pastrytopediatrics

Easter. It’s a time for new beginnings, a new year, of sorts. I was reminded of that today. It rang true and remarkably timely, resonating in a way that caught me vulnerably off-guard and enabled my embrace. I’ve struggled over the past few years to separate my faith from religion, or at least that of an organized nature. It’s been a much more messy and challenging process than I imagined. I’ve held faith in fundamental concepts and the significance of those behind this holiday: forgiveness and fresh beginnings are two I hold close.

Today, I found myself embodying the both. I saw things clearly for the first time in nearly a year. I’d made a large investment, one of an unparalleled nature in my life. It didn’t yield a return and instead, sucked so much in, over and over again. Instead of soundly accepting my loss and letting go, I put more and more in, thinking, eventually, it had to pay off. There’s no way I could have put so much of myself into something that yielded negligent, if not negative, returns. So I held on, and I waited, and I waited some more, holding onto the hope that I hadn’t so foolishly put unfounded faith in something so fruitless.

I fell in love with an idea, not a reality. I saw a large and lively tree in the maybe-someday instead of the sad little seed that never saw the light. That clarity came with the freedom to let go. I put faith in a possibility, in a potential, but failed to realize the basis was so burdened, it would never bloom. Instead, it sucked so much out of me I felt suffocated, sick, and stuck. No investment’s worth that. No matter how much you nurture, some seeds never sprout. Sometimes, they’re just stubborn, hollow shells of something they’re not, much like the majority of my garden last year. I finally saw that through the clear, warm light brought about by spring and sunshine. I saw the sprouts popping up around me and saw hope and life and happiness. I saw the elation in something so full of life and love. I wanted that beauty unburdened, and so, I let go. I was reminded of how things should be–encouraging, uplifting, enlightening, full of everyday joy–far, far unlike the stifling, stagnant seed I’d held onto for far too long.

So, I first forgave myself–for foolishly fostering hope and investing in something I thought I could bring to life. It’s time for fresh beginnings. It’s time to be selfish and invest in myself instead of struggling to save something that’s never seen life. I hope that seed someday sprouts, but it won’t be with me. I can dedicate all the life, love, and passion I possess to changing the world and saving one more life, but this one’s not one of them. The seed that won’t grow isn’t worth saving; it’s simply spoiling the space of one that’s able, and I want the whole freaking garden.

It’s an investment that I’ve finally cashed in. I’ll take the losses, let them heal, and know the next time around, I’ll start with a seed that’s already sprouted, or maybe even, a full-grown plant.

Thanks for still believing in true love. You’ve inspired me not to settle for anything less. 

I read it over and over again. This must have gone to the wrong person. It can’t actually be meant for me. Me? I’m not sure I believe in this concept anymore. I did, or at least I thought I did. It didn’t work out so well. The aftermath’s left me ironically apathetic. A wise friend said it well: Hold onto what’s left of your heart with ferocity. You deserve so much more than being some amateur’s abandoned inaugural practice run. 

The truth hurts. It’s harsh. It’d be really easy to be angry (and sometimes I am). I refuse to fathom a reality in which love and humanity are disposable. Well…that’s false. I can fathom it, largely because I’ve been unwillingly hurdled into its receiving end. Even then, I refuse to embrace or embody it. It’s simply a subpar way to live.

All of which leads me to question: Do I really believe in true love? Inwardly, instinctively, I scream its antithesis. It’s unimaginable. It’s impossible. I lived in eternal exhaustion trying to teach someone how to love. In retrospect, it was an unachievable feat. You can’t learn to love without letting go of your heart–that’s just a fumbling road to failure and disappointment, on both ends.

All of that considered, I do believe in true love. It might not be in the most conventional sense, but I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I know it exists. I know through my kids. No, I don’t really have my own kids–but, I have those that have forever left an impact on my heart. I know it in the big brown-eyed four-year-old Liam that lit up my life with every little laugh and twinkling eye and heavied my heart with every tear. It’s what’s behind every toppling hug and morning smile. It’s a limitless love, one that knows no constraints of circumstance or other’s opinions. It’s in the fiery shouting spitfire Shelly that, in outstretched arms, spun in endless ecstatic circles blowing bubbles until she couldn’t breathe. I’ve fiercely felt that love. It’s ruthless. It’s unconditional. It knows no boundaries. It fights to the end and never lets go.

Hopeless or not, I believe in that love–and I refuse to accept that it ends with double-digit ages. I believe in real-life, grown-up Liams and lasting love and happily ever-afters. It takes a heart willing to love with conscience and courage over cowardice. Those brave enough to live and love like that evidently are not a dime a dozen, but I don’t care. I’d rather last a lifetime longing for a Liam-type of love. It’s worth it.

I talk to myself, a lot. I became acutely aware of my apparent audible rambling earlier this week as a late sixty-something-year-old man loudly hissed ‘SSSHHH’, only to immediately continue his own stream of consciousness spewing. His was clearly his shopping list and for memory’s sake.

Mine, to the contrary, was nothing of the clear-cut productive sort. I was sorting out my life while mindlessly slurping a grande soy latte and scarfing down the mini Cadbury eggs I had not yet purchased. Despite an atrociously expensive French pastry diplôme, I still strangely love those little pastel-coated chocolate thingies. They remind me of home and Easter egg hunts well past the age of any acceptable occurrence of such (think post-NYU graduation, and yes, I’m serious…just ask my mom).

Somewhere between electronics and babies, I consider leaving first-world comforts behind and doing Doctors without Borders when I graduate. Graduation: the elusive concept that forever taunts me amidst endless exams, rotations, and overcommitting myself to extracurriculars. As it looms closer, this quiet panic sets in with the pressure to ‘figure things out’. I thought that’s what my twenties were for, but their end looms ever closer as well–and I still don’t have everything, or anything, figured out.

Babies. As I wander (and often wander) the aisles, I convince myself I’m doing ‘research’. I work in pediatrics. I’m just seeing what’s out there. Note: this is the same shoddy justification I use to warrant my wandering of the toy aisles. Really, I’m just looking for new developments in the world of Curious George. I wonder if I’ll ever be in a place to buy onesies and wipes. It too, seems so elusive. I can’t even commit to buying an iPhone car charger, let alone a child (and yes, I know I can’t buy one. Well, I could, but I wouldn’t. I’d prefer not to go to jail). But I know that I want one, or several, someday. For now, I’ll stick to the four-legged shedding variety that conveniently vacations at grandmommy’s house whenever the need arises.

As I deem the off-white ballet wedges no city girl should ever own a ‘necessity’, I’m struck by how much I miss my best friend. She’s in Seattle. She would stomp her foot, demand that I put them back, then turn around and confidently claim the imperative nature of the neon green sports bra in her iron-clad clutch. She’d laugh if she saw the waylaid rainbow chip frosting of our childhood I secretly stashed in the freezer; she’d laugh even harder if she knew my mom had sent it to me to send to her. Instead, it took residence next to the ice cream maker and supplements study sessions, one sickly-sweet frozen spoonful at a time. I can’t even remember the last time I saw her, but I know she’s always there. We’re polar opposites, but she gets me and always has. It’s one of those friends to the end kind of things.

It forces me to acknowledge the value of meaningful intimate interactions and the incredible influence they bestow in our lives. It’s 100 humbling, inspiring strangers creating a unified voice for a million and a half children that need us. It’s the early morning text from a true friend that stops to convey the value of your friendship and love (thanks Jess) in the craze of always celebrating others. It’s five fabulous hours spent with someone that makes you realize everything you were missing before this. It’s enchanting, lost in conversation infatuation that restores your faith in love, even amidst the ‘wrong place, wrong time’ reality.

I thought I only came here for conditioner. I think I really came here to wander aisles and let my mind do the same: to figure out that I don’t have to have things figured out. Twenty-seven plus year later and I’ve finally accepted it, somewhere near the milk. I don’t know what I’m doing next year, let alone next week, and I’m okay with that. It’s a live, learn, and love by the moment type of life, and I think that’s called the twentysomethings.  Although I do have an an admirable assortment of kitchenware, so I guess I’m one step closer. I agree Nathan Heller, it is a semi-charmed life. The twentysomethings are all right.