Life
The night I turned thirty, I lay in bed with my eyes squeezed shut, trying to follow the dazzling array of kaleidoscopic visuals that pulsed and breathed and transformed beneath my eyelids: purple-black flowers, peacock feathers, pirouettes of paisley, jagged polygons. Over and over again the same two motifs resurfaced, usually in the center of my field of vision. There was an eye that would emerge, growing larger and clearer and more insistent, then shrinking to a point or evolving into other forms, cartoon-like, impressionistic, half-lidded, lashed. There was no judgment in its gaze, only knowing. Then there was the sun, a mystical orb that would glide across my eyelids or peek up from behind a hidden horizon. It, too, continued to change, sometimes getting lost in the swirl of patterns that engulfed my mind. Like the eye, it felt divine, comforting, a message or reminder to me of the vital impulses that fill this world and which, in turn, breathe new life into me. The images seemed to signify restoration after completing thirty full cycles around the sun. At the same time, they were generative, transmogrifying, a kick in the face telling me that all this is within and accessible anytime. If only I knew how to tap into it.
I don't know what brought this on. Sure, I was stoned, but what else is new? It was a quiet Monday evening and I'd cooked dinner for Christopher, happy to pass into a new decade with him laying by my side. A few nights before, I'd had a birthday bash in the East Village preceded by a huge group dinner at my favorite Brazilian joint in Nolita. By all accounts, a beautiful evening. Even though I tried not to frame it in such a way, I felt vindicated from the previous two birthdays I'd suffered in the company of horrible men.
My partying days are mostly behind, I think. I am ready for a softer, quieter life, time enough to work on my projects, to give and receive love more deeply. To find stillness and to accept happiness as my own. This, I think, is what I have learned from my twenties. I've made it to this peak and can at last survey the land below, the path I traveled. And maybe, just maybe, the fog will dissipate and I'll be able to see more clearly the mountains I have yet to scale. I'm ready!
I don't know what brought this on. Sure, I was stoned, but what else is new? It was a quiet Monday evening and I'd cooked dinner for Christopher, happy to pass into a new decade with him laying by my side. A few nights before, I'd had a birthday bash in the East Village preceded by a huge group dinner at my favorite Brazilian joint in Nolita. By all accounts, a beautiful evening. Even though I tried not to frame it in such a way, I felt vindicated from the previous two birthdays I'd suffered in the company of horrible men.
My partying days are mostly behind, I think. I am ready for a softer, quieter life, time enough to work on my projects, to give and receive love more deeply. To find stillness and to accept happiness as my own. This, I think, is what I have learned from my twenties. I've made it to this peak and can at last survey the land below, the path I traveled. And maybe, just maybe, the fog will dissipate and I'll be able to see more clearly the mountains I have yet to scale. I'm ready!