When I worked in New York as a 23-year-old, I used to walk home through the West Village crying my eyes out. No one noticed. This was Manhattan before 9/11. I lived in a SoHo loft, went out with friends, saw countless downtown performances, and rode the subway to the Cloisters at 190th Street whenever I needed solitude and a park that didn’t have creepy dudes doing creepy things.
99% of the poetry I wrote during that time was sad. I knew that I was soul sick.
At 26, I escaped Gotham for Aspen. I didn’t know how to ski. I didn’t own a mountain bike. (Both soon rectified!) I had moved there to manage a dance festival, to be in the middle of immense nature and to live with nice people who said hello on the street. When I volunteered for a community project and my team leader was strung out on coke, I knew I needed something even more than mountains.
I went to a small, dark church with about six other parishioners. The sermon was one that I will never forget. He spoke of young people’s pursuit of happiness instead of meaning; when, really, meaning is where it’s at. This was a huge relief to me because a) I wasn’t great at happiness, and b) meaning gave me an anchor.
Thus was born my exploration of life below the surface.
Several years later, my oldest sister was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 43. The thought of losing her was more terrifying and incomprehensible than my whole meaning-filled being could stand. So, after much devotion to my soul, I changed gears.
Awareness of life’s brevity and the singular importance of love and family was a given during that time. Happiness however… was long overdue. Moroseness would do nothing to serve my sister. I vowed to make that six months the best of my life. The highlight was celebrating her recovery by inaugurating the Annual Bare Chested Boobie Romp (now in its seventh year!) Happiness… I was hooked!
While fun as hell, after a while of living in hedonistic pursuit, I came to know deep down that it wasn’t me. Not solely, nor soul-ly. I yearned for depth to ground my pleasure.
I’m not the life of the party, nor am I Ghandi. 14 years after that Aspen sermon and many workshops, therapy, coaching, yoga and pole dancing classes later, I’ve come to believe that my life is about both: happiness and meaning.
Some of you lucky dogs may have been born with this wisdom. For me and perhaps others, it’s been a journey that couldn’t have been forced.
My Dad once told me in his backyard that I needed to “lighten up” (which I didn’t take kindly to!) Just before his death, he thanked me for the “pleasure of my company” after a road trip, just the two of us. I believe the shift was partly due to finally being my true self with him, and partly due to revealing a new self – one that has been hard won. I’m glad he got to experience her for a short while and I’m grateful that I get to live her now.
