October 5, 2009

Maybe It's Me: Transmutability, or, From Concerts and Cakes to Boys

Perfect moments.

They aren’t something you can plan. They aren’t something you can expect. They are moments you have absolutely no control over. And they make no sense, which makes them even more perfect.

Perfect moments are when every single detail in your life lines up in complete harmony. It catches you off guard and you realize, “Everything in my life, at this moment, is absolutely where and how it should be. There’s not a single thing out of place. Everything is right, exactly right, in this moment.” And I mean, everything: from how you physically feel, to what you’re wearing, to who you’re with when it happens, to where you are socially, and professionally, and emotionally, and metaphysically.

I’m not sure how other people might react to these deeply profound moments of enlightenment, of awakening within ourselves, of cosmic reassurance, but I am usually stunned to silent tears.

Because perfect moments renew your existence.

And life is a frequently trying journey, so anytime you, your world, your heart, your mind are validated, you really are left feeling refreshed within yourself and within your place in the human race. Ready to keep on at it. It being living.

They are these glorious heart-breaking and instantly heart-healing moments, too. As contradictory as that sounds. It’s as if this infinitely enormous world actually cares, really cares about you, despite your smallness; and, it’s showing you that it’s okay to be broken. That it’s okay to revel in this brokenness for as long as you need to. Because at some point, you can be, and will be, fixed in a heart’s beat in these perfect life-altering moments.

And maybe it’s me, but those perfect moments never seem like major life moments when we would expect our monumental revelation. They aren’t births or deaths or weddings or graduations or promotions or car accidents or divorces.

They happen when you’re standing in line at a crowded grocery store.

They happen when you’re driving through the woods of New England in autumn.

They happen when you’re sitting on a hardwood floor of a concert hall in your favorite pair of jeans, with one hand holding a glass of red wine the other holding your sister’s – your best – hand, surrounded by people you don’t know and who don’t know you for once, listening to the perfect song: the melody mirroring how your soul feels, while the lyrics sound as if someone is reading the farthest depths of your heart, the farthest reaches of your mind.

That’s when you realize: this is it.

This is my moment.

This is my life that I’m living, actually LIVING right now. Right. Now.

As trivial as it might seem to every other soul in there, this is the moment hand-created just for you from the universe, from God, where you get to revel in inner-peace while being healed, bathed in a warmth and protection and fondness for you as an human being.

However crazy this might sound, however absurd it may seem, it’s not. Innately you know it’s true. Infrequently, though it does happen, there are these instances in life when an unsettling feeling of calm, of certainty, that comes over us, and we don’t feel scattered or unimportant or uninvolved or underappreciated. There are no worries, no heartaches, no sickness, nothing. But for a brief second you feel collected and whole and at peace and connected with and within everything.

We need to embrace these moments of transmutability.

As I stood next to my sister, arms embraced, I realized we were both, in the glow of the hot blue and purple stage lights, unabashedly crying.

I am not sure what internal war was waging within her, what hurt was being healed within her; for me, the healing balm of acceptance was being soothed onto all the battle wounds that I’d unknowingly let scar me.

In my epiphanous moment I realized that there’s no stopping life. It goes on. That everything that I’m trying so desperately to hold on to – feelings, memories, people, things – is slipping away from me, because they aren’t mine to have forever. When things finish, when things go away, they leave the realm of existence and enter the realm of memory. And I hate that, because memory is the most untrustworthy thing there is. It alters and distorts minor details the older we get, the more we recall and retell it.

Standing with my sister, I didn’t want the concert to end. A physical pain spread through my chest as I realized that it finishing was inevitable. It was a wonderful show and I just wanted to be able to enjoy it forever. And when my sister and I got back into my car, my hears still ringing with the audible perfection I had just encountered, I realized I could never listen to any music ever again; my heart was overjoyed from it and I didn’t want to lose that by flooding my senses with anything else.

But then, how silly is that?

I can’t go the rest of my life never listening to music.

Sadly, a lot of my life is like that. And, quite literally, panic attacks overtake me physically and mentally, and it takes all of my will-power to quiet the unsettling and overwhelming angst I feel at the idea of losing something tangible to memory.

And it happens with everything.

When I’m eating something delicious, I don’t want it to end, because then it won’t exist anymore and I’m afraid I’ll never taste something as delicious again. But then, how silly is that? I can’t not eat tasty things for fear of a) finishing them, or b) never tasting anything as incredible again. More serious than that example is that I’m struggling with the idea of ever dating again because the last boy I was with was so brilliant that I can’t fathom ever belonging to someone else, ever letting someone else hold my hand or kiss me. But then, how even more silly is that?

In my epiphanous moment I realized I need to stop being hung up on the fabulous things that were, but are no longer; I need to stop allowing myself from being terrorized by the things in my past that hurt me.

In my epiphanous moment I need to stop being hung up on the “what if’s?” of a tomorrow that doesn’t exist; I need to stop scaring myself into believing that everything – from concerts and cake, to boys – are once in a lifetime things.

I need to be.

In this moment.

Now.

Because: this is it.

This is my life that I’m living, actually LIVING right now. Right. Now.

Something happened at that concert. Something bigger than I could explain, except that I spent the following day crying. And not from sadness. Not from fatigue. And not, for the first time in a long time, not from hurt. But from a raw, honest happiness. From the pure bliss of understanding and acceptance, of healing, and of some indescribable awakening within me.

As silly as it may seem, I feel different.

Like my existence has been renewed.