Is this all there is?

But living like that was exhausting, and, to my surprise, lonely. Few could keep up, and eventually, I could not keep up anymore either. I got tired, wanted a place to call home, an existence that felt more steady, less whirlwind. I wanted to get my bearings, feel my feet on the ground, feel like an inhabitant of the earth rather than a skimmer of its many surfaces. I wanted to know a place, and myself in it.

So, here I am. Three-and-a-half years now, in the same house in North Buffalo, working a job I plan to keep for at least five more years (that’s really as far ahead into the future that I can bear to think), with a cat and a boyfriend and a nice place to exercise and an art studio all my own… and yet I hear that question: is this all there is? As if, somehow, this isn’t enough.

I took a walk tonight and took stock of my life, of 2023, in particular, since the year is coming to a close (and even though I’ve never made a new year’s resolution that I’ve kept, I still like to keep tabs on my years, try to make improvements for each new one I get to live through). I’ve done a lot in my life, and I’ve done a lot this year; principally, I got my MFA, and a new teaching job. So… how could this not feel like enough?

But then a flock of birds caught my attention, winter birds of some sort, fluttering across the blue sky overheard, their cries piercing the cold air, a faint echo of their song shimmering down among the tree branches, carrying the sound to my ears. The sky was blue, mostly, pink clouds creeping in at the edges, the sun low to the west, tucked behind the houses but still sending light across the sky. I stopped for a moment, taking it all in. This was enough, more than enough. These birds, this sky, their lonely cries, my boots still on the sidewalk, bare trees overhead, the air cold and clean and dry.

So there are two ways I can avoid having to ask that question, then. I can pummel my way through life with extreme force and difficulty and speed and switch cities and jobs and continents and boyfriends every year or two. Or, I can go very, very slowly, paying close attention to the tiny things at the corners of my vision that modern living makes so easy to ignore, to forget about or dismiss. This only fails to feel like enough when I fail to fully experience it. When I’m hurrying through life as if it’s a list that’s got to be completed, or when I’m too tired to participate in what makes me feel most alive and so plop down in front of way too much British detective drama (of course, just the right amount of British detective drama is a very good thing).

This also feels insufficent when I spend too much time and energy bemoaning the negative aspects of it. For the past two weeks I have been wishing I’d become a physical therapist, and not a teacher. But then the carpentry teacher across the hall from me, without knowing it, restored my faith in the idea that I hadn’t chosen too poorly, after all. “Running a classroom reminds me of when I ran my own business,” he said, “you really can do it however you want.” For someone who hates being told what to do, I had to agree with him. And then after school I went to a physical therapy appointment for my shoulder, and the place reeked of sweat and rubber and the music was bad. And I remembered: no choice is without its flaws.

This is enough, which Judith Kitchen knew, I think. But it can so easily feel like it’s not. When we gloss over it, pick it apart, or are too tired to bother with giving it the attention it deserves. It, it, it. I am so guilty of abusing this pronoun; one thing (of many) I learned in my MFA program. By it I mean existence. I mean life. I mean the mundane, the everyday: driving to work, pulling wet clothes out of the washing machine, peeling potatoes, weeding the garden, entering numbers into a grade book, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel, the air cold on my slick skin.

Whoever you are, I hope you are watching the world go past. Your world, and your inner world within it. Look up. Take out your Bluetooth and listen. The water makes a sound as the ferry moves through it. Rips open. Overhead the mayhem of gulls is persistent. Everything persists, even as everything changes. So keep a close watch. I’ll want an accounting.

— Judith Kitchen, The Circus Train