Trying not to try

I’m trying. Some days, it might be less apparent than others, but I am trying.

I’m trying to be a good friend, to find out how you’re feeling way down deep, underneath what you share when someone asks how you are but doesn’t seem to have time for the story to unfold. I want to know about your mother’s senescence, your partner’s indifference, your struggle to find connection, the circumstances that keep you from believing anything is possible. I also want to know what makes you sing. The truth is, though, I let time go by without checking in. I’d like to do better. I might not succeed, but I’m trying.

I’m trying to be a good citizen, an advocate, a reader, a voter, someone who asks hard questions and doesn’t shut down when the answers are challenging. I have opinions, and I know you do, too, so I want to be willing to appreciate different perspectives. Your vision of the world is unlikely to match up exactly with mine. I get that. We are unique shapes in a scenic life-puzzle, me the periwinkle perimeter of the early morning sky, you the petals on the brightest poppy in the meadow. I’m trying to accept that we need all the pieces for the picture to be complete.

I am trying to be effective and uphold responsibilities, even when I’d rather be dreaming. I check off my lists, if I’ve bothered to make them, but I’m not always sure they mean very much. Every now and again, I think crying is the most important thing I’ve done all day.

I intend to do all the things I need to do to take care of myself, and I’m trying, really trying. But, I’ll be damned if self-care doesn’t wind up feeling like it’s turned into the burden it was meant to ease.  Eat well, sleep well, sit less, move more, make friends, be alone, be present, remember gratitude. I’m working on it, okay? Be patient with me. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

I’m trying to be who I’m supposed to be even though I’m not always sure who that is. That’s a problem, isn’t it? Aren’t I supposed to know by now? Somewhere along the way, I came to believe that everything would click into place one day, and when it did, I’d be able to stop trying and just be. Magical thinking. Maybe not knowing who I’m supposed to be isn’t the problem. Maybe the problem is expecting that I ever will.

With its diminishing returns and increasing concerns, it feels like life requires more living than it should. I want to notice everything, need to notice everything, but what catches my eye are the leaves swimming in schools from the trees, their slow-burn colors a final reminder of how hard they worked before they fell.

Once in a while it finds me, the just being. It is unassuming and powerful, unexpected and profound. It comes alongside when I give myself permission to wake up without setting an alarm, or when I’m laughing like I’ve always laughed with a friend I’ve known for years. It slips in one late afternoon, just after I finish washing the dishes. The sunlight on my hands is the same light shining on the smooth contours of a ceramic bowl. I am held in the mysterious geometry of existence. I don’t have to try.

~Elizabeth