Tonight, after a Memorial Day weekend unlike most, I find myself succumbing to old habits--laying on my bed, listening at once to the chirping of crickets and the tender trumpet melody of I REMEMEMBER CLIFFORD, smelling the heavenly smoken ash of early summer fires... Yes, I am returning to old haunts--those deliciously precious stolen moments of utter solitude. I haven't taken one of these moments in months, it seems, and yet I have much upon which to reflect.
This is what I miss about Manhattan--living a life of proximity which allowed for breathing room. One can always find moments of reflection--strolling through a museum's fine collection or drinking a cup of coffee at a favorite rendez-vous. But solitary moments are rare in rural areas--people travel in groups; it is considered strange to be alone too often.
It's this constant companionship that I find stifling. I seem to thrive in solitude--was it always thus? Or maybe it's that, after a weekend of great company, I can more fully appreciate these moments of quiet repose.
What do you think? Do you find yourself drawn to stolen moments? Are you living your life in a land of companionship, a string of tete-a-tetes and group activities?
I also find myself thinking about Paris... It's hard to believe that it's been, oh, nine years since living there and I haven't been back. I've been to Italy & Germany & Austria & Korea & China & Mongolia--but no Paris. That dream of moving there--of trying to make a go of that European lifestyle seems so long ago, and yet it is so appealing; the wanting of it is acute.
But I can't really make any decisions because I'm still waiting to hear from Peabody. And if I get in there, I'm thinking about bending my study towards historical musicology and research; in that case, I'd think about going to Oxford to continue that course of study. And I do love London dearly. I don't know. I guess I have to decide how courageous I'm going to be.
These thoughts are strange after receiving tenure at my school district, but I fell confined by this life. It's a horrible feeling at 24. I'd rather be almost anything--poor, crazy, lost--than confined; I need to feel free.
And despite the wonderful security of tenure, of knowing that I have a career (a job, come what may), I find myself bending my thoughts (more now than ever) to the next adventure--the next new thing. I never considered myself restless; it seems, however, that I am a wanderer.
I wonder, too, how much of this is precipitated by an eagerness for the conclusion of this school year.
I feel burned out.
I was drinking a glass of wine with a friend from childhood on Saturday whose life is one exciting thing after another--yes, she's had her fair share of tragedy and pain, but ultimately she's got 20 positive paths in every direction. No matter where she steps, she'll come out well. There are catalysts for positive change on each of these roads. I worry sometimes that I AM the catalyst--that I induce change in others while I am unable to change myself.
Oh well. There's not much to do about it either way, is there? And life is, generally, good. So I'll keep working hard and eventually something will happen. It has to. I am an optimist, fundamentally.
