Every year, around the end of December, I spend a good deal of time looking out the window. Like a house dog. “Reflection” is what they call it, but it might as well be coined “Digging A Hole To China With A Utensil,” because once I start “reflecting,” I don’t stop, and I don’t really get anywhere, and my mind and back starts to hurt.
I’m not where I was last year, which is a good thing, I suppose.
Last year, I was toiling with the fourth draft of a short film, doing some freelance film-editing jobs, and cleaning the kitchen for my mom after dinner.
This year, I have my own kitchen. And I haven’t touched a script in months, but I paid for this sandwich I’m eating.
How do I feel?
I feel pretty afraid, actually.
I am looking at my life and feeling kind of frightened by how easy it is to succeed at the things you don’t care about, and how hard it is to thrive at the things you do.
They like me at my job, and they pay me for it and they think I do it well.
But if my salary was connected like an IV to my heart, I’d be banking zero at the job and millions at the script.
But that’s not how life works. It rewards you in the places you least expect it to, and it’s frightening to think that life doesn’t notice if your “heart’s not in it.” In fact, the only one who notices is you.
When Eleanor and I went up to the Empire State Building at 1am, we didn’t speak. We ran out to the freezing observation deck and looked out at the skyscrapers and traffic lights and rooftops and bridges. We reflected in our own quiet way.
In the cab back, we still didn’t speak. And when we went up the elevator to our floor, there was silence.
Eleanor: Goodnight, Doug.
Me: Goodnight.
I walked the five steps to my apartment and shut the door and looked out the window. I considered Digging The Hole again, but passed. Instead, I put on my pajamas and laid in bed and looked up at the ceiling.
Maybe Eleanor felt the same way I did that night above the city: small.
But in a good way. Because if we’re really that small, imagine how tiny our thoughts are.
And if our thoughts are tiny, our fears are, too.
thesaintgermain 