There was a poem that went viral in December, and the first time I read it, it made me cry. I journaled about it that day:
“12/19/22
The Orange
by Wendy Cope
At lunchtime, I bought a huge orange-
The size of it made us all laugh
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave
They got quarters and I had a half
And that orange, it made me so happy
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and has some time over
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
I read this today and I’m trying to figure out why it’s making me cry. I would love to say- because of its beauty or its simplicity or for some other educated answer that my English degree is begging me to have, but really, I think it’s because I’m jealous. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to let things be simple. Like I get so invested in the pursuit of contentment that I wind myself up and think myself through a spiral of remedies or Solutions for Sadness until it’s that very pursuit that stops me from finding it. And it got me thinking that I’ve been sad quite a lot lately.
Sometimes, I feel so much. I can’t just be happy or be sad. It’s like the emotion, regardless of what it might be, fully consumes me, swallows me right up. I cried the other day when I saw a girl singing to herself in the car. She was alone, and she was bouncing, and her car was shaking along with her movement at the red light. And then the light turned green, and she was so invested in the song that she tapped the gas a little too hard and surprised herself. And she laughed, and then drove away.
And I cried. I don’t know why I do that.
Maybe it’s an artist instinct? Maybe I am meant to have an excess of feeling so that I can redistribute it into the things I create? But I’ve noticed that sometimes, in these moments, it feels almost burdensome that I’m such an emotional person. Like if my emotions weren’t so All Consuming then perhaps me and the narrator from this poem could see eye to eye. Sometimes I catch myself wishing I didn’t feel as much as I do.”
Shortly after I wrote this, I decided that my New Year’s resolution was to remember how to “let things be simple.” It was at the top of every manifestation or goal list I had written between then and January 1st. No. 1 Let things be simple. Thinking back, I’m honestly not really sure what I thought that meant. But that poem was my blueprint. I wanted to be the narrator. I wanted to bask in the mundane. At face value, I just wanted to be at peace.
I think at the time, my idea of peace was a sort of freedom from these deep emotions that I had written about. I didn’t want to cry anymore at sweet interactions with strangers or over dreams that I had or about my brothers growing up too quickly. I was beginning to perceive this as a disruption of my peace, and I wanted to be rid of it. I wanted to let things be simple.
Nonetheless, on January 1st, I cried.
I was in London on January 1st. We had tickets to a firework show outside the London Eye. I was stood in a crowd, smushed between my mom and dad. The DJ was playing really terrible music, but we were dancing, and laughing, and eating candy from a street vendor out of my little brother’s pocket, patiently awaiting midnight’s arrival. It was simple. Just the way I wanted it. And suddenly, it was 2023.
It’s so vivid in my mind. The British accents around me counting down from 10. The old couple next to us, holding hands and bouncing their knees with the rhythm of the countdown. The smile on my dad’s face when I made eye contact with him as the crowd around us yelled,”3…2…1…”
And then Big Ben blared loudly in our ears. And fireworks shot up in front of the London Eye. And of course, the lump in my throat manifested almost immediately.
There were cold tears on my cheeks, but thinking back, I was hardly conscious of them. I was simply staring ahead, watching the fireworks, thinking about how grateful I was to be there, in that moment.
It felt like I was standing there alone. Like it was just me on that vast street & all of it- the fireworks, the clock, the music- was all for me.
It was the most present I have ever been in my life.
My past self and my future self hardly existed in that moment. It was just me. I could have stood there forever and been happy.
“This is peace and contentment. It’s new.”
Amidst the smokey aftermath of the fireworks, I looked around, and it seemed that not a single person on that street was affected the way I was.
I was the only one with tear stained cheeks. And I thought about the fact that I had felt, a few weeks prior, so burdened by this. How I had mistaken the absence of this feeling as “peace.”
On this night, I felt lucky to feel as much as I had. And wrapped up in all the tears and the swirl of deep emotions I was feeling, I found that I had become the narrator- in the complete opposite way than I had expected to.
Instead of stifling my emotions, I embraced them. And within them, I found peace.
The funny thing about it all is that as an artist, I have always preached this idea of vulnerability. In fact, I think it’s been my greatest superpower in life- to be able to lay my emotions out on the table in a way that feels relatable or digestible to someone else. Because if you don’t (lay your emotions out on the table, that is), it leaves your audience no space or comfortability to do the same.
And so, on my walk back to our hotel, I contemplated why I had begun to hate the quality of myself, that I once used to pride myself on- why my emotions felt like a problem instead of a gift.
In December, I read back on a few of my old pieces of writing, and I was surprised to find that I was impressed with my old self. I wondered how I had once been able to write so effortlessly and with so much feeling. I had convinced myself that I was no longer capable of it. It felt like everything I tried to write felt surface level or like I was beating around the bush, avoiding what I actually wanted to say.
I’ve come to understand that I’m in a time in my life where I’m feeling a lot of new emotions and uncovering new parts of myself, as many 22 year olds often do. And I think I allowed the uncertainty of it all to scare me; cause me to shy away from feeling them at all, let alone share them with other people. I sometimes feel like I need to have all the answers figured out before I start writing so that everything I create can have some overarching lesson, but I truthfully don’t feel like I have anything figured out right now, and that terrified me.
I let fear stifle my super power.
But, on January 1st, with Big Ben as my witness, when the narrator and I became one, I learned something. I learned that fear pertains only to your future self. “I am scared to (blank) because (blank) might happen as a result.” Future circumstance.
If you subtract your future self from the equation, fear ceases to exist. You are left only with presence. And true, raw presence is exactly what I felt on New Years- a feeling that I would bottle up and feel every day of my life if I could.
I learned that the most beautiful feeling I have ever felt in my life is the one that I have when I experience something for the first time. When I finish a really good book. When I make a new friend. When I visit a new place. When I listen to a new song. When I fall in love with someone new. And if I had it all figured out, if I was prepared for everything that life was going to throw at me, I would never have the opportunity to feel that feeling. A feeling of presence.
I learned that beyond the fear, there is something so comforting lying within the uncertainty.
So, my revised New Years Resolution became: Be Present. Rid yourself of fear. And Feel. Feel as deeply as you possibly can.
“I love you. I’m glad I exist.”
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