The Other Side Of Things...
Some want to be writers, but they don’t sit down and write. That has never been my problem. Taking a minute to indulge in words and an expensive coffee at cafes around the world is my respite and relief. I love mornings when the coffee is smooth and the words flow freely. When I am the only one up way too early on a Saturday; munching through my almond croissant— which is neither Vegan or Skinny-Girl LA food— way too quickly. It’s that good, though. It’s just, that good.
There is a place with my words and thoughts that I sometimes face. It’s a feeling hiding deep that there is so much I want to type about something else— something un-personal, something business relatable, something flight attendant-esque — but instead of bubbling with creativity, I am blocked by the stories which stand in my way; those tales I would rather not tell. These are the stories that I may have been living over the past few weeks, moments I hoped to forget from far away days, or confusions that continue to ruminate. Frustratingly, I sit in that corner seat at the cafe knowing that to get to another story, I must first face the one in front of me. To get to the other side of things, I must acknowledge that something else will need to wait till tomorrow— for today what hurts is more important.
It’s shattering to hear someone tell you point blank, “No, I don’t love you, and I’m not in love with you.” You pick up your head, kiss them and every dream you dreamed of 'two together' goodbye; step back on an aircraft and smile like you are strong and ok and understand that there are better things on the other side of these things and these rejecting words. Because there are, and you believe there are. But, whether you believe or not, the disappointment displays itself by that lone tear that slips down your soft skin. He doesn’t deserve my tears, I think, as a few more disobedient drops slide past my chin.
I keep hoping someone else will magically waltz into my world to give me the answer to, “There was something worth waiting for” and tell him, “I have someone now,” but I don’t know many men (in twenty-seventeen) who waltz. I would have more luck discovering a salsa or bachata extraordinaire than a waltzing fiend, but really, I’m in the wrong country for the odds to be in my favor.
It does feel like I’m in the wrong country, but equally clear that I am in the right place. Prime-time TV interview opportunities, lucrative sponsored blog posts, and connections made that will prove to be valuable for my future. The momentum is its own sort of magic. I know I wasn’t supposed to move to Spain to kite and write this year. I have a purpose in this place, as uncomfortable as that is in the present. Purpose, like clarity, is a beautiful gift. It makes the sting of, “I don’t love you,” less cutting. It makes the state of “between things” manageable. On the other side of all of this, I’ll create ‘the something else story’ my heart is dying to live and to tell. I'm creating that right now.