There are moments in which I feel terribly grateful that I didn’t break things apart in my life. Not that I’m itching to break things apart, but I think we all live with the occasional urge to flee the scene and dismantle our lives, jobs, friendships, or romantic relationships. These satisfying moments are fleeting, but they are also powerful—in them I know with complete certainty what is good in my life. And those moments prove my theory that it’s worth it to stick with things and not run from life. (And I don’t mean ‘stick things out,’ I mean stick with things, things that are good.)
I often credit my old therapist with my current five-year long relationship because without her telling me, “Just wait and see how things are tomorrow, next week, next month…” I might have listened to the ‘jump out the door and pull your ripcord’ voice in my head. That therapist also helped me learn how to determine from where the voice originated—whether from a old, scared childhood place or from a new, adult, courageous one. More frequently the voice originating from a new, courageous place wins, and I am oh so grateful for that. The more I stick with things, the more valuable life skill I learn—like learning to work with coworkers or managers who have completely different work and communication styles from me (rather than quitting just because someone new was hired above me or because I don’t naturally get along with was transferred to my team).
I had a feeling grateful moment recently. And I learned something new about when life feels magical when it occurred.
It was a sunny day, almost hot, with just a few cottony clouds. After running an errand in town, we spontaneously decided to take a drive to Sonoma to get Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Once we got to Sonoma, a short half-hour drive away, I realized that my relatives who were visiting the area might already have arrived at their hotel, and called them.* My timing was good; they were just arriving at their hotel. We postponed the ice cream for the moment and walked through town to their hotel. We spent the next couple hours talking with my uncle and his wife, catching up on their lives, having coffee and wine, and sitting in the sun in one of the gardens of the hotel. When he became hungry, I fed my baby—outside in the sun under the clouds and the trees. What a joy. After a while, my relatives needed to take their naps, and we left to get our ice cream and sit in the park.
As we drove back home, it hit me: the afternoon was perfect.
I felt that sensation of welling up, not to cry nor to laugh, but a huge yet containable welling up of emotion. I was grateful for it and, I thought, “So glad I didn’t break things apart in my life,” and I was glad for having stuck with all the decisions I’ve made so far. Only by sticking with things can you feel the gratification of longevity. And therefore we could be there—we three, driving through the hills, a family.
But I’m analytical so I had to know, Why did it feel perfect?
It felt perfect because it was all spontaneous. There was nothing controlled, or planned about the afternoon—just the errand we began with. And because nothing was orchestrated, there could be no expectations. If the exact afternoon had been planned ahead of time, the conversation wouldn’t have been enjoyable, we probably would have been running late (you’re on-time if things are spontaneous), and I’d be preoccupied by where I had to be next. It wouldn’t have felt ‘perfectly lazy’ because it wouldn’t have measured up to the plan, the expectations for it. (I think of these kinds of afternoons as “European,” always.)
I’m convinced that our prescription for joy is healthy doses of spontaneity. Think about it. It’s not a waste of time, because an afternoon spent spontaneously will give you a feeling of being alive. Try it.
It’s the best medicine. And you don’t need a prescription.
--ae
*A note about the phone call to my uncle: because I didn't want him to think that we'd driven to Sonoma to see them on their one day alone (we actually hadn't; we had plans to see them the next day, and the next), I made a point of telling him why we were in Sonoma. So I said, "We're in Sonoma anyway, we came here to...run errands." My fiancee nudged and me, laughing, "Tell them why we're really here!" And then I laughed and said, "Actually, correction: we're here to get Ben & Jerry's ice cream, we're not here to run errands." My uncle got a laugh out of that. I'm not sure why I didn't want to admit to being there just for ice cream. But it was the truth. And refreshing to say it. And of course I thought of the characteristic of children of alcoholics: "Adult Children of Alcoholics lie when it is just as easy to tell the truth." Why did I tell that silly lie? Was I embarrassed to admit we'd driven to another town to indulge in ice cream? (Not really.) Was it because I was worried about their not wanting to see us till the next day, that I felt the need to alter reality? (Yeah.) Did I not think they'd believe that we were in town just for ice cream? (Yeah, again.) For some reason, I was really concerned they'd think we were barging in on them...even when we weren't. That last bit comes from growing up in a family where appearances were incredibly important to maintaining the fiction of our family being 'just fine' when it wasn't.
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