happy sad
I’m writing mid-flight, on my way back from the longest vacation of my life — five weeks in Southwest Florida. After so long away, it feels more like a move than merely returning from someplace I’d been visiting.
Late last night, I drove to the beach for one last walk.
The main street downtown was still aglow, lit up like Christmas. I’d strolled the strip often during my stay, this year and during the five years of previous visits.
I’d eaten at that Persian restaurant on the right.
I’d sat awhile on a bench in that tiny garden park on the left.
I’d played gin rummy and sipped iced chai and written blog posts in that little coffee shop.
People sat at outdoor tables, talking and laughing. Music greeted me from the open doors of a warmly lit restaurant.
Just a few days ago, it had all felt very much like my street — like a place and people who knew me well. Last night as I drove, however, it felt … different. A bit foreign. Like I was a ghost passing among the living, George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life.
A few zigs and zags and I’d arrived at my destination. I kicked my sandals off into the car. I’d walk the shore barefoot, as ever. The colorful ceramic turtle mosaics set into the cement pavilion that opened onto the pier seemed somehow to be swimming … away.
Caribbean music pulsed from the close side of the pier, a group of young Haitian boys having an impromptu dance party. They parted as I approached, smiling and turning toward me with hands overhead and hips swaying, a wordless invitation to join them if I liked. I returned the smile and dance-stepped my way over to the stairway that let down onto the beach, the small crowd closing in my wake.
Above, in the sky, silent lightning played its own complex rhythms, reflecting off the waves beneath. The water was warmer than ever, tumbling over and around my feet, then pulling the sand out from under them in retreat.
A perfect night.
I walked with the knowledge that, whether I stayed ten minutes or two hours, there would come the time when at last I reluctantly pulled my feet from the surf, when I took those last few precious steps through the wet sand onto dry and turned my back to the ocean.
I thanked the nearing thunder and striking lighting for their mercy in making the decision for me. When I’d reached the pier once more, I stood silent beneath for one final lingering few seconds, then whispered my goodbyes.
Earlier that afternoon, my sister had sent me a message, asking if I were depressed, now that my tropical getaway was coming to an end. It made sense to ask, I suppose. And one might even take from my above account about walking the beach that this was, in fact, the case.
I can only assure you, despite how it may seem, that I was far from depressed.
I was, however, sad.
de·pressed (adj.) — (of a person) in a state of general unhappiness or despondency
de·spond·ent (adj.) — in low spirits from loss of hope or courage
You see, the feelings I was experiencing were not “general”; on the contrary, they were quite specific. I was remembering, in glorious and vivid detail, the many wonderful moments I’d experienced, the friends I’d made, the buzz and whir of the cicadas — even the sticky tree frogs that had greeted me each morning in the windows of the breakfast nook.
What’s more, I was not feeling the least bit hopeless or lacking in courage.
I was not dreading going back.
Truth is, I love my life. New England autumns are unrivaled. My home is clean and peaceful, a haven I’ve intentionally and successfully created to feel like a vacation home on Cape Cod or a flat in Paris. I enjoy the work I do and feel a real sense of purpose in it. And people I love and care about were waiting to welcome me back.
I was happy — even as I was sad. Happy-sad. A strange but harmonious dance, much like the lightning overhead as I headed back up the wooden stairs of the pier and across the pavilion to my car, glad I’d had the foresight to tuck those few folded lengths of tissue into my front pocket.
As perfect a night as any before it.
I was simply living as fully in the present as best I knew how, allowing myself to feel the full range of emotions that came with turning the final pages of an extraordinary adventure — before beginning the next one.
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I absolutely love this ❤️~ and you!~ welcome back !!
❤️❤️
This is a wonderful testament to the importance of appreciating the moment, I think. It is so easy to complain (as I just was, I admit) about life going on around us. I was in a state of irritation at everything I have to get done today when I decided to take a moment and read your post. It reminded me that although I have a ton to do, I am truly blessed that I can physically and mentally do it. Granted, the time I have in the solar cycle of today likely will be a limiting factor, but I can physically do all of these things. But at least I can make some headway and be secure in the fact that what I am doing is something I truly love.
-Bryan
Hi, Bryan. Whenever I start to feel overwhelmed, pressured or stressed by what I’m doing, I come back to the central theme of The Best Advice So Far: “You always have a choice.” We may not have every choice we’d like in life at all times, but we do have choices nonetheless:
We don’t need to mow that lawn or paint that room.
We don’t have to finish that project, even if we told someone we would.
No one is keeping us from walking out the door of that job. We don’t even have to give a two-week notice. We can just go.
Yes, there would be consequences based on the choices we make. Neighbors may talk. Someone may get upset with us. We may get a reputation as unreliable. We might lose income and have trouble filling that gap on our resume. But they are still choices. And for me, somehow, it helps put it in perspective and relieve some of the negative feelings when I remember, “I am choosing to do this thing for such-and-such reason; no one is forcing me.”
Thanks for taking the time to read and share your honest thoughts with us, Bryan. As a writer, speaker and mentor, there’s nothing like knowing that what you’ve said was not only enjoyed, but made a difference to someone’s mind set.
Beautifully described, Erik…you took me right there …though I would probably stay watching the storm 🙂
Responding to the shifting emotions of the moment is being in the moment… not depression, which is a serious and completely different thing, regardless of the casual way we all tend to use that word.
We seem to have developed a culture that sees happiness as something which, once attained, should remain… not part of that glorious kaleidoscope of emotions that makes us human.
Joy, though (at least by my own definition) goes deeper, and is a state of being, not an emotional response, and underpins everything else we feel.
I’m with you on all points, Sue. Whatever we call it — peace, contentment, joy — it can run in, around and through other emotions typically seen as “negative.” Thanks for sharing (here and there)! 🙂
It really does change the world. And joy, too, is something of a choice 🙂
What a lovely poetic post, Erik. I think happy-sad go together quite a bit when one is present to the moment. Each ending is also a beginning; each beginning is also an ending. They’re bittersweet. It sounds like you have a wonderful vacation. Welcome home.
Thanks, Diana. I’m ready for fall and all the possibilities!
Absolutely love this post… I completely get it. Although it’s not on the same scale as a long holiday, Even a day trip to Flamborough where I love to watch the seagulls, flying high above the cliffs and hear their cries as they swoop to the sea and in and out of the crannies while listening to rolling waves crash against the rocks, or the feel of sand moving beneath my feet as the sea draws out. I never want to leave when that sad moment arises, but I’m always glad to be back in my little home and garden with a newly refreshed sense of contentment.
I can just picture you there, Kev. And, yes, you do get it. 🙂
That complexity of emotion mixes into most every day. And to me the sadness of leaving a place or even losing a person is a rich sadness driven by how deep the joy and fun and love were while it lasted. I find that type of sadness healing.
Exactly, Sheri. Imagine if you had a break-up with someone and weren’t sad when it ended. What would that say about the time you did share?
Just like we’re not ‘supposed’ to talk about death, we’re not ‘supposed’ to talk about sadness. And if we do, then our friends/acquaintances decide we’re depressed. I really like the way you distinguish the natural emotion of sadness (upon saying goodbye, upon leaving a vacation, upon missing a friend) as opposed to depression. Oh, yessss, I totally get it. I usually hide my sadness so it’s not misconstrued. Like you, I love my life in New England. But oh how I can miss my ‘past’ life (former life?) in the SF Bay area, my soul home. So I look forward to my return visits, I’m in total joy when I fly out and see my friends/family there, when I walk my trails and say hi to my seals and pelicans. And then I get sad as I return home, but with anticipation of what’s waiting for me there. Oh, by the way, you’re writing is beautiful here.
Pam, I definitely clearly “felt that you felt it” here. When will you next walk your trails and see your seals and pelicans?
And thank you for the kind words on the writing itself! These are the gifts a writer cherishes.
Hopefully in December- in the meantime we all get to luxuriate in this beautiful new England fall. 🍁🍂
I think another word to describe what you were feeling, Erik, is bittersweet. As much as we enjoy time away, if we dread going home at the end of a vacation, that probably signifies a major issue in our lives. Vacations always make me appreciate coming back to the home and life I’ve made for myself; they serve as reminders that I’ve got some pretty good things going in my life!
Yes, if the end of vacation sparks dread, it’s definitely time to reassess the choices that make up our everyday lives.