Rattled in Seattle

By: Victoria G. Smith

 

Morning crashes the windows
of my daughter’s apartment
in the rattle and din of recyclables
being dumped in collection bins;
the groaning, belching lurch and heave
of buses transporting their day’s travelers;
the angry yells of the miserable,
the chirpy chatter of the hopeful.
The constant ebb and flow of a city
that is alive wash over me like
a simultaneous rising and receding tide.
I am the passive voyager floating
where they take me, receiving without
judging proof of parallel lives:
a cacophony of the dead,
symphony of the living.
Should I dive in and throw myself
into this exercise yet again?
I have lived long enough to know
it doesn’t end, doesn’t care—
this unrelenting march of life,
toward where, I’m never sure.
I am content to stay in pause
for now, while others push play
into their crescendo of dreams,
wondering if they’ll hit the high notes.

Poet’s Notes: October is my birthday month and thus, an appropriate time to share a private birthday ritual: I turn inward, reflecting on my life, particularly on what I’ve accomplished or failed to do. This inevitably brings me to—yeah, you thought of it, and I’m afraid it’s true: the “what-is-the-meaning-of-life?” self-interrogation equivalent to the Spanish Inquisition. Well, almost. I am my worst critic.

This obsessive self-examination has likewise led me to other kinds of compulsive behaviors. I’ve been known to capriciously, suddenly take off—without much warning. And I often do this when I feel I’ve somehow lost touch with my innermost self, and along with this self, the answers to questions that happen to be nagging me at that moment, but for some reason continue to elude me.

On one such occasion, I decided to visit my daughter—leaving my husband to fend for himself with our three dogs. I hadn’t had the chance to see her in her new apartment in the new city to which her job had brought her, and I was feeling guilty about that. Almost half a year earlier, she’d moved herself into her new place—a single, young lady off on her own in an unfamiliar city thousands of miles away from our home, about to tackle the biggest career challenge of her life: to take over the whole Washington state market for her company.

I was so proud of her when she sent me pictures of how she’d laid out her brand-new furniture she’d bought with her own money, and decorated the different rooms of her very own solo apartment. I couldn’t have done it better—or perhaps more accurately, I would have done it close to what she did. While she did consult me on some furniture and wall décor choices and placements through the inextricable help of technology— email, text, Skype, Facetime, and phone camera, she did most of it herself. I was impressed with her maturity of taste and resourcefulness, and amazed, quite frankly, at how much of my classic style she’d imbibed—which goes to show, parents: Don’t be overly anxious if your children don’t appear to be listening to you or following your lead while they still live with you. You’ll be surprised at just how much you’ve set an example for them—if it’s a good one, especially, and if they feel loved by you, before and above everything else.

Most recently, our son who’s left home for college this year also shocked me with how he perfectly washed and folded his own clothes during the couple of weekends he’s come home to do what many collegelevel children usually do if and when they do come home: to avail of the free washer and dryer at their parents’ house! For many years earlier, I almost couldn’t bear to enter his room, for doing so would invariably provoke an anxiety attack on my part just seeing—or more accurately, not seeing the floor of his bedroom due to the many heaps of dirty clothes he kept lying around. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why it was so difficult for him to take the two seconds it would have taken to drop his clothes in his closet hamper instead of on his floor! And whenever I attempted to teach him how to wash and fold his clothes properly, he’d complain and dodge the issue, and then, it was just easiest for me to do the chore myself. I was sure he’d be a slob wherever he’d live after that. And now, this— a miracle no less!

But I’ve sorely digressed. Back to visiting my daughter—presumably to help her get better settled in her apartment, as if she still needed it. In truth, this was my convenient excuse to my husband on why I needed to leave him abruptly to fly out to Seattle. You see, I was faced with an opportunity to lead a big effort for a social cause. Accepting it meant prestige and laurels, and it would benefit a lot of people. I knew I would be great in it, for I was passionate about the cause. But something was bothering me—nay, nagging me!—and I didn’t know what it was. It kept me in a constant state of aggravation, so much so that I was impatient and cranky. And guess who suffered the brunt of it? My poor husband, of course. He needed a break from me, and I was going to give it to him, whether he liked it or not.

Funny how a change of place could change our frame of mind. Years ago, another writer expressed it this way (which I paraphrase): Sometimes, it’s necessary to remove ourselves from a place because the people and circumstances surrounding us there prevent us from seeing the truth about our selves and achieving the necessary changes to realize our true selves. I did this more than a couple of decades ago when I left my native country. Now, while this certainly was not the same grave situation I was dealing with when I left my husband for a few days to visit my daughter, just that simple change of scenery did help me realize what was the matter.

My daughter graciously gave me her bedroom and bed to sleep in while she took the couch. I learned something I’d not known before about Seattle. Its mild climate in the summer made air-conditioning unnecessary. But this also meant leaving the windows open for ventilation. I tossed and turned in bed into the early hours of the morning as I heard everything and everyone that made a sound outside. But the sounds of a waking city also woke up the slumber inside me. Time itself seemed to slow down as I surrendered to that present moment of not knowing and not having the power to do anything about it just yet, including the innate discomfort of that period of uncertainty. I just allowed myself to feel all there was to feel about that present moment. There is a certain kind of peace that comes with accepting what we cannot change at any given time. It is the same peace that people who have found themselves facing what seems like imminent death feel. Having “to be” outside our comfort zone is a threat to our sense of security and thus, does feel a little bit like dying. And as I made myself fully available to that present albeit uncomfortable moment, I awoke to this profound understanding: While I essentially still held the same convictions and principles that continued to make me passionate about certain social causes, I was not the same person anymore. I was in a different place and stage in life—with different priorities and dreams. The inherent limitations of temporal, physical life! We can only be in one physical place at any one time, and there’s only so much time of the day, and few years to our mortal life.

My husband had just retired, and we agreed long before this that he would retire early so we could spend more quality time with each other, enjoying new adventures as we entered our golden years—to reap what we had sown, what we both worked so hard for many years to attain. To accept the opportunity then presenting itself to me would mean betraying not only that common dream I shared with my husband, but also my own individual dream: to throw myself fully into my writing and finish the novel I started fifteen years ago.

I also realized that for most of my life, I did many things, not so much because I liked doing them or because they made me happy, but often, due to a sense of obligation—to please others and make them happy. My true self proved wise—she rebelled against the idea of yet again living my life to satisfy the needs of other people. It was trying to tell the people-pleaser in me that it was high time to finally do only those things that made me happy, that satisfied only one simple criterion: my own pleasure, disentangled from and independent of anyone and everyone else’s agenda. I had to give myself permission to feel I deserved that freedom before I realized I was in fact free to do as I pleased. Once I shed those shackles of my mind, it became crystal clear: I had to say no. I had to allow other people to take up the reigns of that cause. I had to let go.

Such is the theme of my life as I progress into my golden years—a constant refrain of having to let go. Letting go of activities that do not add value to my precious time, letting go of material possessions, letting go of people who no longer serve my happiness and growth—baring down to my essential, authentic self: the self who is happiest reading a good book and indulging in unimpeded creative writing; simply cuddling with my husband while watching our favorite shows in the comfort of our beautiful home; preparing and sharing a delicious meal with our visiting children; walking amidst nature’s splendor with my family and three dogs; savoring exceptional food and wine in the company of good friends; watching a hummingbird suck nectar from a blossom; inhaling the perfume of flowers and appreciating each floret’s unique beauty; discerning the different voices of various birds; marveling at the majesty of an ancient tree; heeding the ocean’s enigmatic call; basking in the glow of an exquisite sunset; pondering in awe upon the mysteries of our expanding multiverse; and, not the least, embracing the continuing riddle of my self—the conundrum that my poem, A Letter to My Mother, describes as “… neither here nor there,/ neither this nor that,/ eluding tidy description,/ belonging nowhere ….” (Copyright © 2015 by Victoria G. Smith)