressing job in a sandwich bar and became a 3-D public health campaign against studying Sociology.
Having the sense that tomorrow is going to be a repeat of today is a prison sentence – and I’m basing that analogy on a wholly personal experience of watching three seasons of the Orange is the New Black. It has a catchy theme song by Regina Spektor, which goes “taking steps is easy, standing still is hard”. It’s still bloody hard, even if I’m no longer 23 and have a better albeit fleeting understanding of the seasonality of life.
I think there’s a subtle difference between ‘comatose’ and ‘still’, which is why I’m dismissing ‘hatha yoga’ when I say the closest I get to stillness is when I’m running. It’s when I achieve what Ultra Runner Girl describes as “the comfort of the void”:
“…when my legs are in motion, I’m there. I’m in the present – I’m at ‘more’, if only for a brief minute. This is the comfort of the void. In the pain, the suffering, the triumph, the struggle, my constant drive for ‘more’ is silenced. By moving forward in space, I allow myself to stand still in time.”
It is in these moments when I admit that the only thing wrong with the present is that what it is followed by may go wrong. But after a week in an emotional state, my future tapped me on the shoulder and told about her frustration over always being the one that gets judged. I promised to give it a break – at least until I’m in that chapter. Right now I’m on that page where we watch fireworks with friends we didn’t know three months ago. I’m in that part where the autumn days have spilled over to the early winter, and the leaves have missed their cue to die. Their lingering red tones have been so awakening I could hear them. I could hear them in Elizabeth Gilbert’s voice: You. Are. Here. This is not a conviction. Your life is not happening somewhere else, and you’re not on hold until that moment comes. (If that’s not quite what the leaves are saying where you are, you can download the podcast here.)
An imam once said that whatever is meant for me will not miss me, and whatever misses me wasn’t meant for me. A friend once said that that was bullshit. So listening to both, I’m choosing to believe that, if you’re called for an adventure, it will come and find you wherever you are – so you better be there. In the meantime, I’ll keep my (bull)shit together.
PS. The other day I walked past my corner shop, like one does. And there they were, understated between your avocados and your mangos: small but ripening.