Yesterday, I arrived from LAX, a mere hour flight from my home after a, well, let’s just call it a disappointing weekend in LaLaLand. I’m sure that’s not the first time a person has said the city sent them packing, literally and figuratively.
Circling, circling, circling, my plane’s repetitive cycle almost made me dizzy, waiting for the unending fog to break even for a moment. An additional sixty minutes on a race course, with a finished book and a touchy-feely neighbor. I felt like I was being punished for something, and I racked my brain to figure out the last 96 hours. What must I have done wrong in a past life? Did I habitually kick puppies? Did I back into my neighbor’s painstakingly planted hedges? Did I run a red light, or cut off an elderly person, or make faces at a baby until he cried? Not this week.
This weekend I found myself in a place I knew very well in a city I didn’t know at all. A place of loneliness, left once again and had to buck up, buttercup, and figure it out. Thankfully, through infinite kindness and open hearts, I was able to do so. I much prefer open hearts than closed ones. Obvious statement, still worth noting as the closed ones continuously find me. I think they have GPS.
There’s constant uncertainty in our lives, I know this. A friend told me on Thursday to find the Zen Master in myself and “just chill, enjoy hanging out with people you are into… let something develop organically.” Doesn’t that sound lovely? Sign me up. Put me in line, right next to the sign that says, “Never make someone a priority when all you are to them is an option.”
At night, I just listen to my book on tape, hoping for sleep within three hours, and have faith in the fairly large certainty that I’ll wake up in the morning. Fear only has as much power as I give it space.
This past weekend, I also rented out my apartment. If my landlord is reading this, this is a lie, and someone has stolen my computer and no one stayed in my apartment this weekend. Upon returning yesterday, I did the simple laundry required and unpacked my bag, while trying to embrace season 1 of Scandal on Netflix. It was only tonight, 36 hours upon arriving home, that I noticed a new addition in my kitchen, mere moments ago, as I stirred my Paul Newman pasta sauce. A lone rose, sitting in my spoon rest, where I almost lay my marina-covered ladle. Putting all utensils and pots aside, I picked it up, a delicate flower, cut off at the stem, trying to hold onto its golden vibrance. There was no reason for a simple rosebud to be in my spoonrest, but it gave me great pause, its simple beauty, alone and waiting to be noticed.