Entry #3: Hackney

August 5, 2019

My home sits between the bustle of Shoreditch and the barbecue-loving artists gathered in London Fields. On one side, there’s Columbia Road, which every Sunday transforms into a mad arena of human anthophilous, a kaleidoscope of seasonal flowers, men shouting “two for £5!” on orchids, and stacks of dry lavender sold by sweet old ladies. On the opposite end, you’ll find Broadway Market, where every Saturday, the road shuts down for late twenty-somethings in bucket hats and loose silk shirts, swaying with plastic cups of craft beer. Beyond the already trendy restaurants and cafes, Broadway hosts a variety of independent businesses selling street food, your weekly grocery shop, cosmetics, knitwear, and books on photography.

Today is Monday, and the neighborhood is hushed. Both Columbia and Broadway are desolate. My flatmate and I stroll along Regent’s Canal, taking our time to admire the boathouses and their charming, inventive gardens. The traffic noise slowly fades away, with only a few joggers passing by. As we reach our destination, it feels as though we’re no longer in London.

Ah, the fresh air! The sound of morning birds chirping, dog walkers meandering, and the occasional giggle of children as their parents walk them to school. We’ve arrived at Victoria Park - a beautiful, green, and vast space. On Sundays, you might find a market here, and late in the afternoon (on pretty much any day of the week), there’s a bustling cafe. The Pavilion is situated right next to the gorgeous West Boating Lake. Securing a seat in this cozy coffee house is a near-impossible feat, but right now, at half-past 7 in the morning, it’s serene. And for the first time in my life, I look at London and find myself fantasizing about one day having a family.

I never knew I wanted this lifestyle. And by "this lifestyle," I don’t mean living in a suburban house, pushing a mountain-bike-sized buggy while strutting in a sexy pair of Fabletics leggings and sipping a skinny, extra-hot flat white. No. What I mean is that it took me a while to realize that my deepest, darkest desire is to dive headfirst into the nastiest "C" word in the Oxford dictionary: commitment.

Yes, I am every bachelor’s nightmare: a strong, independent woman who wants a 45-year marriage. And no, I was never afraid of the concept; I just didn’t realize it was something possible for me - that I could commit. Sure, I've thought about commitment, rather subconsciously, towards my studies, my work ethic, my circle of friends... but love? Not a chance.

It wasn’t until high school, when I started playing volleyball, that I really grasped the meaning of commitment. I had to commit to the training, the change in diet, and the team spirit. I couldn’t just skip out because I “didn’t feel like it” or because there was something “more important or fun” to do. I had to dedicate myself to the present moment and believe that we, as a team, were worthy of becoming stronger together.

Now, I know a romantic relationship isn’t the same as whacking a volleyball with five other girls, but it challenges you in similar ways. It demands your attention. You must learn how to time-manage, prioritize your work, and - above all - be compassionate toward one another, knowing when and how to take the lead while also maintaining the balance of a team.

Leaving my longest relationship, I realized I valued commitment in love simply because I had to choose: commit to a man I love who lives miles away, or commit to a post-graduate degree that’s also miles away. I chose the man. He didn’t choose me.

Departing from my most recent relationship, I realized the most integral component of commitment: mutual respect. Sounds pretty logical, doesn't it? But there I was again, faced with a choice: commit to a man who was unsure about committing to me, or commit to myself. This time, I chose myself.

It’s when we are pushed to make choices that we truly learn about ourselves and what we value. But in today’s climate of modern-day love,where gratification comes so quick and patience boils so thin, do we actually take enough time with ourselves to make these decisions?

The Oxford dictionary defines commitment in two ways: 1) a promise to do something or behave in a particular way; to support someone or something; and 2) the willingness to work hard and dedicate your time and energy to a job or activity.

By those definitions, commitment sounds a lot like compromise, self-sacrifice, and ultimately, setting yourself up for disappointment. If you see it this way, then all types of commitments are terrifying. To a job in another country, to family down the road, to a loved one who sits on your bed, and maybe even, in the darkest moments, to the person staring back at you in the mirror.

Because all these commitments are entangled with yet another dirty word: Duty.

The real question is, how can you be dutiful towards others when you haven’t yet learned how to uphold a sense of duty to yourself?

Yeah, I'll keep using the word duty. I see you! I knew there would be at least one asshole out there making the immediate connection between "duty" to a zookeeper scooping up elephant dung, and if you’re not that asshole then, well, I don’t know what kind of cartoons you watched as a child, but welcome to the analogy. Because, honestly, isn’t that what commitment is about!?

Not some empty promise, or radical spiel about sacrificing who you are for something or someone else (though that might happen). It’s about waking up, tending to your garden, and when along your morning walk, you find - or take! - a giant pile of shit, a big stinky, smelly splat of turd, and you go grab a shovel, and you deal with it.

It was my dad who taught me this. Every day, I had to go to the backyard and pick up after our family dog (and no, they weren’t “little” poops - he was a retriever). This task was grotesque - methane in the air, my dog happily panting from a distance, and my dad supervising from the back door. As you can imagine, it was a real shitshow.

But if you want a dog, you’ve got to clean up after its shit. If you want a job, you’ve got to grind through the shit. If you want a friend, you’ve got to sit through their shit. And if you want a relationship? Well, get ready to infuse some shit together.

To commit to anything in life, the first step is owning your shit. It’s not about getting things your way; it’s about having each other’s back, including and if not, especially, your own. At the end of the day, we are all capable of that. Though sometimes, and this is the crux of it, even when we want to commit to something and are willing to put in the whole nine yards, the question remains: are you ready?

I don’t know the answer for sure, but I’m certain that whoever cleans Broadway on a Sunday, Columbia on a Monday, or Victoria Park on any given day didn’t think they were ready when they started, either.