THE ISLE OF THIRTY

I’ve been thirty for over two years now. It’s taken me that long to get my thoughts in order. I’m not sure if I’ve actually managed that yet. Some semblance of order? Maybe? 

My whole life, thirty has been like a little island in the distance, that the tug of life has swayed me towards. It’s a destination that seemed inevitable (untimely death aside) whether I wanted it or not. Whatever was happening in my life, time and its passage was the constant. One day I had my feet buried in the sand, waves lapping at my ankles, slowly the tide rose and I was drawn in. Sometimes I floated, sometimes I floundered, sometimes I swam, sometimes I sank, but all the times I kept going. The sun glistened atop the lapping waves, lulling me in further. The waves crashed threatening to wash me away, but still I carried on. Sometimes by my own volition, sometimes purely by the pull of the sea. 

To say that at times the waves were treacherous would be an overstatement, but there were some waves that crashed about me with such force that I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to regain my stride, that I was instead destined to thrash about, salt stingy my eyes, panicking with every glug of water. And yet it passed. Stillness cloaked me and my surroundings. Stillness overtaking the splashing. Stillness. And in these moments of stillness, I really saw. I saw those swimming alongside me, those swimming ahead of me, those swimming behind me. Some floating on their backs looking up at the passing clouds. Some diving deep out of view. Some lagging, some struggling, some cutting through the water with ease. All the same. All different. 

It’s in these moments when I can look beyond myself, when I can extricate myself from the tangle of my own thoughts and doubts and fears and desires, I see that perhaps there’s no right or wrong way of doing this life thing. We’re just doing. And the doing is done differently. Acknowledging this is powerful, practical, healthy. However, too often I veer into comparison, when self reflection becomes self sabotage. From great points of doubt have stemmed the biggest spirals of my life. When I toss my life jacket over board, when I hold myself under the water, goading myself to see how long I can hold my breath, watching my skin macerate - to what end? Even as I fight myself, I bob along. I make my journey harder, but the journey continues regardless, or perhaps in spite of. 

There are times when life itself seems out to get me. When I just happen to be in the way. When it’ll go through me and I gasp and cry, but still I move, eyes red, tongue thick, arms sore. I move. And as I float and thrash and swim and sink and float and thrash, I’m supposed to do things, meaningful things. Make relationships, romantic and platonic and acquaintances and otherwise, and forge a career and be successful at that career, (bonus points if you actually like said career), and create and raise a family, all whilst waves crash and sway, and all this is to be done whilst being a good person, a kind person, a funny person, a dependable person, a hard working person. A list is formed. I recite it without thinking, a mantra to live by, though it pulls me down rather than buoying me up. Waves crash, but I still have to do and be all of these things. To kick my legs and keep going. And smile. 

And then one day I’m nearing the island of thirty. Suddenly the vastness of the sea and time isn’t so vast. I have a few of the things ticked off the list, but the island is fast approaching and suddenly the momentum has overtaken me, I  can’t slow down. I’m thirty. I’m here. I celebrate but am I happy? My arms can rest, I can tread water for a bit, I look back to the faint outline of the beach that I came from. I reminisce about my journey here. Nostalgia blurring the difficulties so that they’re almost blotted out completely. But the list still remains unchecked. I’ve done some of those things and I am some of those things, but not all of those things. I’m thirty and the tick tick tick of the check list is now the tick tick tick of my body clock. I dunk my head in the cool water, but instead of it refreshing me, the cold takes my breath away.

I squint and pant and regain my composure - outwardly at least. The water stings my eyes or maybe they’re tears, my vision smudged like a water colour that drowned, but I adjust, seeing life out of the abstract shapes; another island, the next milestone - forty. I’ve heard good things about this island. People come into their own when they get there. I bury my hands deep into the sand of the island of thirty, then push off, shooting through the water.

There’s something strangely comforting in knowing that I made it to that vague destination of thirty. The challenges getting here suddenly feel less challenging. I start to think that it wasn’t that bad after all. The sand wasn’t that pebbley sand that sticks sharp to the underside of your feet. The breeze was nice, the sky blue, cloudless. But I leave, because I have to keep going. The tick tick tick continues, echoing in the vastness of the ocean, lost in the space outside of myself, but firm in the space of my mind. 

I glance at the list, the list that follows me, that strangles me, that tangles me, the list given to me with no sender, the list. I read and re-read, focussing on what remains unticked, tick tick tick and then I realise, this isn’t my list, and I swim.

(Pictures via: Pinterest)