Nostalgia

 In the name of nostalgia I am posting this journal entry from april 2006. I am of a mixed mind sometimes of the benefits of returning to the past. Is it valuable to see how we have grown? or is it just taking us further out of the moment? Regardless I hope you will enjoy the pensive musings of a 23 year old me. 

Venice 4/29/06

   My solitude is peopled strangely by yellow pickups that go in and out of the warehouse that juts awkwardly from the octagonal lookout. This structure stands quietly on the beach it's faded paint belying years of silent guard over zealous surfers and curious tourists who wander too near the finger of rocks. The occasional runner passes by, each windbreaker more colorful than the last as I sit here writing trying to forget my heart-sickness. I snicker inwardly at the futility as a tear slips down my cheek surprising the midnight blue velour of my London coat bunched on my knees. Kids playing on the beach, a yoga class to my left, the disappointed surfers waiting for more than a half-foot wave, and still I am sad. Amazing how self-absorbed we humans are. We all wander around content in our bubbles. The organic coffee I drank is starting to hit my empty stomach and I nestle my cheekbone in the palm of my hand thinking how odd this passage is. I suddenly feel like if I dont stop writing, I can hold at bay this feeling of desperation that has surprised me this Saturday morning. My words sound trite and dramatic even to myself. A surfer finally gives up and climbs out of the tiny pocket of sea he was occupying patiently. The concept of knowing when to call it quits relates glaringly to my situation. Hearts are tricky things. They seem to rarely actually agree with Minds but they play along for awhile until one day Mind realizes Heart was being facetious and the joke is on Him. Heart is cunning, complex, yet thoroughly genuine all at once-much like the women who cling to Her every hope and dream. And there we go; a moment of catharsis. I close my eyes and let the feeling trip over me like those silly blustering half-foot waves. I look up and see the one surfer, who determined, finally caught one of those little waves and rode it for all it was worth and again parallels strike me. I have a choice. I can sit out there mid-way between shore and deep sea armed against the chilly waters in my wetsuit and hope and wait for a wave to ride as far as it will take me satisfied at least that I have tried. Or I can head in now cut my losses call it a day. My cheekbone returns to my palm as I try to hear Heart through Mind's instant rebuke and painful constriction. "Dont lead me out there to wipe-out on a half-foot wave." My one successful surfer climbs out and considers calling it a day. I think true courage must be loving someone With the knowledge that they do not love you back in the same way. What does it take to, knowing that, be brave enough to love anyway? Is this true courage or just stupidity? Which flimsy category do I fall into today? My meditation is interrupted by my need to pee as the coffee has shot through my system and now is weighing heavily on my bladder. I am so reluctant to leave. While I am here on this little patch of beach it all seems okay. The wind and the waves catch my silly neurotic thoughts and play with them, careful not to take it all too seriously. I continue to ignore my now more insistent need to piss. This is a beautiful vacuum and the sun is just starting to peek out and warm my back. I grab a curl and stretch it vertically down my face as I stare out to see and my stomach drops out. Any fantastic revelations today? I check the "No" box. Did I momentarily feel wonderfully alive? I check the "Yes" box. It seems appropriate that my lone wave-catcher is heading back out to sea for another go, as I prepare to leave my insignificant yet strangely meaningful section of sand.