Wandering and The Little Things

You know that really corny quote that says, "Sometimes it takes being lost to know exactly where you are"? Or something like that. It was on one of those education posters in your 3rd grade teacher's room or it occasionally appears under the new profile picture of a girl you graduated from high school with. And I know, half the time we say to ourselves, "Oh my god, how many times am I going to see that stupid quote? It isn't true". Well, I would like to say that if there was ever a time I was lost, it was these past two weeks in total.

There is a park in Madrid here called, El Parque Retiro, and might I say it probably was the most beautiful and cleanest one I had ever been to. I decided to work out for the day there in the park; I would run for a while and then stop and do some exercises. It was a simple and good idea in thought that is until one path led to another and another after that and then I was simply lost. And no, it wasn't the lost where you could just waltz up to a map and know exactly where to go after that because doing so didn't help either, trust me I tried. I was hot, thirsty, and had sweat covering so much of my clothes that the shade of color changed darker. And so I thought to myself, what do I do now? Why whatever any normal person would do when they are lost; wander.

So I did just that, I walked through the park until I could eventually find myself a way out. The funny thing about all of it was that I found being lost to somehow be a prime opportunity to maybe see things I never had before. To my surprise, I stumbled into a rose garden, watched couples row haphazardly through the lake, and I walked down the alley of Spanish stone statues. Now, though these new sites and visions of Spanish history were all new, somehow I found a lot of them speaking personally to me. Ruby red roses--a favorite of my late grandmother's, gushy romance in the park lake--something my sisters and I would quietly laugh at, and historic stone statues--pieces of Spain's past that my grandfather Burt would find unbelievable while my eyes fell out of their sockets.

Maybe what I thought about in my last post is slowly making itself present. Pieces of my life, trinkets of those I care about or visions of old memories are somehow quietly, and without me really noticing, trickling down into little details of my day-to-day experiences. I think it all seemed to come full circle during my weekend trip with friends to Barcelona. Well now, the change in language dialects and the occasional nudity on the beach was fairly different from America but it seemed that getting lost through the gothic streets of Barcelona opened up the opportunity to see commonality between the Spaniards and I.   
 

At one point, a group of us just decided to wander, hoping we would find the place we had been in search of. Along the way, I saw friends chat at local cafes while sipping on their cappuccinos, soon-to-be mothers and fathers picking out clothes for their child in Las Ramblas, and then there were little ones going to church with grandma and grandpa at the famous Barcelona Cathedral. You cannot help but think of yourself in those very situations--how simple life used to be and how simple it can be if you choose to look at it in a good way. My Dad told me once about how he used to hold clothes over my mother's stomach when she was pregnant with us. "I think it will fit," he used to say and then she would laugh at his cheesy words and comment, "Jesus, Skip. Sometimes I wonder." There were plenty of those interactions around me with young couples, both frustrated at the others' attitudes yet still so in love. It was refreshing to see ironically. I imagined my friends and I grabbing coffees at Starbucks or buying all the junk food we could before curling up to watch a movie. And then I saw a little bit of myself in the kid who was whining about having to go to church with his grandparents. I was just like him at that age and I am sure he will be seeing himself at my age now looking back and regretting all the trouble he used to cause, whether he meant it or not. 

I guess there is an answer to the riddle. What to do when you're lost? Simple; listen, observe, learn, and move on. Of course, I cannot observe so much so that I can change my past but I can learn about who I was and who I should be moving forward from all of this. I suppose I would like to change that quote from earlier, "Sometimes it takes getting lost to know exactly where you are and to know exactly where you need to go." When those trinkets and memories come flooding back in those moments when you are admiring your surroundings and people passing by, do not regret or wish you could have them back. Rather, resolve the problem with new directions--new paths to take so as to move forward toward a place where new memories are made, whether they are with those here or with the spirits of those who have left us. So the motto of the story: always carry a cellphone, a map, and an open sincerity toward yourself and others. Doing so will only make being lost that much more rewarding and humbling as we follow new, unknown paths in life. Here is to a better tomorrow.

-M 

Goodbyes and The Little Things

Think about the last time you said goodbye to someone or something. Do you remember? How easy was it? How hard was it? For the longest time I have been told of and experienced the harsh brutality that comes with having to say a goodbye. It's weird I suppose, the majority of the time we expect them to be hard in the moments leading up to it but it still never seems to make the moment any less harder or emotional. I think a lot of us can find truth in that statement.

A few days ago, I visited a place I said goodbye to a while ago, Brookfield High School. I was running and decided to take an old but still familiar path around the fields. I crashed the football team's practice and was welcomed back on the old field with open arms and lots of catching up. It was a short pit-stop to my final check point at the old equipment shed, still splashed with old graffiti of young high schoolers and still heavy with a lot of character--character that brought back many memories. I did a few exercises up and down the hill and when I turned to walk around the front of the shed, a familiar shade of blue caught the corner of my eye.

It was a blue Brookfield football practice jersey simply coating the top of the fence as the gate doors brushed up against it. I could not help but remember the days I wore the Brookfield blue before I said goodbye to it. But, it was not until I looked closer at the jersey did I notice something even closer to my heart. Written on the jersey was the number, 51. It was almost as if the jersey was sitting there and watching, waiting for me to waltz by it. And for some inexplicable reason, I found it and it found me. For those who may not know, the number 51 has been a symbol to the Consalvo family for generations. It started as a number on an address and evolved into a football jersey number that has now become our common lucky number in the family. Some of us like to look at it like a guardian in one sense or another.

Once I saw the 51 on the jersey it was almost as if a picture-perfect moment transpired. I smiled at the site of it and the meaning it still has, just as I did so, the sun faded down onto my face. I turned to glimpse back at the football team then once more at the jersey. And as I stepped to walk away, the drum-line instantly picked up to cap off a wondrous little moment I shared with myself.

When we say goodbye to someone or something, depending on the circumstance, we think it is a definite one--a permanent one. But to our dismay and surprise, good people and good things never really seem to stay gone. I thought I said goodbye to BHS, to Brookfield, to Pop, and to 51. But the high school's hallowed halls still feel dense with countless memories, Pop's cologne can infuse the air once in a while, and the number 51 will appear when I least expect it but I most need it. Maybe it's a sort of phenomenon or disillusion, but it keeps me balanced and sane so maybe something is working.

So there is a beauty to be found in saying goodbye I suppose, as hard as I take it though sometimes. There tend to be little pieces, visions, trinkets of those that we say goodbye to that find their way back into our lives at sometimes the most surprising but most necessary moments. I said goodbye to my family before leaving for Spain, as hard as it was. Watching Mom get choked up and Dad roll his eyes obviously made me immediately miss them. But I guess it is like I said, maybe there will be little pieces or trinkets of life I see along the way around the world that brings those special people and things right back to me. It is the kind of thing that makes you smile humbly walking down a sidewalk or around a street corner. It may be a mother gently waving her fingers over her sleeping son's arms or a father teaching his son how to smoke a cigar blind to the fact that the kid is actually choking. In any facet, I find comfort in the belief that all I love and care about is with me in every step I take in life. Sometimes the thought is the only thing to keep us happy and grateful. So really, I guess I don't believe in goodbyes, rather, I anticipate the, "Hello, again." Here is to a better tomorrow.

-M