Footsteps
They never do go away.
I heard it again. The ferocious stomping above my bed as I was dozing into a long overdue slumber. The exasperating creaking noise pierced into my brain as I imagined horrible, violent things. Murderous things.
More specifically, these thoughts were directed at my upstairs neighbor. I hope she never reads this.
It’s the unyielding rhythm that gets me. I maniacally anticipate her every step.
After 20 minutes of her pacing back and forth at 1:30 in the morning ALMOST EVERY NIGHT, doing what can only be described as purposeful leaps amid a parade of sumo wrestlers with bowling balls… I remind myself I need to check my anger. Punching the pillow, cursing under my breath and slamming doors isn’t going to solve anything. Clearly ol’ stomper has a schedule.
Something had to change.
For my own wellness, I invested in a sound machine. It helps *a little.* But realizing I can’t control this person’s behavior (and basically failing at my experiment with the mental state of indifference) truly shifted my perspective. Moreover, something else even went so far as to lessen my irritation.
Here’s the moral here: Oftentimes, annoyances are blessings in disguise. But you knew that.
Reflecting further… I remember footsteps during “sleeping hours” used to annoy the hell out of me when I lived with my parents. (My dad’s insomnia is more intense than mine). When I eventually moved into my apartment alone, I was understandably looking forward to more privacy.
As fate would have it, my “endearing” upstairs neighbor isn’t so unlike my father in her generous gait. It’s almost as if her footsteps seemed worse because I expected to finally sleep in peace.
Sure, I had my space, but I naturally convinced myself I hated her footsteps way more, here in my apartment. It was obtrusive.
After a scary night with no power, however, I realized the sound of her footsteps was (*gasp*) actually comforting; these steadfast strides. They’re consistent sounds of life.
They sound like home.
They’re a sort of quirky familiarity in a place I would otherwise feel isolated in. Not to make an ungainly disturbance sound all gushy and poetic, but honestly… the place would almost be too quiet without the only evidence of other human beings near me. It would be sad.
What I’ve discovered is that sometimes it’s better NOT to see how something is good for us beforehand, because if we realized all the things we needed, we would depend on them and undoubtedly want them too much; we’d expect them too reliantly.
That’s a recipe for disappointment and inflexibility in our ways of thinking and living, at the least.
If I went into the new experience of living alone expecting to hear those familiar sounds, then suddenly had to live without them, my guess is it would be much lonelier. Much more foreign.
Simply not being disturbed by incessant noise seems like a blessing, but the greater blessing is, in fact, a sense of normalcy. However bothered, I’m not alone.
*Another tidbit: when I recently woke up agitated because my neighbor’s sounds were extra loud, obnoxious and irritating… I realized (after immediately cursing) I was grateful for her tromping because I would have overslept if the noises weren’t so loud. Always a silver lining, eh?
(Has anyone else managed to analyze the impacts — no pun intended — of loud neighbors to the level of psychological rationalization? Is this just a coping mechanism of mine? Either way… it doesn’t really matter).
To state the obvious, footsteps often leave footprints…
With the phenomenon of footprints (and most of the significant things which shape us on this course set forth) we don’t see it as it’s happening, or where it leads. We can only see it after it’s gone; after the steps are made.
Everything is just an accumulation of steps, I’d argue. Bit by bit, with an eventual destination.
(You knew a metaphor was coming, didn’t you)?
Dealing with these footsteps and any other imposing noise or act is a lot like dealing with the grand ol’ trek: life.
We have to accept interruptions. We have to learn to manage inconveniences (major and minor) and maintain some level of sanity amid other people’s unwanted racket. We need to latch onto the silver linings and look for hidden lessons that only make us grow. We need to make things work for ourselves. We need to tune out the unwarranted volume others carelessly impose on us. We need to be thankful when we can. We need to get some damn sleep.
I decided it’s OK to treat our experiences like footsteps — fleeting markings on the path of existence; blips in the sand, eventually left to be washed away by nature and any other external force that runs its course.
Even the subtlest of things change us.
(I’ll dare say I think I’ve grown to love my neighbor’s galumphing. If I don’t hear it, I start to worry. As bitter as I am… when she finally comes back to the building after days of silence, I can finally relax).
Yes, footsteps (and any circumstances that “wake us”) are temporary, but they inevitably leave marks on our journey. They force us to look and listen. And question. And practice patience. We’ll always need to adapt to something.
They remind us that silence can be precious, yet we’re never fully blocked off from the rest of the world.
They’re the soundtrack of activity; necessity; purpose.
Alas, they’re always going somewhere.
They’re beautiful, unique markings of progression.
Life goes on, rhythmically.
She’s walking above me as I type now. It doesn’t sound quite as burdensome. If anything, she’s just enhancing my emotion for the story. Maybe later I’ll want to strangle her. Nonetheless, at least I’m a tad wiser after coming to a contenting conclusion. I think I’ll set off some fireworks and go to bed.
