The Deviations and Aberrations in Our Stories

You’ve probably all seen those social media posts that start with “Tell me how someone would know you’re in trouble without saying you’re in trouble.” It’s one of those cheeky inflection posts designed to bring forth the memes, the “are you kidding me?!” responses, the inane and improper. It highlights that perception gap between how we view our stories and how others do.

Truth be told, I’m laughing a bit as I write this because I’m unsure how I’d ever answer that with a straight face. I’d suggest that the presence of colour photographs (as seen above) would be aberrative given my recent streak of monotone captures, but I’d also say that a picture from Boston would also be aberrative, given how frequently I do travel.

The gist of it all is, we’re led to believe that there are normative patterns and processes in our lives that describe our journeys to the utmost degree. Any deviation or bump in that story suddenly means there’s something afoot, a cataclysm of sorts. It’s bemusing to think about outside of the people who know us best (and who are, without a doubt, less likely to be commenting on our social media posts to begin with).

We know from crime dramas, from personal interactions, from the news about events (invariably involving death), that disruptions to patterns lead to uncovering mysteries. Questions like: “Why did Person X suddenly stop drinking coffee at their local every morning around 9am?” or “I’ve not seen Person Y wave from their front window in a few days…is something wrong?” are reasonable given the circumstances. But why are we only concerned when something is (potentially) wrong?

We never had roses in our yard growing up. Roses, with their thorny beauty, were an issue for our neighbours to deal with. We’d simply pick the petals, chew on them a bit, and spit out the wild colours as boys are wont to do. Fast forward a few decades and roses are now part of our yard. My mother, since my father’s passing earlier this century, chose to plant a few in various beds here and there. They are a delightful aberration to the story of this house and something I look forward to capturing each time I’m here.

Perhaps, in the wilding of our stories, there are moments where the conformities of our past deserve to be burned away and our souls freed to run wild in unpredictable ways.

I walk about the gardens of this home that has different stucco, different stone, different gardens from what I grew up with. The bones are the same, the inhabitant gracefully aging as she is supposed to, and it still feels like home. It’s where I found snakes and lizards, raised rabbits and broke my leg, mowed many a lawn to earn the money to buy my first car in college, and cut down tree limbs every year. It’s full of the scent of eucalyptus and citrus, the chill of morning and the blaze of sunsets over the ocean’s horizon.

It’s changed in presentation but not in the story that defines it. I’m still as much a resident here as I am thousands of miles away in different circumstances with Emma and my kids. The deviations to what once was don’t upset my balance, they don’t give me pause for thought. They’ve become another rest stop on my journey, a moment of reflection on the changes that’ve happened in my life.

Anyhow, it’s time to begin the day here in California, if only to wrap presents, check work off the list, and get ready for the heady mix of family and reminiscence. I’m sure more stories will be told, more laughter will be had, and more recognition of the deviations that we’ve had in our lives will occur. As for you, dear souls, I pray for much the same: an understanding that not all who wander are lost, that these moments and deviations are not always negative, and that we’re in the place where we need to be for the moment.

May it ever be so.