Illusive chase

I wrote this post in 2021 but never published it.  

'What is so wrong with reality' Dr. R questions in a calm voice, but with peering eyes. He didn't want to miss the slightest body language. 

" W ...well ... I want to have a fresh beginning, I mean a clean slate ..." I stuttered. 
"what's making this current slate dirty?" he had the question ready. 
"I am not sure ... I think I can go to a new place, begin everything from the start ... no one will know us. We can make new friends, build a community ... you see ... housing is so much better. I always hated this place. I love my job and the university, and friends and colleagues - but ... "  The words were not even making sense to me.
"What is stopping you from making friends here?"  Dr.R tries hard to understand.
" noo ... I mean a new house, new neighborhood. I can start ... I don't know Dr. R. I just want to go away".

This was becoming a routine drill in our weekly therapy sessions. Maybe not verbatim. But in a similar form or shape.  I want to go away ... either to Alaska, Norway, or even Reykjavik. Eternal issue of 'running from' rather than 'running to'. From childhood to young adult life, daydreaming has plagued me. I took solace in the 'what if' scenarios, rather than taking the slow and tested path of grit. 

Fast forward to 2020. I did 'go away' - from California to New Jersey. A cross country move, I convinced myself, was what I needed. Am I happy now? Not really ... yes, the housing is affordable, but I no longer care for buying a house. The long winter with the initial excitement of experiencing snowfall has given way to more practical problems -- getting the car plowed out, driving in snow. I miss Stanford ... miserably. I long to shop at my familiar Trader Joe's, eat at my favorite restaurant, and share weekend drinks with my friends. But at least now I know something for sure ... I will hate that too. 

So what is this illusive chase about? How can I learn to ground myself in the present? It is so painful not being comfortable in one's own skin and I wish I knew how to help myself. 

To live or to die?

I read this article in the Washington Post and mused on the purposes of life.

 My death is close at hand. But I do not think of myself as dying.

By Paul Woodruff

How often do you think about death? “Every third thought,” said Shakespeare’s avatar Prospero in the last line of the last speech he gives in Shakespeare’s last play, “The Tempest,” aside from the epilogue that follows the play. My friends say they think of death at least as often as Prospero. I do, too. If we think about death so much, we ought to know what to think about it. Philosophy is supposed to have answers, but the answers we hear most often from philosophers are not good for us. “Live every day as if it is your last,” we are told. “Remember that you are on the way to death each day.”

A friend recently wrote an email message with this line in it: “Paul is dying of a lung infection.” He had meant it for someone else, but he had misdirected it. That sentence infuriated me. I do not have a lung infection. My death is close at hand, however, because of a lung condition called bronchiectasis, and I am on oxygen day and night. But I do not think of myself as dying. I am living each day with as much life as I can put into it. For me, that means going to bed each night planning at least one project for the next day — something worth getting out of bed and living for. As I think of dying, I make each day a time for living, for having something to live for.
What kind of project is worth living for? Not a project I could complete today. Worthwhile projects spread out over time. Writing this small essay and finding someone to print it will take at least a week, and today is only the first day. I will make sure that the last day for this essay will be the first day for something else. Thinking of death, I want to live every day as if it were the first for something.

Living as I do, with projects that continue over time, I can be sure that my death will cut me off before I finish something worth doing. I want to be cut off when I die of something I care about doing — not from thoughts of death alone. Unless I am in unbearable pain, I should be able to live right up to the last moments. Here is an inspiring (although slightly gruesome) example: Under bloody Queen Mary, Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, the author of the lovely Anglican prayer book, was burned at the stake for his Protestant views despite signing false confessions of faith in Catholic doctrine. Even as the flames licked up around him, and his death was moments away, he was very much living (not dying) when he put his right hand into the heart of the fire to punish it for signing false confessions.
I know I will die soon. But must I be miserable about it? Why not find a cause for joy in each day? Some corner of my mind always knows that sad thoughts lurk behind my projects. But my dying will be much harder on my loved ones than it will be on me. Survivors often think they have failed to keep their loved ones alive. I want my survivors to know that death is not unwelcome to me, although I want to be living each day. There’s nothing wrong with dying. All the best people in history have done it. Let foolish philosophers see themselves as dying every day. Thinking of death, I choose life.

And here is my maunder about life and living ...

'For me, that means going to bed each night planning at least one project for the next day — something worth getting out of bed and living for ' - 

this is the crux - the most decisive point, I wake up because I have two sons (a human and a four-legged one) to take care of, I have a job that I made a commitment to, and an aging parent who depends on me, friends with whom I like connecting at times ... these were my reasons when I argued with my alter ego who strongly professes death. Not so long ago, living came with additional incentives -  finish reading the innumerable number of books I have on my wish list, the unseen movies, visit places on my bucket list ... even indulge in the pipe dream of finding the right companion! I cannot tell you when and what changed, but I have resigned to the fact that this life will be a repository of unrealized dreams -- nothing I do (or not do) will course correct this life. Yes, there might be a few random reasons - enjoy the house and wake up to the smell of jasmines that I planted, move to another role,  help my son find a meaningful engagement .. but they don't seem worthy. If I end today, the undone projects will not matter to me / others. Maybe hanging around for a few more years will benefit my son, but life will move on for him - with or without me. 

The cruel truth reminding me that life will remain a far cry from what I envisioned is painful and despairing - throttles the will to live. What I am doing today is not going to move me an inch closer to what I wanted my tomorrow to be ... besides, one needs a ton of energy to dream/ fantasize/ hope ... 

I feel bone tired, and if I had a genie granting me a wish - I would wish to have an adult standing behind me, assuring me - 'You have been running for too long, and look exhausted, it's okay to fall down now'. S/he doesn't have to catch me when I fall, just give me the permission to do so.

Sunday Blues

 As I type this blog on a Sunday evening, I am plagued with a feeling of despair and weariness. My weekends are usually very uneventful - running errands, cooking, cleaning, and lounging with a book. In contrast, my work weeks are intellectually captivating, vibrant with student interactions, and fun-filled collegial friendship. I cannot speak for others but why then do I feel the Sunday blues? I don't know. 

I have moved from sunny California to the overcast gloomy skies of Princeton, New Jersey. I was never fond of bright sunny days, so the overcast weather serves as a perfect backdrop for my leisurely spent weekends. And thanks to our 8 months long Covid quarantine, the weekend indulgences carry onto the workweek. Zoom meetings in PJs, not getting ready for the long commute, personal and work-life boundaries blurred into one long stretch of days. And somehow our life has been reduced to a linear existence without the multi-dimensions that made it rich and complex.  

But I digress. At a time, when workweek and weekends have lost their distinct flavors, I try to scratch deeper into the phenomena of sunday blues. I think it is the 'end' that contributes to the despair. Sunday evenings remind us of an end. We often associate 'end' with sadness, instead in my case, I could think of it as a joyous end to my unstructured time and the 'beginning' of the comfortable routine. 

Optics and Reality

Weary of routine life, and jaded with the status quo, I often indulge in fantasy escapes where I trade lives with folks, who for me, epitomize "living" and not just "breathing"! Anthony Bourdain 'was' one such personality. I lived vicariously as he traveled to remote corners, tasted unique cuisines, and made friends with the locals. Wow - that is being alive, I thought. 

Waking up to morning alarms has long been replaced by CNN news alerts.  And June 8, 2018, was no different. I looked at the breaking news and jumped out of the bed in disbelief. Anthony Bourdain is dead. And he 'took' his life. I pinched myself to ensure I was awake. Anthony B had nothing to live for, or look forward to? The man, who for me, was the definition of 'being alive'.  Shocked, and perplexed, I was too numb to react.  I remember rereading the lines doubting if I was comprehending this correctly.

As the media analyzed the reasons behind his choice to end his life, interviews of him and his close friends surfaced; soon there was a deluge of articles unmasking the 'optics' of a seemingly perfect life.  He was tired of living out of suitcases, felt rootless and what struck me most was all his friendships with strangers had a shelf life of a week or so. Then he was off to a new place, met new people, and formed new friendships.  I have always been fond of strangers, they don't come with past baggage and it always feels like a fresh start. But then we find comfort in familiarity; if life came with a reset button every fortnight, that wouldn't be pleasant. So I guess Anthony Bourdain's exotic life craved mundane normalcy. Simple things like sipping coffee from a familiar mug, reading the news in his favorite armchair, and greeting the same doorman on his way out to work. 

We take these for granted. Yet they are an essential part of our lives. 

Of Marriage and Kids

 It was a winter morning in early January, I was in class 11 (or a junior in high school in US lingo).  As I entered the school, I saw scattered clusters of students engaged in hushed conversations, teachers crowding around the Principal's room,  and the assembly bell ten minutes late. The gloomy sky and the winter chill acting as the perfect backdrop for a sinister event. As I searched for my friends, I caught whispers - 'suicide', 'kerosene, 'last night' ...

One of our seniors, N had committed suicide by burning herself after dousing in kerosene. I knew N,  a popular girl who excelled in sports especially in track. She was a petite figure, curly hair tied in a not-so-neat braid, big eyes with an easy smile.  As we tried to fathom the news, different versions, of what caused her to commit suicide, kept floating  -- she had an 'affair' and the boy ditched her. Broken-hearted, she took the ultimate step. Others opined she was trying to elope with her beau but the family locked her up in a room ... information piling in making it difficult to discern between 'facts' and what were 'figments of imagination.'

During the morning assembly, our Principal chose her words carefully when she announced the news.  'It is an unfortunate (not sad) incident ... we should always remember to trust the almighty and ask for His forgiveness ... never forget He is the savior ... '. There will be no holiday in honor of her memory and we were requested to refrain from the gossip mill.

Needless to say, for the next few days, our lunch and free periods were 'dedicated' to finding out more details on the 'what led' factor.  Yes, there was a guy in the picture - she actually had many boyfriends. I feel a need to explain something here - 'in our young teenage days 'boyfriend' was a 'hushed' word - forget about being encouraged to have one, we were threatened with dire consequences if we were ever caught having one. We were to 'study hard' and 'play less' - we had plenty of successful "dull Janes" as our role models.  This was the context of N having multiple boyfriends. And then slowly came the news of her being 'pregnant. Now it made absolute sense ... of course, she had to commit suicide, what else could she have done? How could she become pregnant? I mean the basic logistics of 'sleeping around' wasn't conducive during our time - 'no rooms of our own.' If the parents were out of town - the ever-vigilant neighbors were there! Unless one was adventurous enough to take a day trip to Diamond Harbor and shack up in one of those back-alley hotels.  Whatever it was, it was a terrible irreversible mistake, making 'suicide'  her only way to 'survive'. The incident stuck with me for many years.

Fast forward 30 years. My laugh lines have been replaced by the frown lines,  clarity compromised with both near and distant vision,  and overall cynicism and impatience pervade my life in general.  Meanwhile,  social interaction has seen sea changes with the advent of the virtual world. I am 'friends' with folks I have never met, never spoken to, yet I am privy to what a day in their life looks like. Thanks to YouTube blogs. I try to relive the past by watching blogs by young parents with toddlers (my son is a teenager) and my favorite is J's. She is a mother of two adorable kids, extremely harried yet loving every moment of it. From tips on how to wean her five months old daughter to the weekly grocery haul, her videos are a delight to watch. The father of the kids is a busy man but makes an effort to spend quality time with family. They post blogs of vacations, social gatherings with extended families - all markers of a happy family writ large on the blogs. Except they are not a family in the traditional sense. The parents of the 5 yr and 18 months old kids are not married. Very recently, she informed her viewers of their decision to 'walk the aisles' at last. She is giving us glimpses of her wedding prep while she balances the demands of being a mother, the two families eagerly chipping in making the event a special one.

And I thought about N. Barely with a passage of 30 years, there has been a momentous change in options. Granted these are two different worlds we are referring to- a developing nation with a developed one. But even in India, today she would have choices - terminating the pregnancy if she wasn't ready or go ahead with it, and then plan a wedding later, with kids in tow.  Most importantly, she would have a choice to be alive.