A room of one’s own
I have a history with parks. Working for Parks & Rec was officially my second job, but I cared about it like it was my lifeblood while I was there. I can’t say the same about Conroy’s Flowers, who routinely jacked their prices on holidays and regularly reprimanded me over my copious use of baby’s breath (without charging extra). The park was welcoming—that was it’s THING. Babies and toddlers and teens and grown adults who just wanted to eat lunch in their cars while looking at some well-maintained trees. I loved that job, but as I moved up the ranks, I felt more disconnected from the actual community. An ironic complaint from an introvert, I know—but also our computers were ancient and resources were limited because in a budget crisis we are “RECREATION.” If only they knew.
During my last (and worst) breakup, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was still TA-DA-ing all over the place, trying to teach myself to cook, trying to run to exhaust myself, trying to do yoga at night but the darkness made me so so sad. Even heavy curtains hurt me.
My sadness was so big, I couldn’t keep it in a room. I couldn’t drown it with a bottle. So I would go to parks, and lay out the $8 blanket I bought at Olvera street, and try to read books. Sometimes I would walk, I wound wander. Even if I hiked, I wouldn’t call it hiking. I was trying to expel those chunks of blue and concrete that were weighing me down. Feelings leaked out my eyes and I bought kitchen appliances I didn’t need and there really was no finish line, was there? My sadness was too big for a space. I needed trees, grass, rolling hills and clouds for it to roll around in. But nothing helped it make sense, and nothing ever will. I just hoped—and still hope—it would tire itself out.
I am grateful for parks. For the warm nights I pressed my back against well-trafficked basketball courts and waited for meteors, for the quiet moments in courtyards.
The sadness still catches me, sometimes, but it’s never too big for a room these days. I can’t wait ’til he comes home and squeezes it right out of me.