Who am I? I wonder. I’ve always seen myself as something like an abstract pattern in an undefined space. Like there’s a big, glittery, pink blob there that represents the love I feel for my parents and a group of yellow lines over there that depict the energy I feel in the mornings, running in the hills above the city alongside Mango. Perhaps over there is a big orange starburst floating around that portrays the creative spark I feel when working on a new project. Then there is a dark, scratchy spot where I knew what to do and did not do it.
When I try to zoom out and see what it looks like from a distance, I can’t quite get above it. I just see a non-repeating pattern that goes on as far as I can tell in every direction. From where I am looking, it’s pretty, but it’s disorienting. There is no up or down. There isn’t clear organization or any distinct visual rules. My parental love is the glittery pink blog, but then my love for my grandma resembles something like a wild horse. It doesn’t make sense.
I constantly find myself trying to draw constellations from my pattern and identify with being this one thing. Like maybe I say that I’m honest. And I see all of the shapes that support the instances of that. But then I’m pulled to look at all the weird, dark spots where I wasn’t. Like in high school, when I promised to keep my friend’s secret and then chose to spread it instead. Or even just the other day when I said I had a dental appointment when that wasn’t the reason I was missing at all. So I think I can’t legitimately consider myself honest given this pattern I’m looking out upon. And I’m back wondering, who am I?
But lately, it’s been different. I can't help but feel that I’m finding myself, my truest, lightest self. It feels like while I was floating there amongst my pieces, I was swept up by a cute man riding a space bicycle type of thing. He brings me to visit all of these pieces of myself that I’d not remembered were there. He couldn’t have known they were there either, so I don’t think he was trying to take me to them. Instead, I think he was just exploring me. And I, with my hands wrapped around his waist, was too.
We come upon a big golden sphere, I can’t help but reach out and touch it. Suddenly I can feel the sand in between my toes and the sun on my back. It’s Sunday morning and I’m playing volleyball on the beach with the bicycle man. I do the loveliest set I’ve ever seen and he hits it perfectly down, untouched. After a lingering high five, I glance at Mango, tied up to the pole and basking in the sun. I step away and I’m back in the abstract environment. We get back on the bike and come upon a blue, squiggly line, I reach out to touch it and I’m a kid again, playing Dance Dance Revolution in the twin’s mom’s bedroom before school. I let go of it and touch it again and I’m dancing with a tall Hawaiian boy in the back of a small studio. We are laughing because the instructor tells him to hold me tighter. It’s like until the bicycle man had brought me here, I had forgotten how fun it is to dance. So lately, when a good song comes on in the middle of the day, I set my laptop down and dance from room to room. Mango peaks her head up and she wonders if I’m okay and I pick up her paws and try to get her to dance with me and she does not like that, so I tell her she is no fun and dance on.
We keep going and off to the side of our path, I see a dark maroon shape that looks something like a wilted rose. I lean towards it and he leans with me and we come upon it. I’m scared to touch it, but it also looks soft, so I reach out and feel the velvet against my fingers. At first, I’m not sure it’s going to take me anywhere, but then my heart sinks and I’m descending in the elevator of the apartment of a man who doesn’t love me. I get to the cold, white lobby and I let myself out. It’s after 3:00 in the morning and it’s freezing. I’m running down the alley as fast my legs will carry me. I’m crying but I’m sprinting in such a way that I feel like a child, an olympic athlete, and a wild animal all at the same time. But then I’m winded and I remember I am just a woman and I am sobbing as I wait for the train north.
I open my eyes and release my hold on the velvet. I realize I’d been gripping it with such intensity there is a balled up wrinkly area upon the surface. I am holding the hand of the biker man now and I reach out with my opposite hand to smooth the fabric. Then it changes. It morphs from a dead rose to a quaint copper fountain. I feel grief for that poor woman I left in the subway station. I wash the tears from my face in the rosewater. Then place two fingers in the water. I touch my forehead, then my chest, then my right shoulder, then my left. It’s a habit, but it feels right. I situate myself upon the handlebars, looking over my shoulder at the man and laughing at myself.
We are back on our path and I notice a small red shape appear in the distance. I’m not sure the biker sees it because I’m mostly blocking his view now as I sit on the handlebars. But regardless, he heads straight towards it. When we get close, he slows and I jump off the bike and run up to it. I’ve never been much for red, but it’s quite striking. It’s a gem-like shape and sort of looks like a ruby. I note that that is my birthstone and touch the rock with my right hand, upon which sits my ruby red flower ring. I think about how this gem could make a million of these tiny rings. Then I am gone. I am eight years old. My maternal grandmother is visiting our home on a rare trip. In fact, it’s the only time I can really recall her being there at all. I don’t know where they are going, but I am watching them from my bedroom window. My mother walks slowly beside my grandmother to the car. They pull out of the driveway and I sprint to my parents’ bathroom. Woah! My dad calls from the kitchen.
I open the very weirdly creaky second drawer and slide my hand into my mom’s makeup bag. I slip out her mascara, hurry back to my room, close and lock the door, and plop on the carpet in front of my closet mirror. It is afternoon, when the sun is best in my room. I pull out the wand with my tiny eight year old hand and paint the black paste on my tiny eight year old eyelashes. I look at my reflection and think wow, I'm beautiful. It is me in a time before I learn about being too sure of myself and also before I learn about being not sure enough.
It goes on like this with the biker, we go from place to place and I’m met with a crucial piece of myself manifested in this abstract space. This is the journey of finding myself and as we go on, I see that our route creates a path. It’s like we are filling out a life size connect the dots drawing. Now the lines between the shapes are drawn and I can see who I am. Sure, I still can’t explain it, but I can see it and I can feel it. And somehow I’m exactly who I’ve always wanted to be. This journey of discovery, of connection to the best in oneself, this is what is what falling in love feels like.