the luxury of dissatisfaction

When the question ‘what would make me feel good?’ isn’t big enough anymore, the question ‘how does life want to be expressed through me?’ replaces it.

There are 5 pillar candles flickering on the broad bedhead above me, my journal opened at the page I’ve just entered a few lines into and wintery rooibos tea with milk and honey resting on the book I am currently reading ‘The Dictionary Of Lost Words, that is balanced on the bedspread along with pens and highlighters and my everpresent phone.

Winter has arrived, along with days filled with grey skies and endless rain, socks, blankets, and tea. All year I have been turning the taste of mild dissatisfaction over with my tongue and the stillness of winter brings out its flavour.

On Sunday I spent the morning traipsing over some Mallorcan mountains with a woman I am glad to call a close friend — a well-known photographer and masthead for Condé Nast — in a slow drizzle past almond trees and wild goats discussing this affliction we have.

The luxury of dissatisfaction.

Softly doused by the rain we discussed our deep desires to be a part of something more, something bigger, something more meaningful than our daily reality. Yes, we play a part in adding something to the world. But it doesn’t feel enough.

We both have so much to be grateful for. We know it. We joyfully recount our blessings to one another every time we see each other. To remember.

Yet we find ourselves submerged in a world that is chasing the unfulfilling pursuits of self-knowledge, self-help, self-importance, self-indulgence, and self-absorption.

I have grown bored, and tired, and restless.

I sit on my bed this Monday evening, my cat now curled up next to me, narrating all of the life that has led me to this point, on an early winter evening in a cute little apartment on an island in the Mediterranean sea.

A strange, eccentric, and at times harmful childhood that led me to a hunger for wanting to understand the human psyche and why we suffer and hurt ourselves and others. With a psychology degree and 10 years of threadbare travels through 40 countries later, I had the brilliant idea to turn my pain and lessons into a business. After years of having very little but grand hopes and idealistic visions, I pursued some modicum of internet fame, money, and meaningful work. Blend in a handful of romantic relationships that never made it past 4 years and more lessons learned, I began choosing myself over and over again.

I sit here and find myself longing for some wordless feeling. A feeling of being a part of something that is bigger than me.

At times, in my meditation practice, I touch it. Sometimes briefly, sometimes for lengthier stretches. An invisible fluttering cauldron in my belly that connects me with everything that exists and reminds me that I am whole, that I have all that I need, and that I already know the answers. That I am everything, and everything is me.

As abruptly as that connection comes in it fades out leaving me with a humming recollection of what that feeling is but no known way to allow it to be my immersive moment-to-moment experience.

The dissatisfaction feels like a thread, guiding me towards a yet undiscovered way for me to live my life. When the question ‘what would make me feel good?’ isn’t big enough anymore, the question ‘how does life want to be expressed through me?’ replaces it.