Riding The Bus

We've started to have some really nice spring days in London. On a recent Saturday I needed to get from Clapham Junction home to Streatham and decided to take the 319 bus Eastward. I sat on the top deck and looked out the window the whole time.

People are always shocked and excited by the sun in this city, and they crawl out of the woodwork, filling the streets and the parks. But I'm always struck by how the rest of the city looks shocked too -- the buildings and pavement can't seem to believe that they can see the bright blue sky above. The dirt shows a little more, but the red and rusty orange brick that comprises most of London has a more dramatic hue.

On that Saturday I was happy to look out the window and let the mix of sunshine and people enjoying it reflect back onto me. I was buzzed with the warmth of the day and the energy of the city.

But I didn't always feel this way about the sun in London.

When I first moved to England, the unpredictability of the weather and the way residents acted like it was the Saturnalia when the sun came out irritated me. I couldn't understand why a rise in the temperature of a few degrees pushed all the Friday night pub goers out onto the sidewalks. I was annoyed that going to lunch at someone's house on a chilly day in May meant eating outside -- if it wasn't raining. I was always cold and cross at constant discussions of the weather, in particular, the big question on everyone's lips: Will we have a summer in Britain this year?

Maybe I am mellowing. Maybe I am getting used to life here. Maybe I just now know how to dress for the weather (see When A Cardigan Is Not Enough).

No matter what it is, I am now caught up along with everyone else in the joy of the spring weather arriving on the days we are lucky enough to have some sun. I walk through our neighborhood and smile at the smell of the barbecues firing up at a moment's notice so friends can sit outside and enjoy the warmth and sun together. Even if it is April.

I will gladly sit in my friend's garden in the middle of July wrapped up in my lightweight coat with a scarf around my neck, sharing a bottle of wine. I welcome the stretching of the days at the moment and await the time in a month or two when we will have to try to go to sleep while it is still twilight outside.

When I first moved to this country I wanted adventure and excitement, but I guess on some level I also wanted everything to be absolutely the same. When it wasn't, I gnashed my teeth and struggled against it. But as I rode the 319 bus through South West London recently I realized that things had changed and now I know what I didn't know then -- you can't have it both ways. And it's the differences and the challenges in life that allow us to also experience the joy. And, of course, the sun.

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From A Distance

Reading old journals is fascinating -- if you can stomach it. At least 13 of my diaries emerged from packed boxes last summer and I'm slowly making my way through them. I've also found a journal I kept during some of my first year in the U.K., which is proving helpful for my current writing project: a memoir based around my early days living in London.

It's interesting to read my thoughts from the thick of the situation, compared to my perception now of what was happening at the time. But it's actually less shocking than I thought to see the honesty poured out right there on the page. Most of the time, it only confirms my view of what was actually going on and what emotional baggage I was carrying with each situation. It's only a story if you know what else was really happening -- the things I haven't written down. It's surprisingly censored for a personal journal. But it's still a little sad to see the younger me struggling with not only the challenges of moving to England on my own, but also the total confusion of 20-something life.


It's raw, unedited and also littered with the minutiae of everyday life. I am not sure if it's because I'm often writing when I am sitting in cafes on my own, but I make sure to record everything I eat and drink. I even note the moment when I decide I do like cous cous (Nov. 5, 2002, Belgium).

I suppose it's very much like blogging, and probably why -- with my journaling addiction -- I have continued with this blog for over four years now. I cringe when I go back and read older entries of it, so that's confirming it really is similar.

After high school, I really tried to shake the journaling habit. I told myself I was determined to "live" instead of thinking about it. I wanted to fill my college and post-grad life with normal things, like getting drunk and going to concerts. It worked for a while. But I keep finding exceptions to this rule in odd notebooks and from back up files on my computer. Not to mention all the letter writing I do and the holiday/travel diary I keep.

So recently I gave in. I started a personal journal again. Reading my old notes on life has made me realize that as a writer, it's important to keep two perspectives: one of everyday observations and thoughts, and the other looking at these mental brain dumps from a distance. Otherwise known as storytelling.

Journals are good places for questions. For thinking out loud, throwing ideas around and wondering why. It seems that my hobbies and interests wax and wane through the years, but the one I can't seem to escape is keeping a journal -- despite my attempts to shake this overly contemplative perspective on life.

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Later Never Comes

A lot of people try to change their life by changing habits. Exercise habits, eating habits, sleeping habits, drinking habits. Recently I have been working really hard to finally -- once and for all -- change my procrastination habit. Don't think procrastination is a habit? Neither did I. Being a procrastinator was just the way I was.

My procrastination was so pervasive that I am still shocked when I think about the way I used to operate, compared to how things are starting to change now.


If something didn't need to be done at an exact time, there was no way I would do it. Why put the dish in the dishwasher when you could leave it by the sink? Why open the mail the day it arrives when you can wait a day or two or even a week? Why text someone back straight away when you can wait a few hours or a day? I would always have piles of things around. Admin piles, stacks of things to read or file, an overflowing inbox, people to get back to and lists and lists of things to do.

It was such an ingrained habit that I didn't even realize I was doing it. Sure, I knew that I was putting off the big things -- work assignments that scared me, writing projects that I didn't think I was capable of completing, conversations I didn't want to have. But it was shocking how many small innocuous things I left for that other time -- you know, "later" -- when the tasks would be sure to be less annoying, less uninteresting and I would be feeling much more productive.

But later never came.

Instead, when later came, I just felt worse. I was constantly stressed by all these little things I had to do, as well as the big things. And I thought this was how everyone operated. I remember being caught off guard when I told the Hub that we should do some boring household task tomorrow. He seemed slightly annoyed and reprimanded me: "Let's just get it done."

Because of course today I couldn't tackle anything. I was too stressed about everything I had to do.

I do think that the major clear out I did last year (read more about it here), really helped me to pinpoint how bad this habit was. With less clutter around, I am considerably less anxious, and it's easier to see what's holding me back from doing what I want to do.

There is, however, an argument to be made for putting some things off. When there's a real problem to solve, it helps to give yourself time to figure it out before diving in and tackling it the wrong way. But sometimes you have to start something before you can even get to this stage -- there's a lot to be said for getting more information straight away. And even if you can't get back to someone immediately away with a decision, you can respond to an email or text and say you need more time to figure something out (my procrastination habit was also turning into just plain bad manners).

I suppose I could make the excuse that I was just conserving energy. Sometimes if you don't do something for long enough, you don't end up having to do it. But to be honest, this habit has never felt like a good thing and has always made me feel like everything in life is so hard and difficult. It's actually a relief to realize it doesn't have to be that way.

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