One of the difficulties of life that has become apparent in the last couple years is the inability to say goodbye. As human beings, we attach ourselves to others. We root ourselves deeply within others, and at times we have to face the inevitable precariousness of life.
As morose as it sounds, I sometimes try and validate my relationships with others by thinking about how I would feel if they were to die. I say this because death is the ultimate end. It is a time when words become meaningless, and emotions take over. For a long time I tried to deny myself from loving, and I realize now how foolish that was of me. To love is to give yourself over to others, and yes it is vulnerable and it is scary, but the trials of such actions make us who we are as individuals.
I know that I have talked about it before, but over spring break a lot of things hit me and made me reevaluate how I interpret the gift of life. Before senior year, my father passed away, and I feel like I am still going through the emotional grieving process and its repercussions. I had a conversation with one of my closest friends a couple weeks ago about the events that happened that summer, and I can’t help but be overwhelmed by feelings of not doing enough to express my gratitude and love for the man who gave me life. The process has definitely been taxing on me, but has opened my eyes to living as progressively as I can.
With love comes pain. Siddhartha experienced this whenever his son left him. The love of protecting his son ended up hurting him in the end. Vasudeva tells Siddhartha that “[his] son was spared because [he] loved him and wanted to keep him from suffering… but [he] would not be able to take even the slightest part of his destiny upon [himself]” (113). Its funny to me that as mature as I feel in my current state, I am constantly reminded in situations like the one Siddhartha was forced to face how immature and naïve I am to the world. In the last year, however, goodbye’s for some reason have become fairly common.
Last summer was the first time I faced an identity crisis of sorts. I found myself at odds with different groups of friends who both demanded my attention. I realized then that love has boundaries. In order to save yourself from the pain of overexerting your love, like Siddhartha found himself doing when he said that he “preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy” just so that he could be with the boy (110). We all face the difficulty of loving with bounds, and part of that is understand that we each live for ourselves first and foremost, and it is not justifiable to decide what is right for others.
This summer I hope to move to New York for the chance to finally experience what independence has to offer. It has been hard to tell my close friends that I may not be here for the summer, and things will be different, but at the same time is a necessity that I realize I must do for myself. In doing so I have been able to “see people living for themselves, see them achieve an infinite amount for themselves, see them travel, wage war, suffer and infinite amount, and endure an infinite amount” (121) like Siddhartha comes to terms with after his son leaves.
I hope that the experience is worth my time, and even if it happens to not be what I imagine, I know that it will be an opportunity for growth that I have both wanted and needed. We are all allowed that.
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