On Hope and Heartache

Here's the thing about living and loving in New York:  There are days that you feel invincible, one with the city, its energy, its possibilities.  You walk down the street and think (no -- everything in your being screams) with absolute certainty, "This is the life I was meant to live!"  And then there are days that make you question everything you think you know.  You have a life of living and learning behind you, and you think that you have pretty well figured out how to sort out the joy from the sorrow.  And then something you had pegged as joy deteriorates rapidly into sorrow.  Before you even know what is happening, a part of your certainty is undone.  And you are reminded that there are too many people here, to many hearts, and too many minds to ever be certain of anything, even your own heart or your own mind.

I had my heart broken for the first time in a long while today.  Funny really, because these days that is not an easy thing to do.  I approach most romantic prospects on what some would call "the defensive."  I have too much experience to believe that there is any ending but heartache (ah, there's that skepticism).  But, there is also that eternally optimistic (read: foolish) part of me that lives to hope.  So, while it was not easy (and was perhaps against my better judgement) I allowed myself the luxury of hope.  As a lawyer, my profession relies substantially on drawing distinctions and constructing arguments based on what we know and why this case is different, why this situation is so special that it should fall outside of the law.  Sometimes, despite everything I know about people, I am able to convince myself that this one, this one, is different or special or uncommon.  (And maybe I am right, in every way but this -- the leaving, which is so exhaustingly common.)  Perhaps I am too good at my job.  Or perhaps I am foolish.  Or perhaps I am simply human. 

This dichotomy of skepticism and hope is not an easy act to balance.  There is always too much of one, not enough of the other.  Of course, if they are present in the same amounts, then they wash one another out and you feel nothing.  Sort of a double-edged sword.  When it comes to living in New York City, it is easy to err on the side of hope.  The city, with its constant capacity to surprise is, in its own way, predictable.  What makes it so easy to embrace the chaos of the city is that it, maybe ironically, feels like home.  Familiar and unconditional.  When it comes to loving in New York City, however, many of us opt for skepticism.  If only because we know all too well that, as constantly as the city surprises us, it also disappoints.  And all the more shame on us if we voluntarily reached out, allowing disappointment to fill our empty cup of hope.

So, then, who do I blame for my heartbreak?  The heart breaker for disappointing, or myself for providing the opportunity?  My girlfriends, my loving, supportive, funny, wonderful girlfriends of course blame the "villain" or the "dunce" (whichever seems to better fit the circumstance). Bless their hearts.  I never cease to be amazed at the diatribe of invectives they seem to conjure from thin air when the moment comes to shore me up against the ache that follows absence.  But, I am not convinced that all of the glowing thoughts I had about a person in the morning could all be proven so horribly wrong by midnight.  After all, I am the one who flipped the switch from skeptical to hopeful in the first place.  I am the one who left the light on for disappointment to find me.

After the initial shock wore off, I took a walk around my neighborhood.  Maybe it was the cold or maybe it was the city itself, but something in the air stirred me during that walk.  New York City, still vibrant and alert at 1:00 in the morning, couldn't help but remind me that the city keeps on going, even when time seems to stop.  Skepticism, on the other hand, is a static state that allows us to exist somewhere between pessimism and optimism, where we sometimes want to believe but never allow ourselves to dream.  Hope, however -- the city and hope have something in common: they constantly renew themselves.  They keep on going right over disappointment, right over skepticism, right over heartbreak.  No sooner do these things present themselves than the perpetual nature of the city and of hope remove them to the past. 

Do I regret hoping?  No.  Do I blame anyone? No.  Would I do it all again?  Yes.  And I will -- I'll inevitably do this same thing a hundred times over.  Because, although no amount of experience or skepticism can make me certain of my choices, my hope renews.  It cycles around to its origin and begins again.  I can't regret renewing hope any more than I can regret the sun rising.  It puts heartache in the past and illuminates this city full of possibilities in my future.  And, although I am reminded that I can never be certain of anything I think I know, I can be certain that what I don't know yet will be beyond my imagining.  Or, at least, I hope.