I’ve been playing a game with myself this week. It’s sort of like KNOM’s “This Day In History” segment… but with my life. Sound a little self-indulgent? I can’t deny that. But it’s also kind of fun.
I started playing “This Day Last Week” as a memory exercise. (Check out this podcast if you want to be amazed by what you can/can’t remember from even one week ago.) But, eventually, I got bored with that and started playing “This Day Last Month” and “This Day Three Months Ago” and even “This Day Last Year.”
You probably see where this is going. A big spirally spiral of homesickness, that’s where. Except — I have so many homes to miss, I’ve kind of whipped myself into a triple-layer cake of nostalgia.
It’s a little bit like the movie Midnight in Paris, when Owen Wilson’s character wishes he could go back to the “golden days” of Paris in the 1920s. By some unreasonable stroke of luck he’s actually transported there, and falls in love with a 1920s French girl… who wishes she could live in Paris of the 1890s.
I think the message of the film is probably something like: “The grass is always greener.” Which also probably applies to my current nostalgia cake. I live in a place with sled dogs. Reindeer. The northern lights! Believe me when I tell you that I’ve dreamed about these things — this place — and that I’m utterly and completely thrilled to be here.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve reined in my wandering eye, exactly.
I’ve lived in, and loved, a lot of places. And whenever things aren’t going well — by which I mean, things aren’t easy — I tend to think back on all the places and people that have been a part of my life, and remember all that is good about them.
And there is a lot of good. San Francisco is a gorgeous city with lush greenery and all the trendy eateries a girl could ask for. Pittsburgh is a playground for anyone who loves being outside and exploring Industrial Revolution relics as much as I do. Los Angeles is… well, warm.
And when I’m pounding my third cup of coffee in the complete darkness that is 10:30 a.m. here, it’s hard not to think back to any of the above and paint them in the light of Shangri La — conveniently forgetting all the fog, coal dust, and aspiring actor-slash-models that make them less than ideal.
Which, I think, illustrates my real point: That not all of the things I’m learning from this experience are flattering. I’m discovering some character flaws, too.
I’m learning that it’s hard for me to sit still, to be quiet, to not make a joke or interject my opinion. It’s hard for me not to have an escape route, or sunshine. It’s hard for me to stand here, in this place, and appreciate my life for what it is in this moment — not what it has been or what it could be in the future.
“Life gives us what we need when we need it; receiving what it gives us is a whole other thing.” – Pam Houston, Cowboys Are My Weakness
All of these things are hard for me. Harder than I imagined, and harder than I like to admit.
Even worse, I can’t pretend that I’ve mastered any of those flaws just yet. I haven’t. But I can say I’m grateful for an opportunity to confront my weaknesses, rather than simply reinforce my strengths. And for the realization that “easy” and “good” aren’t necessarily synonyms.
