Fleeting

A few months ago I moved across the country. 3000 miles away from the people I grew up with, went to college with, achieved my first taste of cooperate success with. I moved to a small town in Oregon, not knowing a soul when I arrived. Over the months that followed, I made this place my home. But six months isn’t quite enough time to replace the memories of 25 years. So when I began to hit a rough patch, booking a trip home, to a place of familiarity, seemed like the only logical course of action. As the trip approached, my excitement grew; I was one day closer to seeing some of the most important people in my life. When the day finally arrived, I was flooded with a range of emotions. Sure, I would get to see those I missed so dearly, but I also would need to report back on the success of my westward venture. Of which I didn’t feel there was much of at times.

However those feelings of doubt quickly disintegrated when I arrived at my destination. As I walked out of the terminal, I could see my best friend Kait waiting for me with a glistening smile, holding a sign that said "B-Chedda" on it (a reference to a self-awarded nickname from an immature high school inside joke). Seeing her was so cathartic, because it reminded me of the unconditional love and perpetual playfulness of those who surround me. Life just seems to flow in those moments, everything in its place. As the trip continued, I proceeded to spend time with many of my close friends and family. I stopped by my old office and got the scoop on the latest drama and office news, smoked some hookah and threw axes with some old work friends, had meals filled with laughter and philosophical discussion with old college friends, hiked and camped with old high school friends, and grilled with the family. It all seemed to happen so quick, rushing from event to event. But each moment was so intensely satisfying, like a piece of me that was missing was finally filled in.

When the trip finally came to a close, I began to feel intense sadness. My brain knew this moment was inevitable, yet did not want to accept it’s looming presence. Just before my departure, I took my niece in my arms and said goodbye. She began to rub her eyes and cry, it hit me like a punch in the gut. I knew when I moved that missing key moments in her life while I was away would be difficult, but this took it to a whole new level of intensity. “I’m sorry,” I awkwardly stammered. All the while knowing those words weren’t worth much. We finally adjusted to the idea of parting ways once again and I plopped down in my Mom’s car and let out a massive sigh. “What’s wrong?” she inquired lovingly. “It’s just hard, saying goodbye to all this and knowing what I’m missing.” It was a long car ride. My mind was running with deep thoughts about relationships and the sacrifices we make to pursue our passions. My mother dropped me off at the airport, we hugged, clearly both feeling an inevitable longing for the impossible: that this moment would never end. I gathered my bags, walking through the airport once again, and couldn’t help but try to wrap my mind around these feelings. About a year ago I had lived in this very place, feeling as though I was stuck in a rut and looking for a change. Something to limit the stress of work, surround myself with people that challenge me, get away from same way of life I endured for so long. Yet now I have those things and find myself back in the same situation I arguably was trying to get away from, but this time feeling some of the most intense happiness I’ve ever felt. It’s strange and confusing. These feelings forced me to ponder on the inevitable fleeting nature of emotions.

When you go through an experience, positive or negative, the feeling seems so inescapable, so poignant. You are the first person to graduate college in your family, you finally get that promotion, the pain of find out you’ve been cheated on, the regret of hurting people you care about. All these things overwhelm you, sometimes giving the impression that nothing else in the world matters. Your heart begins to beat faster, your mind begins to play out every simulation of the impacts of this event on your future or the memory of the past. It envelopes you. Eventually, time passes, whether it’s days or weeks, months or years, and the feeling begins to disappear. However, contradictory to the swift piercing nature with which it arrived, it slowly distegrates, like a sand castle in the wind. Portions of this masterpiece that the mind created remain, but it’s only a fraction of what it once was. Even the exquisite design on the portions that remain begin to fade.

How can this be? Is it simply our memory failing us over time? Perhaps our mind was never really good at recording our experience in the first place (faulty camera in our minds, thanks Death Cab). Or maybe, just maybe, our mind is a devious one, turning down the strength of the emotion because it poses a threat to our future success. Whatever it is, I am fascinated with it. Because of all the philosophies about time and it’s existence and importance, this has to be one of the most fascinating. This phenomenon is surely universal. Even if you have a photographic memory, the emotion surely fades; perhaps your image of the past is just a bit brighter than everyone else’s.

I believe this goes beyond individual events in our lives. It extents to our friendships, romantic relationships, jobs, new towns, and major life phases. When something is new, we marvel at it. We identify all it’s positive qualities, latch to it, learn from it. But eventually that initial luster fades and so too does our gratitude. We move it from front and center on the mantel of our lives to the dusty attic. However many times this doesn’t feel like an active choice. It just happens slowly, naturally. And before you know it time has made you forget why that thing was so important in the first place. It nearly fades out of existence. Well, until you go back and visit old friends after moving away, look at an old photo, read an old love letter…and the flame is reignited. You’re reminded of how important it was to your past or the happiness you felt when you had it. It leaves you grasping for something you’ll never capture in it’s original form; like bubbles in the wind that only leave their residue when you catch them. It’s not quite the same. And that feeling in those moments is quite surreal. It’s a fisherman’s stew of emotions. You feel youthful and content, placing yourself back in those moments, even briefly. At the very same time, regret creeps in, as if you could have done something to maintain this shimmer forever. Even though you know deep down it wasn’t possible. How can we feel so full and so empty at the same time? I guess that’s in character for something so blisteringly powerful yet so unremarkably passive…time. It changes everything.

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