On Sunday, we joined friends and took the kids to the
Bowers Kidseum in Santa Ana. Any doubt I had about the place being a rinky-dink facility was quickly brushed aside. We were greeted by enthusiastic employees (or volunteers) and by the sheer abundance of stuff for the kids to explore. Touted as a hands-on, kid-friendly interactive experience, the place didn't disappoint. And not "interactive" in the digital sense. Cultural and ethnic diversity was the pervasive theme, and the kids could do just about anything from dress up in native costumes and wear them all day, to play indigenous musical instruments, put on their own puppet shows, do art, wear masks...you name it. It was very cool.
As the kids cavorted about, I became engrossed in the geography section. There was a rack of large, flat maps that depicted everything from changing geopolitical divisions over the past 200 years, to topographical maps of each continent, to chronologies of the great explorers with their travels charted across the planet. I then sat down to a spectacular bound atlas that dissected the world in about 500 glorious pages. I was totally fixated on the book.
After about 15 minutes, I sat back and thought about what I was so fascinated with. I realized the features I spent the most time staring at were islands. From larger ones like Malta and Iceland, down to the Azores and Tonga, I became more and more focused on finding smaller islands. I became transfixed on Micronesia -- tiny places called Yap and Chuuk. 607 islands, only 65 inhabited. Then even more minute semicolons of terra firma. Little bursts of pollen blown across hundreds of miles of ocean -- isolated from civilization by endless horizons of swirling clouds and sapphire oblivion.
I thought about humble villages and eccentric deportees. Then of lichen-covered ruins and the din of surf-carved caves. Then of lying on the cusp of an abandoned beach, languishing in the simple pleasure of rolling from sun-drenched sand to cool shaded grass simply to discern the change in temperature. The number of imagined cohabitants dwindled from hundreds to dozens to zero.
Maybe flat, sandy atolls with cyan shores; maybe lush, mountainous eruptions from coral-encrusted depths--I'm not sure I can narrowly categorize my idyllic setting.
I'm sure part of the deserted island fantasy is a romantic daydream of most people -- one they snicker at and dismiss when they realize how tough it would be in reality. Admittedly, my visions of life on such an island usually include some creature comforts of civilization. I don't find the proposition of eating seaweed and tortoise shit every day particularly appealing.
But I stopped for a moment to acknowledge that all my dream vacations entail getting away from everything. In our early courtship, Lori described an ideal vacation being a trip to New York and seeing Broadway shows; mine was going to Glacier National Park in Montana and getting lost.
I am drawn to the mystique of locations unfettered by time and purpose. I could be happy doing absolutely nothing.
In concert with my recent reflections about the pursuit of the perfect nap, it's becoming readily apparent that I need a break. But I don't know if this escapism runs deeper.
When we went to Maui for our honeymoon (my fourth and most recent trip to the island), I distinctly remember having the feeling that I couldn't remember what it was like to work and that I would be happy never doing it again. That was nearly nine years ago -- before the onset of all this BP madness.
I am an extreme perfectionist but a shameless procrastinator. Even now, I'm staring down about two more hours of work and yet I feel compelled to write this blog. I rarely sacrifice doing any job with meticulous precision, regardless of how long it takes. But in the next breath, I'll bemoan the fact how much sleep I've lost.
My life feels like this inexorable ebb and flow of commitment and apathy. I like being with people, as long as I can get away from them at any given moment. I cherish creativity and the ability to share that with others, but am most ultimately gratified by quiet introspection.
In the end, I'm trying to get a grasp on just how selfish I am. I witness the growth of my children and wonder how I reached similar milestones and in what state of mind. I am cognizant of the fact that I had ample opportunity for solitude and introspection growing up. I know that manifested as periods of isolationism, shyness, defensiveness, and guarded expression. I was a naive kid and still am, in many ways, at 36.
I suppose I'm dealing with this final passage from youth. Work is so all-consuming, that I'm seeming to come to terms with it during the sporadic intervals afforded between deadlines. I'm approaching 37 in two months and realizing that I still feel like I'm toggling between 16 and 23 mentally.
Then I look up on a Sunday and realize that my fixation on deserted islands is something much more deeply personal than I previously understood. In a way, I've lived on those islands for years. While they were often comfortable places to be, they were always still secluded places devoid of much life. I occupy a much more diverse environment now...one inhabited by my beautiful family and a small group of close friends.
It's easy to want be a castaway. It's convenient and clearly self-serving. But I need to drop anchor in the here and now. I've got to find peace with the daydream. I need to get a timeshare on that deserted island rather than be abandoned there.
There's just too much on this side of the ocean to miss.
