I will take myself

to dinner, to the theatre, to the cinema, to Paris…

Dear friend,

I hope you’ll forgive my long absence. Or, perhaps, I hope you’ll accept my sporadic presence. This is, as I’ve come to embrace, the truth of living slowly and thinking deeply. It’s not content creation. Sometimes I just don’t have anything to say. That’s not true. I always have something to say. In fact sometimes I wish I’d stop yapping for, like, a day. The truth is, for a long time, I just didn’t have it in me to sit down and write this letter after completing all the other tasks of the week, both tangible and emotional. But I walked over to a small cafe this morning and I sat down with an earl grey and a morning bun and I wanted to write this to you now, from this little table in the sun.

I hope you’re doing alright.

What a year, huh?

I feel bowled over by grief more often than I think is supposed to happen. A lot of my friends are experiencing pain I can’t take away. I am navigating the slow deterioration of a parent’s life, every day feeling like I’m perched on the edge of a cliff, with nothing to hold on to if an angry wind found me. I (and I suspect you) can’t open the phone without being confronted by one horrifying thing after another.

My friend. It is a lot. So I mean it when I say: I hope you’re doing alright.

As for the horrors, I wish I had some words of advice for you. Some bulleted steps for how to keep going as normal when the world is crumbling around us. Routines help me. Writing helps me. Cooking helps me. Long walks help me. Crying helps me. Stories help me.

I’ve been reading a lot. As the saying goes, when the going gets tough, the tough disassociate into fictional worlds. Pretty sure that’s how it goes. Right now, I’m reading A Sea of Unspoken Things by Adrienne Young and so far it’s been incredibly absorbing. (Okay fine yes I am also re-reading the Anne Rice Vampire Chronicles. I am who I am).

I’ve also been going to the movies a lot. Alone. It’s such a sublime pleasure to walk up to my neighborhood cinema, a contraband bag of Trader Joe’s popcorn sitting in my suspiciously large bag (please don’t rat me out). I lose myself into whatever story is in front of me, and then I step back out into my world, blinking at the light. I always choose the seat right in the middle. Before, when I used to be self-conscious about doing things alone, I used to pick the seats on the periphery. The corner seat. Somewhere I can hide. Please don’t mind me. I stopped that a while ago. Now I want the prime seat. At the cinema, at the cafe, at the restaurant, at the ballet, at the theatre. Put me in the good seat. Let me see. Let me be seen. I am here. And what a miracle.

Last month I spent some days in London and then Paris. Every day I was in London, I saw a show. Alone. For The Importance of Being Earnest at the National Theatre, I arrived a little too early because my dinner plans fell through (I went back to my hotel for a nap, woke up too late, and by the time I ran to Pret for a sandwich they were already closed). So I went to the little cafe outside the theatre and got an espresso and a cheese sandwich. At 7pm. There in that cafe, people greeting each other, talking in the typically English hushed tones with one another while drinking things that are not a nighttime espresso, I felt that old familiar shame of being alone. Looking like a loser. So I skulked off to find my seat, now very self-conscious of the giant neon sign above my forehead: loner.

My seat turned out to be an incredible steal. I’d gotten it in the Friday lottery the week before, a very long shot since this show was sold out for weeks. I had very low hopes for the seat but I simply had to see the show. And it was the best seat I could have hoped for. A balcony in my own little private box. Behind me sat another person, and right away we did the “I’m solo too” nod. We spent intermission together, talking wildly about the show (which was incredible. I would tell you just how incredible but why don’t you see for yourself when it comes to the screen?).

After the show, I walked briefly along the south bank of the Thames and cried happy tears. The transformative power of art. My own courage. The beauty of London in the moonlight. It was everything I needed. And none of it would have found me had I let the sting of feeling perceived as something I am not stop me from experiencing life. I know I am not a loser. Whatever that is. I live a life I love. I am often surrounded by people I love. I close my eyes every night knowing that if the day I lived was my last, it was not wasted.

Ans so, a week later, when the opportunity suddenly appeared to see a show at the breathtaking Palais Garnier in Paris, I did not hesitate. I went alone, and I saw a (bizarre) modern dance performance in a place beyond description in its beauty. And then I walked for a while along the Seine, fighting back the same happy tears. I found myself at Pont Neuf just before midnight so I paused for a while with the crowd of mostly tourists. We were all there to watch the tower sparkle across the water. And she did. And I did.

I hope you don’t shrink away from things you want to do, places you want to go, for fear of how others might perceive you. And if you do feel fear and whatever else, I hope you know that’s okay. And that you can still do it. We want approval from those around us. We crave their acceptance. At least I do. I think it’s human nature. I hope it is. And one of the ways I overcome that feeling, when it holds me back from honoring myself, is remembering that this day, this one right here, could very well be my last. I would hate to waste it hiding away because of what someone else might think of me.

Sorry for the sudden morbs. Sometimes I do that.

Anyway, if you’re still reading, thank you. You’re the person to whom I write these letters.

I have some plans for this little space in the coming weeks. Nothing major, I just plan to write more regularly and I have some ideas for more bookish and other content. I hope it will be worth your time.

Thank you for being here.

Take good care,

Lidiya