Monday, September 13, 2004
Coffee Shop Window Thoughts
Whenever I read a good book I want to be a writer. Whenever I see a great movie I want to be a director. Whenever I view a beautiful scene I want to be a cinematographer. Whenever I see an actress talking about making a film in those E! interviews, I want to be one.
Am I jealous of the creations themselves? I can't figure out what I want to be. When I get frustrated I tell myself one of two things: either I'm going to do it all or I never will -- I'll just watch the years pass and go to waste.
At times, when I look in the mirror -- ever since Seattle really -- I do see a woman and I like her. But it's tough because I see her positive traits, or the ones that at least have the potential to find luck, are perhaps fleeting and could slip away in the future.
And I'm still trying to figure out what is important to me, but I love the changes so far.
I have fallen in love. With Houston. I have accepted and cherished the fact that this is where I grew up, and this is where I belong. These are new thoughts.
Also, family.
On the drive home from Austin, I thought about home. I thought about the future -- not just mine, but my family's. What I could make of it. I thought about being an aunt. What it would be like to not only grow up with my sisters, but to grow up with their eventual children as well (I'm not ready to breach that subject on my own; children seem much more realistic in the future for both my sisters, rather than for me.)
These exciting yet quiet daydreams give me so much hope. I used to think what my career would provide my family; I suddenly find myself thinking about what family provides.
I thought about what it could be like in so many ways. For my sisters and I to raise our children together in Houston. For them to play together and be close. To have a large extended family with Christmas parties like the fantastic ones my grandparents used to have in their decorated, midwestern basement.
I thought about the heartbreak of moving to Florida at eight years old and losing the childhood closeness I'd had with my cousins and second cousins, great aunts and uncles.
We could build that here, if we wanted. We are at a place to decide.
I entertain these thoughts in contrast to those of raising my own family in Bellingham, or building a career and travelling, teaching English in Japan, or furthering my education on one of the coasts.
It's so nice to dream. It reminds me of the time when a friend told me having her children was possibly the start of the best part of her life, rather than the end of something, regardless of what so many single people like myself commonly think about things we without experience could honestly ever understand while so blindfolded by our youthful ways.
I'm staring out the window of Empire Cafe. The sun has come out to shine after a brief, early afternoon drizzle. The cars are passing by the antique shop across the street. A bird has found a sugar packet and is happily pecking it as if it's a goldmine. I admire the bird while wondering if perception is gold, while grateful to see a living being possessive of the ability to discern a good thing without passing it up. Soaking up all the possible gratitude in the world for a single second.
Whenever I read a good book I want to be a writer. Whenever I see a great movie I want to be a director. Whenever I view a beautiful scene I want to be a cinematographer. Whenever I see an actress talking about making a film in those E! interviews, I want to be one.
Am I jealous of the creations themselves? I can't figure out what I want to be. When I get frustrated I tell myself one of two things: either I'm going to do it all or I never will -- I'll just watch the years pass and go to waste.
At times, when I look in the mirror -- ever since Seattle really -- I do see a woman and I like her. But it's tough because I see her positive traits, or the ones that at least have the potential to find luck, are perhaps fleeting and could slip away in the future.
And I'm still trying to figure out what is important to me, but I love the changes so far.
I have fallen in love. With Houston. I have accepted and cherished the fact that this is where I grew up, and this is where I belong. These are new thoughts.
Also, family.
On the drive home from Austin, I thought about home. I thought about the future -- not just mine, but my family's. What I could make of it. I thought about being an aunt. What it would be like to not only grow up with my sisters, but to grow up with their eventual children as well (I'm not ready to breach that subject on my own; children seem much more realistic in the future for both my sisters, rather than for me.)
These exciting yet quiet daydreams give me so much hope. I used to think what my career would provide my family; I suddenly find myself thinking about what family provides.
I thought about what it could be like in so many ways. For my sisters and I to raise our children together in Houston. For them to play together and be close. To have a large extended family with Christmas parties like the fantastic ones my grandparents used to have in their decorated, midwestern basement.
I thought about the heartbreak of moving to Florida at eight years old and losing the childhood closeness I'd had with my cousins and second cousins, great aunts and uncles.
We could build that here, if we wanted. We are at a place to decide.
I entertain these thoughts in contrast to those of raising my own family in Bellingham, or building a career and travelling, teaching English in Japan, or furthering my education on one of the coasts.
It's so nice to dream. It reminds me of the time when a friend told me having her children was possibly the start of the best part of her life, rather than the end of something, regardless of what so many single people like myself commonly think about things we without experience could honestly ever understand while so blindfolded by our youthful ways.
I'm staring out the window of Empire Cafe. The sun has come out to shine after a brief, early afternoon drizzle. The cars are passing by the antique shop across the street. A bird has found a sugar packet and is happily pecking it as if it's a goldmine. I admire the bird while wondering if perception is gold, while grateful to see a living being possessive of the ability to discern a good thing without passing it up. Soaking up all the possible gratitude in the world for a single second.
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