Back in August, I posted this, about some uncanny similarities between my late great-grandmother and me. Below is another one of her journal entries my mom found and copied, typed verbatim.
My mother bade me love the good things of life. I now understand in my aloneness I am never lonely--when I am tired of reading, I practice. When I exhaust my slight repertoire of music, I dabble with paints or pencil. The days are full of children and friends--the nights might well be nightmares but for the memory of beautiful words, heroic deeds, heart-breaking melodies, a joyous harmony of colours. Let us impress upon our children the importance of self-resourcefulness, the beauty of sounds and colour, the need of peace and leisure to enjoy what my mother believe were the good things in life.
Ok, so I don't dabble with paint or pencil--stick figures anyone?--and have long given up any musical instrument (singing in the shower/car/kitchen/public probably doesn't count, though I really do miss singing with a group), but my mother taught me the same lessons, generally. It may have something to do with the fact that I am an only child and she a single parent, yes. I spent a lot of time as a kid entertaining myself--I was kind of a weirdo (shocking!), didn't live near too many other kids, and while my mom certainly did her best with our situation, she didn't have a lot of time or energy to expend at the end of the day. I think I probably resented it then, but I'm glad for it now. I spend a lot of time alone. And I kinda like it most of the time, because I can, for the most part, entertain myself and am happy to do so. That self-resourcefulness thing? Yeah, got that down.
I read. A lot. Partly for school--ok, these days, almost entirely for school--but it's a hobby I enjoy nonetheless. I work out--and am joining a new gym so I can get back to yoga. Sure, there are some days that go by in which I do not have any meaningful human contact, and then there are weeks that are packed with activities with friends. Yes, I watch too much tv, but I am also comfortable going to the movies--or dinner, lunch, shopping, a museum--alone. Last week, I took myself on two movie dates, sneaking M&Ms and a bottle of caffeine free Diet Coke into the theater in my oversized purse. My days aren't "full of" friends, but I'm also not lonely. (And my days will never be full of children, thankyouverymuch.) I'm trying to be creative as much as time allows--I've started an adorable poem to my celeb crush to "tweet" him on his birthday; I have an idea for at least one YA novel and children's book; I woke up with an idea for a screenplay the other morning. With a pet, a book, a good snack, and friends to text to stave off boredom, my life is otherwise full and rich.
Living alone certainly has its benefits. I get to decide what to eat for dinner, and if it's crockpot vegetarian chili for 8 nights straight, so be it. (This week it's shiitake-beef stew.) I decide when to go to bed and, four days a week at least, have a say when to get up. My morning routine--breakfast, tea, Rachel, Jon, Stephen--doesn't bother anyone else. My mess is my mess. Though, of course, it's my mess to clean, too. (I've decided to stop hand-washing most of my dishes because it's a chore I can pawn off on something else--the dishwasher--without too much trouble, and I do everything else to maintain cleanliness and order that I can eliminate this task without too much guilt.) When I've had enough of the world and its people, I can escape to the 760 square feet I call home and not get out of my 15 year-old Camp Fowler sweatpants for days. Nice, right?
Sure, I get lonely and miss living with someone sometimes. Last week, I woke up from a wretched nightmare at 1:30 in the morning and wished I could have woken up a body sleeping next to me to help calm me down. I jinxed myself by bragging "I never get sick!" and got knocked on my ass with a cold earlier this week; it would have been nice to send someone out for tissues and gingerale rather than walking around Walgreens in a watery-eyed, congested fog. And, holy crap, am I "touch deficient." I don't mean sex--though sweetjesus, that too--but human, physical contact. A massage. A footrub. Getting my hair played with. (I could, in theory, pay for those first two--not that I can afford this--but honestly the hair thing is my favorite. And these are stupid.) Even sitting close to someone on the couch would be nice. I went on a shopping spree last weekend and brought my bag of fabulous finds over to a friend's house just to show them off because I miss that "look what I got!" mini fashion show you can give a partner or even roommate. (Five dresses, a great sweater and a top for $100. I mean, seriously!) Some moments are better with another human in the house, no question.
My jackass of an ex-stepdad once accused my mom of "ruining men for me" in the sense that she was/is so "damn independent", I might not ever be able to acclimate to a relationship or marriage or whatever based on her model. Or something. (Ironically, the fact that he was a complete and utter asshole did not seem to be part of his consideration for how men might be "ruined" for me. But I digress.) Maybe he's right, though I'm pretty skeptical of this theory. I am capable of sharing my life and living quarters with a partner who respects my need for space and independence. Going to the movies or dinner alone isn't a preference, I just don't mind. (I do prefer to work out and shop alone, though; I doubt too many men would cry that I wouldn't "make" them come shopping with me.) And, when in doubt--there's always Starbucks for me to escape to. Hey--he might need space, too.
Without sounding all New Agey about it, I do believe that the universe tries to teach us lessons. Screw the universe--just we as people need to learn lessons. I needed to learn that I can be on my own--and happily so. And I can. My mom didn't ruin anything for me with her "damned independence;" I just didn't appreciate it until the past year.
Now, where are those paints? Hmm, I have crayons...
