I have had a strangely uneventful day (that is of course until about 3 hours ago) and I will explain my reasoning. My typical day is filled with so many errands that I have to run, work that has to be done (where I am employed and at home), calls that have to be rung (the rhymes stop here), and making sure I get the bare necessities (I often forget to eat meals) that I rarely have a day or even a moment to relax and think. I typically begin thinking and within twenty minutes I am worrying. Worrying. About. Everything. Today was completely different.
I had a full day to myself. The weather was absolutely perfect at about 78 degrees with a mild, dry heat that was warm enough to require a loose, billowy shirt with comfortable, light shorts and yet provided you with a gentle breeze to cool the glistening, dewy skin as you rushed about. I was in absolutely no rush, because I had this annoying little headache all day. I tried everything from relaxing, to yoga, to calisthenics, to relaxing again, to a few aspirin, some caffeine, to moving about in the outdoors, to tanning, to more caffeine, and then more aspirin, but it stayed with me. Finally at the end of the night I decided I needed a bath. We won’t get into the seedy details, but the bath was pretty luxurious with bubbles, a face mask, and cucumber eye coverings. I went all out.
I started to sing one of my favorite songs: La Vie en Rose sung particularly by Edith Piaf. I love Edit Piaf, aka the Little Sparrow, and I absolutely love the French version of La Vie en Rose (she sings an English version and, let’s be honest, English translations can ruin a great love song sometimes). I came to a startling realization as I hummed through the parts I had forgotten and then (boisterously) sang the parts that I knew so well. I always imagine myself in an attic in Paris, France in another era (because Paris is timeless) that I fancy at the moment when I sing that song and the sun is shining delicately in from the only warped, clouded window in the room. For some odd reason the place has an over-sized claw foot tub–obviously the only luxury in the tiny place–and even in the tiny little space with only the basic necessities life is perfectly imperfect and imperfectly perfect. I want to live in that tiny space forever as I lose myself in a fantasy and I think suddenly “isn’t it wonderful to lose yourself now and then?”
I think that is how you know you are still human. Being completely lost and having to find yourself again. Making the conscious effort to find yourself can be one of the most surreal and terrible things, but it is one of the most awe-inspiring moments in your life. Realizing that you are lost is the verse of the song that you’re mumbling and stumbling over, the bridge is the building moment when you begin to remember where you were going, and the chorus is the loud, burst of beautiful energy when you get to the place that you remember so well. How could you have been lost? How could you have forgotten the way? And the entire experience begins anew with the new verse, but perhaps not as bad as the time before. How do people function without being lost? Perhaps I am just a dreamer and looking too deeply into the process, but life is like a familiar song that you sing with your whole heart.
Perhaps I am being too romantic. Or perhaps I am once again thinking too much, but I enjoyed the experience and I feel better for having it. Go forth and dream, dreamers.