Back to life... Back to reality...

Both times I’ve found myself in London – once as a silly 24 year old and again a few days ago – I was struck with the same feeling that I had when I set foot in New York the first few times.  In other words, that “I could live here” feeling.  There’s something about that city… its pulse, its rhythm, its neighborhoods that melt into one another, its buzz, its indescribable it.   Flash forward to an afternoon spent wandering around London’s East End (which is SERIOUSLY a dead ringer for Williamsburg – from the brick facades to the hipsters to the Brooklyn Lager signs… no really.  Seriously). I was paying for a jazzy little sweatshirt number with an off-center zipper.  I needed some warmer clothes for the upcoming jaunt to Iceland, after all.  (Side note to all those who consider traveling to 66˚ N: Check the weather report before packing.  This smarty-pants just assumed it was semi-warm everywhere.  Even in Iceland.)  The sales clerk asked for my ID and the following scene ensued:

Sales clerk with plugs big enough to put my thumb through: (with a somewhat posh accent that seems at odds with his “vintage” t-shirt and masterfully ripped jeans) Oh my god!  You live in New York!  That’s so cool!  I want to move there and start my shoe line.  Do you just love it there?

Joe: Yeah, it’s really great.  But you know what?  I love London.  I’d move here in a heartbeat if the opportunity presented itself.

SCWPBETPMTT: Really?  Why?

Enter Sales Clerk with Ironic Glasses.  She has overheard the conversation and eagerly jumps in.

SCWIG: I went to New York last year and loved it!  And my flatmate?  She is OBSESSED with America.

I think Sebastian the Crab said it best when he sang, “The seaweed is always greener in somebody else’s lake.”  How much time do we spend thinking about what would be or what could be if only x, y, and/or z happened.  What would I do if I married Prince William instead of that horribly unattractive, classless, overweight Kate?  (I kid.  I kid.)  If I lived in London, wouldn’t it be great to spend all my summer nights eating bhel puri as I overlooked the Thames (as I did with Mom and Dad on an amazing last night in London?).  I mean, that one perfect evening could be my everyday existence!  If only I lived there!  Life would be sunshine and high tea!

Poppycock.  Because if I moved there, then I’d probably be telling myself how much greater it would be to live in Madrid.  Or Mumbai.  Or Milwaukee.

Anyway, that same East End afternoon, I popped into the Whitechapel Gallery and spent quite a bit of time in a room exhibiting some of Fred Sandback’s work.  I’ve seen his sculptures before at Dia: Beacon, but considering the pensive mood I find myself in during my meanderings, I was really into it this time.  I was diggin’ it, man.  Ya feel me?

Basically, his work consists of yarn (I think) that appears to shoot out of the floors/ceilings/walls/ windows with laser precision, thus creating these geometric “walls.”  It’s an interesting experience to walk around his work because, logically, you know there aren’t really blockades but you hesitate to step through them.  Your mind has conditioned you to believe that walking through these barriers is an impossible task.  Imagine the stunned state of my instinct, then, when a pixyish girl tiptoed right through that wall.  I kept thinking about this story by Marcel Aymé our French teacher told us about.  Entitled “Le Passe-Muraille,” it tells the tale of a man who discovers that he can effortlessly pass through walls.  And here it was!  Happening in real life!  Right in front of me!  What sort of insight would she gain once she stepped through each of the seven walls?

What threw me for a loop, though, was when she stopped short of the second triangle, bent forward – the upper half of her body shattering that invisible wall, but then managed to twist her body to the left so that her head was outside of the “wall” and she was peering at her own feet.  She moved herself forward only to look at where she was currently standing.

Now that’s an interesting thought.  We’re so forward-oriented – sometimes so backwards-oriented – that we often fail to look at the present moment, where we currently stand.  Of course, this has been on my mind a lot since I’ve been reading The Power of Now.  “The present moment is all you ever have.”  How true!  I think I’m so much more cognizant of the present moment when I travel.  It not surprising, of course, because I strip away all likeness of a “normal” day.  It’s easier to appreciate the millennium of history at Westminster Abbey – not to mention ponder the royals’ ostentatious display of wealth – when that really is the only thing to think about.

So, what exactly triggers my inability to simply exist within the present moment?  While it might be fantastic (albeit a bit selfish) to continue to live in a state of perpetual vacation, void of responsibility, it’s not realistic.  Is it simply responsibility that makes me lose sight of NOW, though?  I doubt it.   Having tasks/people/expectations rest upon my shoulders doesn’t cause me to fret.  So, what is it, then?

Apparently, it took a hot spring in the middle of Iceland to help me figure that out.

Rewind.  After a few wonderful days in London with the parents, I hopped on an absolutely lovely Icelandair flight (the flight attendants were as beautiful and Icelandic as you can imagine them to be) for a brief 26-hour dalliance in this surprisingly ice-free (at least in the summer) country.  We can think of the brief stopover as a delayed reentry to normal life: two and a half weeks in Paris -> 3 days in London -> 26 hours in Reykjavik -> Brooklyn.  It’s like scuba diving – you can’t immediately return to the top.  You have to pause to avoid the bends.  Or, in my case, the reality blues.

Anyway, in an attempt to really milk every last second of vacation, I went to this stunningly gorgeous hot spring before going to the airport.  It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.  Nestled amongst mountains formed of black volcanic rock that have been dusted with brilliantly green moss, there’s this natural network of electric blue water with the slightest smell of sulfur, steam snaking away from its surface towards the sky.  As I lounged in the water, restorative silica mud smoothed across my face, I actually started to feel a bit stressed.  A glimpse into my mind:

“Okay.  I have two hours left but I want to go and have lunch.  I want to make sure to eat slowly since I’m being more French so that should probably take an hour.  But I haven’t been to the steam room.  And there’s that waterfall that’s supposed to feel like a massage.  And I have to take a shower.  But I don’t want to rush.  And I can’t be late for the bus.  Oh – I want to see how much their spa products are.  Should I have a glass of wine?”

It was at that moment that I realized that this type of thought is my enemy.  When presented with a smorgasbord of possibilities – whether it’s spa treatments or health insurance plans or a list of friends to call – but a limited amount of time, I get wrapped up in indecision which leads to inaction and, ultimately, unhappiness.  Let’s go back to the lagoon: If I hadn’t been conscious enough to step back and look at my thoughts – as opposed to letting my thoughts dictate my being – I would have continued in that indecisive circle.  I would have ended up doing none of the proposed activities.  I would have left Iceland – the last stop from this summer’s adventure – in a state of regret.

So what did I do?  I simply accepted the circumstances.  No matter which combination I picked I was still at a freakin’ hot spring in Iceland.  I mean, that is not a stressful situation.  So I didn’t make it to that steam room.  BIG DEAL.  I’m not delusional enough to think that my day was less than ideal.  No one’s crying for me – nor should they!

My biggest lesson, then, was simply to accept the present moment.  It simply is.  This moment is what it is.  I can choose to be paralyzed by that reality or I can do what one person can realistically do right now.  That idea certainly isn’t complicated – on the contrary, it’s quite simple – but I know that it will be difficult to uphold now that I’ve safely landed back in New York and am once again presented with a “normal day.”

So, as I sit here tucked in bed, the alarm set for my first day back at work, I’m going to keep that image of the doe-eyed girl in London’s Whitechapel Gallery firmly planted in my mind.  Even if I feel my body being pushed forward, I need to make sure to look at where I’m currently standing.  That’s when I’ll know that I’ll be happy standing on my own two feet – no matter where in the world those feet might be resting.