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six
Many days I have awoken only to find myself in a melancholic stupor.
Yesterday was Friday the 13th, and in tune with the natural tone of the day I prepared to hide away at my house watching mindless romantic films and consoling myself about the insignificant problems of my youth. Yet the anticipated dreary day never arrived. Ironically, the sun rose with me and despite my best attempts to draw out my inner moodiness, I found myself propelled outside into the awaiting sunshine.
The feeling of the sun upon my face has always been a strange phenomenon, especially the calmness it spreads throughout my body.
Yesterday I sat outside attempting to nap with my chair positioned in the direct light of the sun. I had my eyes closed, but even then the brightness seemed to pierce through my eyelids, causing me to stir with the uneasiness that while I wasn’t openly staring at the sun, my thin eyelids could hardly prevent the rays from blinding me. I wrapped my scarf around my head, tucking the edges into my hoodie. With my head tilted, I covered half my face with the fabric, letting my cheek peek out at the warmth.
The soft tingling of the sun’s rays hit my exposed skin like drops of hot water: scalding at first, yet pleasant after the initial half-second. I sat there in my eccentric attire, attempting to ignore the reality of the world. Attempting to forget why I was sitting alone in my backyard, ignoring texts and social media. In those few hours, it was just the sun and I. My worries, my fears, my never-ending melancholy were gone.
Every fifteen minutes I would rouse myself out of my daze and move my chair away from the creeping shadows and closer to the light, yet eventually the sun hid. The warmth was gone. Once again I was left facing my reality, my melancholy.
five
One of my first memories from when I was a child was watching my mother write in a little notebook. She would constantly scribble away at the pages with her fountain pen, looking up once in a while to make sure I wasn’t getting into trouble. When I gained a few years she used to let me draw in her notebooks. They weren’t even legible, but she would always leave those pages untouched with her words, like some sort of shrine to my three year old self. Sometimes she would read to me from those notebooks, poems and little stories that she had jotted down from magazines and newspapers. I never looked at her notebooks without her knowledge, but I was always enthralled by them, always curious to see what lay on the pages she didn’t show me.
My mother is an incredible woman, an eccentric type, just like me. Her collections involve figurines of ducks, toy lambs, dishes, vintage tea pots, candles, the list goes on. But what she loves to collecting more than anything else are flowers. I don’t think you can really collect flowers, but if you can, then the amount of orchids perched on windowsills in my house is undeniably an impressive collection. Naturally, we also have a lot of flower pots, but my mother fills these with an impressive amount of different items. The other day I happened to discover a flower pot containing many of my mother’s old journals and I couldn’t help ruffling through some pages.
It felt wrong to look through my mother’s journals without her permission, but curiosity definitely got the better of me. The first and oldest journal was marked with 1984, so my mother was only three years younger than I am when she began to record her life on those pages. I don’t know how long it took her to fill the notebook, but it was incredible to flip through the little book inspecting the inked words. There were poems about love, mothers and fathers, flowers, and life. There were short stories, quizzes, horoscopes, and recipes. Scattered throughout the book were pressed leaves, photos, magazine clippings of cute boys, clothes and flowers. And jotted down in random corners or spanning many pages there were lists of hopes and dreams.
As I flipped through the journals I felt as though I was prying into her life, but at the same time I couldn’t stop. With every word I read I saw myself in the pages. As much as I love my mother and as well as I get along with her, I never realized that we were so similar. From these ink blotted pages jumped a beautiful young woman who lived in the clouds, and over 20 years later, here I sit, a replica of her.
Like all replica’s I’m not a perfect representation of her, but it still fascinates me that we are so extraordinarily similar. Although I share my differences with her, we are more alike than I ever thought we could be, and even if I cannot reveal to her that I sat there sifting through her journals, I hope I can find a way to make her realize I appreciate her more than she thinks I do.
My next steps will be to copy down some of her poetry and stories into my own journal so that I can always have a reminder of that silly little quote “like mother, like daughter”. But it’s not that silly, is it?
four
Mamihlapinatapai: the wordless, yet meaningful look shared between two people who both desire to initiate something but both are reluctant to start.
I can’t remember the first time that I heard this word, but I’m sure I was nursing a broken heart because someone else had failed to show interest in me. I feel like I’ve been battling this curse of the “broken heart” for years, whining and complaining more than my friends who’ve actually dealt with real break-ups, not mere rejections. Yet, when I heard this word I knew right off that something was wrong with the English language. Why didn’t we have a word like this? Why do we still not have a word like this? A word that perfectly describes a condition that so many individuals suffer.
I know that moment, that moment when you see someone that causes you to blush, your tummy to tumble, your mind to develop a little buzzing. I think that moment has gained considerable experience since I had my first crush when I was 7. But for so many years I thought I was suffering from this unfortunate condition alone. I thought that I was a “chicken,” a weakling unable to stand up and make the first move. Turns out, I’m not the only one. Nope. You want to know why? Because someone out there, many moons ago, decided to create a word that describes my exact situation every single time I see an incredibly handsome guy. And unless this said creator of this fantastic word was somehow able to predict my actions and thoughts before I was even born, I think it is safe to say that there is a whole big group of us lonely hearts out there.
This word is beautiful, yet quite miserable at the same time. While it holds possibility that one of the two people will eventually make that first move, it shells out an endless array of gloomy thoughts. This word describes the moment when you see someone, say on a train. You have no idea who the person is, but the moment when you see them, a spark enters your heart. Maybe it’s the way they stand or maybe it’s what they’re wearing. Maybe it’s the colour of their hair or the way they lick their lips while they gaze at the subway map. I could write a book about why someone might pull at your heart-strings, but I’ll save you from all the mushy stuff. Anyways, there is this deep look that you give each other that basically says, “Please just say hi and ask me for my number. I’ll give it to you! I’ll tell you everything about me if you just open your mouth and talk to me first.” Have you ever been caught in the headlights, blinded for those few seconds by an overbearingly bright light? That’s the same feeling that look gives. The deer in the headlights, overwhelmed and completely scared as to what to do. Eventually, the lights shut off, the deer runs away, and you, well you get off the train or they do. That look that begged them to start something, that showed your fear of being the first one to make a move didn’t work. Of course, this situation can be repeated in hundreds of different ways. Come to think of it, you might even know the person, but at least that way there is a higher chance that someone will begin something someday. Or it just means your heart will ache a little bit more.
As a person to whom this word applies at least once a week, I have to admit that I’m quite delighted that there is a group of us around the world suffering from the same stupidity to act. The knowledge that I’m not the only lonely heart who feels a tiny pin in my chest each time I let an opportunity slip past is a wonderful feeling. I feel as though mamihlapinatapai should become a club of some sort: Mamihlapinatapai - The Lonely Hearts of the World. We could have badges made … maybe that would draw us to each other, even if we are unable to talk to each other. But that would be a quite wretched existence, wouldn’t it?
Despite how beautiful this word may appear, it’s ladled with cruel sufferings, and therefore, I hope that one day this word doesn’t apply to me anymore. Someday, one day, I want to break free from this sixteen letter word of misery and loneliness.
three
Do you know that feeling?
That gut wrenching feeling that begins in the pit of your stomach. At first it feels like snakes writhing in your stomach, making their way to your intestines, until you feel so sick you need to sit down. Then the snakes leave, and it seems you’ll be alright, but you won’t because at that very moment the butterflies leave their cocoons. Those few moments when you felt perfectly fine was when the butterflies were growing inside their cocoons. There’s fluttering, it’s as though thousands of winged insects are dying to burst their way out, but they can’t, so they blindly hit the walls of your body, irritating you, causing your body to heat up.
You go weak at the knees, and you wonder when your legs became bowls of jelly, unable to hold your weight. Still, you can’t forget the butterflies. They want to be set free, but you can’t let them leave…you don’t want them to leave. You are their mother now, you need to protect them. These butterflies are rather fun, aren’t they? Scary, but incredibly brilliant at the the same time.
A red tone is creeping onto your cheeks now, spreading ever so slowly. You can feel yourself becoming warm, but it’s not even hot outside, your body is creating this heat. Your mind is fighting the butterflies, telling them to go away, disappear, but you…your heart is still trying to protect them. Butterflies are good after all, aren’t they?
You can’t breathe now. What’s going on? You’re getting dizzy, you’re giving up your body to these butterflies, allowing them to spread to your toes, to your fingertips. They’re enveloping your heart, overtaking your mind and every sensible thought you had only a few moments ago. You can’t breathe. There’s no oxygen hitting your brain, you’re overheating, beads of sweat begin to slide down your face.
Your eyes lose focus. Everything is blurry. You’ve overheated, you’re sweaty, it’s as if you’ve just gotten over a fever. The butterflies have left. They disappeared, they’re gone.
Do you know that feeling? That feeling that can last mere seconds? That feeling that allows you to wander throughout the rest of your day smiling as if you were hypnotized? That feeling that can be drawn out of your body for a mere look, a connection of eyes?
Yes. That feeling. Do you know it?
The butterflies are gone now.
But they’ll return. They always do.
two
I’ve spent days sifting through my memories of growing up in the old house on the long tree lined street.
When I moved to Toronto, we lived in the basement of a grand old house. I’ve always lived in old, but beautiful houses. The house was separated into three apartments. On the first floor lived the landlady, a wonderful grandmother whose two grandchildren (a boy - two years older than me and a girl - one year younger than me) would visit her each day after school. On the second floor was a random woman that us kids always avoided. I lived in the basement. When I was little I was scared to tell my schoolmates where I lived, for fear of being made fun of even more, but over the years I’ve grown to be proud of where I lived as a child. It may not have been much, but the time spent there allowed my family to save money to buy our own lovely little house. Living in a basement shaped my character; it made me humble and grateful for everything that has come my way. Besides, the basement was completely lovely, and very homey.
Yet, that old house is where my love for everything vintage developed. The first floor was a gold mine. The dining room and living room were separated by great glass doors that I hardly ever saw closed, except on special occasions. The dining room had a gigantic map of the world on the wall. The girl and I would pretend to be sisters, hunting for our mother who was kidnapped by evil witches. We would set our course according to the map and run around the house, climbing up and down the secret staircase near the front of the house, and crawling into closets and under beds searching for clues. On days when the boy wasn’t feeling too old for us, we would all build forts in the living room, tugging cushions and pillows off the couches and chairs, piling the dining room chairs together and creating tunnels. We would save towns from dragons and crown ourselves rulers of our wondrous kingdom. We would open cupboards and drawers, searching for hidden treasures as though we were pirates. Sometimes we would just spin in the middle of the living room, arms stretched out wide, till we couldn’t walk straight, and then we would lay there, on the carpet, world spinning, feeling as though nothing could hurt us; the world was ours and ours alone.
It was a magical house, a house with stained glass windows, a veranda hidden partially by bushes, and a balcony at the back of the house perfect for spying. It was a house that fulfilled all our childhood dreams. During summers we would frolic around outside, chasing bees and eating popsicles. We would build all sorts of random contraptions in the garage. The garage with the rusty baby blue car hidden partially by cobwebs and pieces of wood. We were inventors one day, explorers the next. We spent hot days in a plastic wading pool, and cooler days riding the tall bicycle with three wheels that took two people to get on. We climbed fences, dug up the garden looking for artifacts, and imagined that the child next door who never talked to us was a spy.
We all fought as well. There were days when we hated each other, and we would retreat into separate corners, only to forgive each other within minutes, eager to start another adventure.
I remember those beautiful childhood days. School was always horrible for me, but at home I had friends. Children who stood up for me and loved me for who I was. Over time we all grew up, and I moved. The grandmother sold the house. Our lives changed. Yet, despite our parting of ways, those two friends will always be ingrained in my mind as the children that shaped my youth, and who challenged my imagination, daring my mind to believe in the impossible.
one
I’ve always been rather different from my peers and my friends, but I didn’t *really* appreciate it until I turned 17.
I moved to Canada when I was four from a small country in Eastern Europe called Lithuania (Lietuva). I don’t really remember my life there, although I sometimes receive flashes of random memories: strawberry picking with my grandmother, pulling the tail of a great big Saint Bernard, climbing flights of wooden stairs to a secret attic, getting my head stuck in a railing, and visiting the baltic sea on windy days.
When I first moved to Toronto, I was so young that I couldn’t fathom that I wouldn’t be able to see my grandmothers and grandfathers every day. For all I knew, I had just taken a very long journey to vacation in a strange place, and I would be back in a few weeks. I didn’t understand why all the adults around me were crying, after all, I was going to be back, wasn’t I? I didn’t move back, and after 16 years I don’t think I’d want to, but to be able to visit more often would be lovely.
I spent elementary school being extremely bullied for being different. It took me a while to grasp the language, I had an accent, I wore different clothes and styled my hair in a bun, I was a bit chubbier than I liked (although I eventually grew out of it), I ate “strange” foods according to my classmates, I never went to birthday parties because buying presents was expensive, and I could never hold my own birthday party in return. I was criticized for being Lithuanian and for everything else that my peers deemed “not normal”. I hated everything, everyone, and most importantly myself. I only had one friend, but because she wore a bandana due to her Alopecia Areata she was also teased and humiliated. We fit together perfectly.
When I finally graduated from elementary school and started high school life began to get better. I was still made fun of, but I had more time to move away from the crowds and retreat to quite areas of the school. If I had no one to sit with at lunch I would go to the library and study or read. Throughout my time in high school I began to explore the world of fashion, and travel to wondrous places in books that I never believed could exist because of how beautifully written they were. I spent four years dealing with unrequited love, silly fights with friends, and dreaming of university.
When I was 17 I finally took my life into my own hands and I broke free from the grasps of my classmates and society. I stopped caring about trying to fit in and I accepted myself. I started a fashion blog and entered a community of people who believed in being nothing but themselves. I explored photography blogs, art blogs, blogs by world travellers, and blogs filled with hopes and dreams and wishes. When I started university my life changed in a way I could never have imagined, and suddenly my online world broke into my real life. Suddenly I had friends who wrote poetry and who also wasted away their time drinking coffee and ruffling through racks at the local thrift store. I found dreamers and photographers, future doctors, scientists, politicians and lawyers. I renewed my relationship with my elementary school friend, a relationship that had taken dips into oceans and the skies. My world felt full, free and happy. My world is still full, free and happy, but I’ve started questioning my future, pondering my dreams, and wondering who I will be 10 years…5 years down the train tracks.
I’m an old soul. I live in my thoughts more than I should and wish for a simpler time, when picnics by the lake and time to read books (not for school) was more common. While I still dress young, many of my clothes are vintage and I wear them in pairings that remind people of their grandmothers. I like to think the reason I associate myself with an “eccentric grandmother” is because I grew up without grandmothers. I’ve spent 16 years with only an incredible mother and father but apart from a few summers, I’ve never had much interaction with two women who are amazing and beautiful in their own special way. I like to think that I’ve recreated my grandmothers through my likes and dislikes, and my personality. Lately, I’ve noticed both my grandfathers filtering through my life. The character and attitude of one, and the hopes and dreams of another. It’s a beautiful thought, to think about becoming a combination of four extraordinary individuals.
I’ve always been rather different from my peers and my friends, but I didn’t *really* appreciate it until I turned 17. Now I cannot imagine being someone different. I am who I am, and I’m proud. I may come off as the “weird” one of the group, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. As E. E. Cummings once said,
“To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.”
That’s the short version of my life, for a longer one you’ll have to wait till I publish my book (another dream). Currently my life is flying past and the minutes are falling away. I’m trying to unearth my place in the world, but it’s becoming harder each day. Hopefully over time this little blog will help me uncover the puzzle pieces so I can fit them together, and find an answer to my long unanswered question.
