Waterlilies and Life Reflections

Today I am going to Kansas City's Neslon Atkins art museum for the first time in a long while. I think the last time I visited was when my dad came to see me sometime last October. There are a lot of things I like about the Nelson. It's big. It's interesting. It's free. I really like that it's free. I also like that it's quiet. And cool. Not cold, mind you, but cool, in a way that allows your heart to slow and your lungs to involuntarily slow down.

The Nelson is not one of those insurmountable collections of art that you'll never work your way through in a single afternoon. It isn't MoMA or the Chicago Art Institute. And it certainly isn't The Louvre or The Vatican. It's smaller. Calmer. There's no pressure to get your money's worth (since you didn't pay in the first place), and no need to queue in line. You don't even need a map unless you're one of those people who gains security through knowledge of their whereabouts.

Despite all of this, I typically need a good reason to go to the Nelson. Usually that reason is a personal visitor or a group outing, as it happens to be today. The first time I went to the Nelson, however, I was on my own. It was September 16th, a Thursday. I had only recently moved to Kansas City and was looking for ways to maintain my sanity and appreciate my setting in between all of the job applications and resumé editing that I hoped would lead to a job.

I remember walking in and wondering why more museums weren't free. I breathed in the cool, air conditioned air, laced with the scent of stone and marble. I exhaled and wandered through the sarcophagus of Ka-i-nefer, a local celebrity among Nelson regulars. I've always had a thing for ancient Egypt - the gods, the myths, the makeup, the hieroglyphics. I became absolutely giddy when I saw my first onyx statue of Anubis at the Vatican museum in Rome.

From across the room of the impressionists' gallery I caught site of the soft pastel dabs of waterlilies. Monet's water lilies. Not realizing that the man created over 250 of these paintings in the later part of his life, I sank onto a wooden bench and spent a full five minutes gazing at the piece. Behind me I heard two middle-aged women discussing the painter and his home outside of Paris. "You know," said the one, "there is this little museum in the Orangerie of the Tuilerie Gardens. It's very intimate. A special place to see his work." I thought on that, wondering what kind of person living in Kansas City is capable of discussing the various art museums of Paris.

Little did I know that within the next three years I would visit Paris myself, not once, but twice, and that I would remember the woman's words and seek out the Musée de l'Orangerie, where eight of Monet's massive waterlily murals fill an entire oval-shaped room. I would go there with my boyfriend and we would queue in line for nearly 45 minutes on Paris's annual "museum night" in order to get in for free. Eighteen months later I would return to Paris on my own, this time for a full three months. And though I would not visit the Orangerie again, I would pass by it on my way through the Tuleries, and I would remember that night and the bit of overheard conversation that brought it about.

I like when these moments happen. When something in my present life causes me to look back on the past and to realize how much has changed - in my family, in my surroundings, in my life, in myself. I can get so caught up with keeping up and moving forward that I forget to look back. I forget to realize that I am living the life I used to dream of - not in an idealistic sense, but in a real and hopeful way. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of the day that someone would ask me out on a date and I would get all dressed up and we would have beautiful food in a fancy restaurant. I dreamed of the day I would get my first job - as a waitress, as a writer, as a youth director. I hoped for the day when I would move far from home (typically to New York or Chicago) and set up my home in a tiny over-priced apartment.

When you're in the throws of navigating that relationship, finding that job, or looking for that tiny over-priced apartment, you forget that you are living the future you used to hope for. Now, it may not be exactly how you hoped (If it was, I would currently be working on a book of poetry and washing the bottles of my second child), but it will be. It is. You are. Now.

I sometimes catch myself dreaming of the future - my first published novel, the husband I haven't met yet, starting a Fulbright in an undecided country - and at times, it is at the expense of my present. Of a summer Sunday when I run in the cool of the morning, shower in the quiet of my home, and take my breakfast while reading a novel on the front porch swing. I didn't know that at 26 years old my life would be like this. I wasn't always sure I would want it to be. But that's the beauty of remembering the past. Sometimes you don't realize where it is that you are until you have a reason to look back on where you came from.

Other side of the window

When I woke up this morning I did not feel like keeping the promises I had made the night before. Promises to get up early and begin the running regime that was destined to follow my three months in France. "You're staying near the Plaza," I reasoned with myself. "You're always wishing you could run by the Plaza. Don't waste it." It was nearly 11 am by the time I clipped on my iPod, laced up my shoes, and headed out the door.

This is my fourth summer living in Kansas City. When I moved here from Lincoln, Nebraska, I still viewed the city as a place where my family had gone for vacations when I was growing up. Kansas City was Worlds of Fun, Stephenson's Apple Farm, Cool Crest golf course, and jazz at Jardine's. Now it is a place I come home to.

I've recently been in Europe, working as an au pair, gathering writing material, and generally trying to deal with my travel bug. It feels right to be back in KC, and to be arriving once more at the start of the summer.

I head down Roanoke and turn onto Ward Parkway. Brush Creek is on my right, the south end of the Plaza on my left. I remember walking around the Plaza not long after I moved here and wondering what it would be like to live like "those people." The people who shop at Ann Taylor, sip cocktails on the patio, and eat dinner at McCormick & Schmick's. The ones who stop by Starbucks and grab grande lattes on their way to the office that pays for their lavish condo.

Sometimes I still dream of living other people's lives, the ones on the other side of the restaurant window. I jog past Gram & Dunn and sneak a look at a four-top of brunch-goers, sipping mimosas and eating fresh omelets. A part of me wishes that I could trade places. I remember the last time I had a mimosa, with my boyfriend and my parents after church on Easter. Last Easter. I think of all of the fine meals and fancy cocktails that I myself consumed over the course of that relationship, and I realize that for a time I could very well have been mistaken for one of "those people."

But I wasn't. I could never really settle into that kind of privileged lifestyle.  I would catch myself making small talk with the waitress, wondering how many tables she had and whether or not Wednesdays were usually slow. I was a server myself for nearly a year, and have never quite gotten used to the other side of things. I actually miss waiting tables, though I also missed eating at them when I was on staff. Sometimes I wonder what is happening on the other side of the kitchen door, where the rest of life keeps happening.

I pass a café and lock eyes with a man as he glances up from the Sunday paper. He watches me run. I watch him sip coffee from a white paper cup. "I've been on that side of the window," I think. And I remember the times that I've pulled out a chair, straightened my skirt, and ordered a latte, only to wish I that I was outside running, burning off calories instead of filling up on them.

I continue toward Loose Park, where I wind my way through the trees and the people. I see dog-walkers and tennis players, young families, and smitten lovers. I want to watch all of them. To follow them home and see what they eat for lunch. I want to check their e-mail and scroll through their Facebook photos, to see if they're happy or lonely or angry or scared. And I want to ask them if they feel like they're really living life. Or if they're like me, still waiting for it to happen.

My therapist calls it "chronic discontent," an inability to be happy in my own life no matter which side of the window I find myself on. There is some truth to what she said, and for a while I tried to focus on my life without comparing myself to others. But then I got bored. And egocentric. My life, as it turns out, is actually not that interesting, not to me. Sometimes I have to remind myself that there might be someone on the other side of the window who may actually watch me in the same way I've come to watch everyone else. That person may just wish that they were a single young adult running six miles by themselves on a cloudy Sunday morning. It doesn't sound so bad when you put it that way.

In less than two months I will be moving again. To a tiny overpriced studio in a suburb near San Francisco. I will finally start the master's degree that I started entertaining almost five years ago - an MFA (master of fine arts) in creative writing. "Creative non-fiction" (CNF) to be specific. I look at it is as permission to spend the next two years people-watching, as I attempt to eek out a living. Most people don't need to take out student loans in order to give themselves permission to people watch. But most people don't plan to spend the rest of their lives observing other people either.

I think just about anyone would like to be written about, so long as they're depicted in a good light. Sort of like the way we would all be happy to be painted, as long as we look good. Everyone wants to know an artist, but not everyone wants to be one. I find this especially true with writing. People are fascinated with writers - the way they carry around little notebooks and pens so that they can write down their thoughts, capture their moments, and track their memories. But not many people really want to live the sort of insular, contemplative, introspective life that a lot of writing requires. It often means spending a lot of time alone, with yourself and your thoughts. But those thoughts are often of other people and their thoughts, so it's really a matter of perspective.

As I reach the end of my run, I stop seeing the people around me - in their cars, on their bikes, walking down the street, and drinking coffee on their patios. I feel the sweat soaking through my headband and dampening my clothes. The blisters forming on the balls of my feet remind me that I'm overdue for purchasing new shoes. But I can't think about shopping right now. All I can think about is getting back to the house where I'm staying and sitting down with a glass of cold water, preferably before Ira Glass finishes acknowledging the creators of this week's episode of This American Life. The narratives that have been entertaining me for the past hour empty from my head. I think only of myself. Of my life. Of the fact that I must get off my feet before they go on strike and refuse to carry me up the stairs and into a much-needed shower.

As I unlock the door and sink into the soft red couch I realize that there is nowhere (and no one) else I'd rather be. It's sort of a rare experience. I do not celebrate it. But I acknowledge it. And along with it I acknowledge the fact that it won't be long before I find myself once again on the other side of the window.