Envy

There is a girl I am deeply, deeply envious of. I've never met her, to my knowledge I've only ever seen her once, but she exists in my consciousness as a continuous reminder: Envy.

It was a hot summer day last year, hot and glorious like it is here in the summer, which lasts from mid-April through mid-October. Late afternoon. Me: in my car, running errands or going to work, I don't remember what I was doing. I only remember vividly what she was doing. Her: blond, skinny in that way women admire each other for being skinny, wearing a string bikini and riding a motorscooter. Barefoot, no helmet, string bikini, scooter, riding away from the park and the pool and headed off to who knows where. In that moment, she was the absolute embodiment of FREEDOM.

I mean, really, I know how foolish it is to be riding around basically naked in your birthday suit on a motor vehicle in traffic, but OH! the freedom she represented to me. The freedom from such boring constraints as "put your shoes on!" "put a helmet on!" "wear clothes!" lol! This girl had it all. In my mind, she was off to meet up with some dashing, dangerous and similarly mostly-naked young swarthy buck with glossy black curls and a big loud cruiser, upon which they would ride off to some amazing naked orgy amidst the fairies and gods. And I was going to work. ugh.

I have carried her like a talisman burning in my heart since then. I want a scooter. I want my hair to be loose and free. I want to ride around in my string bikini. sigh.

I've mentioned her to several people, and they each said the same thing: "You don't strike me as the kind of person who would have envy. What's up with that?" But I do! I have such envy.

The envy I feel is more like a longing: I want that. I want that energy, whatever that energy is, whatever it represents, that's what I want. With her, I want that freedom and that ease. I have another friend who is gorgeous and covered in tattoos, and I envy her that freedom of being so effortlessly and creatively beautiful.

I don't envy people for their stuff. Stuff to me is basically a waste of time, unless it's a really amazing piece of jewelry, or art, or really (this will sound stupid) great-fitting jeans. The stuff I'm interested in is either for work or for beauty, everything else to me is kind of a waste. I'm not even that interested in comfort, so thank God for my boyfriend who is and has provided me with some nice basic creature comforts like, you know, a real bed.

I envy people for their freedom. Freedom of expression, freedom of creativity, freedom of movement, freedom of mobility. Another person I envy, deeply, was a man I once saw out for a jog at 11pm. He was just jogging, wearing wind shorts and running shoes, late at night. Only women really understand that kind of envy. Such freedom. Freedom from fear, freedom to simply BE, to be out, to be bare, to be safe. To run, fleet of foot, under the moon, and to be safe from getting caught.

Envy is the longing for the expression of that which is me, which I am denying, and the recognition of the expression of that which is not me, which I am attempting. I am freedom, therefore when I witness people expressing freedom and I am denying freedom, I am swooning with envy. I am love, therefore when I witness people expressing love when I am denying love, it literally wounds me. I have made the grave error in thinking that I am obligation, not freedom, and that I am solitude, when I am love. Can I trace all of my mistakes, throughout my lifetime, back to these original errors?

I recognize my own freedom, which has nothing to do with politics or economics, and I see that it has everything to do with the expression of my soul. And in order for me to be truly free, I have to be fully within my body. And when I am fully within my body, then there is no envy, only joy and self-realization.