February 7, 2010 § 1 Comment
So, most of this blog is a lot of me taking myself too seriously. I’ll admit, as I have before, that I think too much. And, honestly, that really comes out of the fact that I, well, care too much. About everything. Naturally, much of this self-reflection sets a somber or pensive tone, but I’m hoping to switch the mood around once in a while.
As it turns out, I also care about things apart from the realm of wishing for world peace and ending hunger and finding my life’s purpose. Like, for example, I care about the way I look. I care about cardigans, knit scarves, statement rings, black pumps, and skinny jeans. I love large leather totes with metal hardware and lots of pockets. I wouldn’t be able to live without leggings, and I am searching for a perfect brown waist-cinching belt. Most of the blogs I read are lifestyle, glamour, and style lists, and I’m truly looking to become more of an editor of my own closet, rather than just a body following a set of rules — t-shirt + leggings + boots = good to go. (Don’t get me wrong; that’s definitely part of my ready-to-wear repertoire.) In any case, I’d like to amp up my editing skills, and I want to use my closet as the palette and myself as the canvas.
I have a few style heroes whose style I’d love to have. I also admire some of my good friends who, over the years, have found their own signature style, and I love that, within my group of friends, we each have a distinct look about us. I like to think that I do have my own style, but I have to say — I have been a lazy editor. I’m hoping to get off my ass and start seeing my every day as art. In high school and college, I experimented a lot more. I won some (and definitely lost some), but I always had fun, and I always felt uniquely me.
Despite my intensely held values and all my talk of needing my life to bear meaning, despite everything I’ve said about not being able to live a life of frivolity and care-freedom, I’ll never say it’s not important to indulge in the act of looking good. I feel good when I look good, and I don’t care if that seems superficial. There’s something inexplicably empowering about walking in the city, cutting through it with purpose, and looking fucking killer.
I just got really excited. (Sorry for cursing.)
Anyway, I just wanted to share a little something about my next goal: Just as I edit these personal writing pieces, just as I work to improve my writing at work, just as I edit my plans for the future, I will become an editor of my own style, and I’m going to rock so many necks come this spring. Watch out.
February 2, 2010 § Leave a comment
Let’s have at existence.
Goals, aspirations, ambitions. Hobbies, passions. Jobs, careers. Leisure, pleasure. Lovers, family, friends.
These things make a life what it has been, what it is, and what it will be. So much of the time, I am so unbelievably stressed about attending to it all. Why? Because these things, as I just said, make up your life, and they add up to something more than just life as it is. They are part of an equation for the measurement of your contentment. They are your reasons to feel satisfied, proud, happy about your self. They are the parts to the whole, the means to the end — the end being the moment you look back on your life and say, “That was all worth it.”
We all wonder about our own existence, and we all measure our lives on some varying rubric of meaning. That’s what makes us human. The quest for meaning. The meaning of existence. What is all this for? Why do I work so hard? Why do I wake up in the morning, pull myself out of bed, if not for some greater reason, if not to chase the purpose we all seek.
I was laying in bed last night, talking with Takafumi. It was late, and our eyes were heavy. We were both drifting to sleep, but what kept us talking was a conversation on our jobs. What are we doing? Why are we doing this? And, having posed these questions, it was as if we were admitting that we weren’t completely happy about our careers — that we weren’t convinced that what we do matters. It was as if we were acknowledging our own search for purpose in our lives, something to care about and to keep us going at the end of each day.
For so many of us, work is a direct signifier of our ability to obtain said meaning. If our careers didn’t somehow make us feel significant, we’d believe that our lives have amounted to nothing. I’ve always wondered why so many people weigh careers so heavily in the whole life equation. But regardless of the answer, I’ll still feel that what I care about and what I do are inextricably linked to each other, and I won’t be truly happy until I forge them together.
For me, for right now, something is missing from my life equation, and I am anxious to know that Takafumi and I will one day look back at how we filled in those gaps, that we will someday make it all add up, and that we will come to know how good it feels to recall moments in a life that was well worth the living.
The morning grew older, and we said less and less. The mood was sullen, with no answers to our questions in sight, and time began to quicken as I eased into rest. Takafumi inched closer to me, resting his arms around my small body, surrounding me. I could feel his breath warming the nape of my neck, and the worries began to fade away.
Not knowing how long it had been since we last said anything, I looked at him, as if waking from some daze, and I kissed him. This was something I found meaning in. Something to recall in those end days.
There were a few hazy last words, so hazy I don’t know if I actually said it out loud. But there they were. And here they will linger.
“You and I will find our way.”