Got thinking on this morning's walk about how I won't make it to my favorite beach yet AGAIN this summer. That's two summers in a row. To make myself feel better about it at the end of last summer, I told myself "it'll be there next year." Turns out that it's indeed there, but a place I won't be going. It's this beach in Hudson, Wisconsin that's at the end of a really long pier, creating a little island of sorts in the midst of a river channel. It's magical. I was just about to look up what it's called and refrained - that's not important. It's more fun to have to describe it anyway.
I'm not NOT going there because it won't ever be open - I think it will. I'm not going there because I think it likely the behavior of other visitors will just keep my visit from being safe, if not just being fun. It was frustrating enough to walk around Cleary Lake Park yesterday afternoon, with pretty much everyone else on the path basically physically refusing to shift over to maintain distance as we passed one another. Kris and I joked (and jokes are often funny because they are often in part true) that another great reason to stay instead/ away from others is to avoid the sheer frustration invoked by other people unwilling to slightly change their personal patterns out of courtesy for others. My apologies to the folks we passed on the trail yesterday whose lack of shift was motivated by ignorance, not unkindness. Turns out, I felt unsafe in those moments regardless of the motivation.
Back to this beach. To me, that adventure is just not worth it this summer. It's disappointing to me, because I've built this beach up to be a mythical place of wonder. And yes, to me it is, but creating that build-up is part of it. In a way that's fun, but in a way, it's also damaging. It creates this feeling of missing out, kind of like how a person with some unhealthy relationships with food might feel they are missing out by making chocolate out to be this mythical, magical food that can only be enjoyed ever so often. Really, that beach is only 35-40 minutes away, yet I only ever make it out there once a summer, if that. Putting that into writing really makes me question my priorities. Or, I guess, if getting out there really ever has been that much of a priority.
I've come to sort of feel the same way about walks. Kris and I love going on walks together, and we've been going for at least an hour pretty much once a day (give or take) during this pandemic. It's gotten me wondering WHY it took a global pandemic for us to get out and do, together and with more frequency, something healthy that we really enjoy.
Related were my thoughts, from my walk this morning, about how I've been worried that I'm not really missing going to dance class and shows. Turns out the key word here is going, not class or shows. When I really think about it, I really DO miss class. I miss dancing WITH other people, flying through space, a high level of cardio, the finite socializing after. I really DO miss shows. I miss they way they make me feel in my gut - alive and in the moment, inspired. I miss the finite socializing after (key word - finite!). What I don't miss - GOING. The hustle to get out the door. Finding parking. The commute time (however short). Rushing to change out of sweaty clothes to get to the next thing, shoveling one of the three meals I made to bring for the day into my mouth as I do it so I won't be late. I DON'T miss any of that.
I would say that I should just figure out how to not let my days get that way, but the reality is that so many artists have to hustle that way to make ends meet. In recent years, I have at least been able to recognize that not ALL my days are that way: they come in waves, along with days like many I'm staring down the pipeline at in thinking about this summer (and have already experienced) - quiet and relatively unscheduled, with less pressing shit at hand.
It's kind of a relief to think about the above a little more deeply and realize that it's not the actual dance-related stuff that I don't miss. I've kind of been worried. Related: worry about experiencing differently what I consider to be key elements of my personality. Read: extrovertedness. I've long considered myself an extrovert, someone who loved being around others and is energized by it. That said, as I believe I've written on here before, I've been doing surprisingly ok. I suppose we have been seeing family and close friends a bit, so that helps.
Even before all this, I'd been noticed that sometimes, after shows, I'd want to go home more than I'd want to go out for drink with folks. I'd still go out, but not stay as long as some others. I suppose some of this has less to do with whether or not I want to be around people, and more to do with plain old getting tired, not wanting to be out late. Those things have long been defining elements of my personality too :)
I suppose I did realize in grad school that I'm often actually quite content alone, thinking, writing, making. I'm so content right now, sitting at my laptop in my backyard, observing the work I've done on it in the last couple weeks, listening to the shit-ton of birds in our bushes chirp and smelling May as I write this. Even during the day at home here with Kris, I am RARELY tempted to go talk to him, not for human connection OR procrastination. I have to keep remembering, like that I do indeed have allergies, that I do indeed not only enjoy but also need alone time. It helps me cultivate my creativity.
Perhaps why I'm surprisingly ok is because I've often been feeling as though my creative exploration is lacking some of the limits it normally has. Ok, well, one: time. It has NEW limits - lack of people to explore with, lack of space, lack of ability to perform live whatever is created. That said, the lifting of one conventional limit and the development of these new ones has challenged my creativity in ways that have often felt rewarding.
Surprisingly ok. That feels like it applies pretty well to the day-to-day stuff. To the annual stuff like the State Fair and the festivals we like to attend: not so much. This morning, it occurred to me how related truisms are really quite conflicting: "It'll always be there next year" v.s. "You never really know what you are missing until it's gone." These both feel true, right now and always, but "it'll always be there next year" stings a bit. Usually, my ending up thinking this serves the purpose of comforting me when I miss something. FOMO is a stupid, modern problem that I'd like to not even consider a problem, so yes, this truism is often helpful to me.
That said, "You never really know what you are missing until it's gone" has also been a good motivator for me in the past to sieze the day. Carpe diem.
Perhaps the real issue here is not the ideas at the hearts of these truisms, but more their absolutism. "Always." "Never." Those words are the real problem. How about "It'll be there next time" and "It's hard to know what you are missing until you lose access to it"? Absolutism is the real issue at hand, I think, with a lot of things. It's what keeps people from the "Yes, and" sort of thinking Kris and I have been reflecting on as pretty important for walking through the world in a soft and open way. Put another way, it's cultivating the ability to believe that two views that could potentially be seen as conflicting can actually co-exist in ones mind. For example and in honor of Memorial Day, which was yesterday, I can simultaneously support and be grateful for our service folks while also believing that violent, armed conflict shouldn't have to be the way we solve world issues.
So yeah, I'm trying to interrogate the ways in which I'm already missing May. I'm nostalgic for it, a month I've realized is a sort of magical in-between for me: between work and play. Between Spring and Summer. A moment of pause. I'm missing it, and it's STILL HERE. Rather than building it up like a restrictive eater builds up chocolate, I'm trying to breathe it in deeply while it's here.
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