Starting Over

Anecdotes On Exiting

The art of starting over is not a craft necessarily born out of the desire for reinvention or even anonymity—to be new again—to be new again in a new place, with a new eye, ruminating on which parts of your past you could easily and naturally reveal, and which elements of yourself you wish to keep sealed off from your new environment, your new present state of affairs.

These walled-off chapters exist as if torn out of some autobiography, one that is damned, and one you just know is better kept to yourself. Too, the art of starting over is not a craft one may ever get entirely used to, not a craft one could ever perfect. To perfect it, one must perfect themselves, and the art of starting over would be unnecessary, unthinkable.

Another aspect of starting over is that it is not an exercise or craft, as I have tried to label it, that affects everyone equally. There does seem to be a certain quality to a person, a person with a set of preconditions, set circumstances, and even temperament that seems to doom them. I mean to say they are more closely, more dramatically affected, or perhaps cursed, with not the desire to start themselves over, but with finding themselves in situations where starting over is absolutely necessary, if not, specifically required.

There are those, and you may be one of them, or may have one or two of them in mind as we speak, that seem relegated to a great personal reset, by great leap or bound, whether forward or backwards, where yet again, another chapter is so firmly and solidly closed that the rhythm, tempo, and cadence of one’s life is seen in great relief; sweeping changes within political, geographical (being a large one, as it implies the next), cultural or attitudinal conditions all have their push and pull, a great sway on the heart and soul of all humankind.

However, the starting over in many cases is likely to be little more than dumb luck on the part of the receiver—those folks who, for whatever reason, cannot seem to keep their life in order, their condition intact, their lot in life, from the significant to the ornamental, from drifting back into the red. From the viewpoint of the causal spectator, there are folks who cannot help but return to the starting line, to pick up the pieces of a chapter blighted, and either trudge forward begrudgingly, or hotly shot from of a rocket—or whatever in between.

The disposition that seems to follow is that of the artist, which is only really another way of saying those who are sensitive—to their surroundings, to the immediate effects of their environment, to the people they have collided with as well as possessing the need to hold on to those who have either become estranged or departed for far longer than they themselves would even prefer. I can hear this read with some cynicism, or better yet, elitism in mind, as though it is the artist who must only be living—and I don’t mean it in this way—the spirit of the artist and poet is what I mean here, and this far predates the artist and the poet.

Some will say we are all born this way, and that it is life that beats this playful, adventurous spirit out of us, day by day, fear on top of fear, consequence on top of consequence, mistake after mistake. This perspective is all well and good by me, but it is as democratic as I am willing to go, as one would have to be a fool to think all humans feel at an equal depth. But while those who appear to start over often are sensitive, they are also forced to protect their vulnerabilities in such a way, just such a way, that makes them strong. In this way, strength and weakness become intertwined, and the answer lies only inside one’s perspective.

I cannot say that starting over, in whatever way we would like to think of it, necessarily makes you stronger. That would suggest that no experience ever lived could ever make you weaker. I don’t believe that is so. Experiences do form an outer crust, but also create and carve away at vulnerabilities and insecurities.

One cannot say these will not add up to a cynical, worn-out old body—the physical leftovers of life’s punching bag. But with a dose of humor, and with embracing the call to adventure, one can see opportunity wherever one chooses, and with the veil of depending on other people torn away, each chapter can be seen as a way to carve out a life that is yours and yours alone—can you imagine anyone else in your laughable circumstance?

What I wish to relay is that life is full of exits. And whether from dumb luck or intentional reinvention, the ability to embrace change—to head to the exit door with a sense of dignity is the task here, which is often silent, thankless, and rooted in solitude. It is no easy task, one finds, when the old worlds that you have exited remind you of your previous chapters.

Just last night, I experienced just that occasion. Caught in a daydream, I was thinking about a house I lived in, only two years ago—bright yellow, sitting among a small hamlet in the countryside of Brazil. I see my wife hanging laundry in a ray of sunshine and our dog Eva in the front yard. The mountains rolling in the back, the exotic birds trilling in the distance—so goes such memories. And this is a memory so simple, so complete, it envelops me entirely. For a brief spell, I am there. Right back there, existing in a memory, in a previous chapter. Suddenly, I am vexed by reality; across the bar floor, a glass shatters and, too, has shattered a vision of what is no longer.

The music at the bar is blaring, the crowd is thirsty and getting rowdy. It is midnight in Portland, Oregon, and the dishes are piling up all across the bar. If I don’t get these glasses cleaned and stocked quickly, the bartenders will surely run out of glasses soon. If I simply focus on the tasks at hand, I will end the night in one piece. To start over, in many cases, is to push stirring memories aside, and keep moving forward even from zero. Especially from zero.

To new beginnings. Have a great new year.
JSV

Wrong Speak is a free-expression platform that allows varying viewpoints. All views expressed in this article are the author’s own.