“Storms make trees take deeper roots” –Dolly Parton
It’s been a long time.
Which sounds like the cliché beginning to every love song. And I’m sorry about that. I just didn’t know how else to begin
after so many months of silence.
But I suppose if I’m going to return to writing regularly, I should
start with a piece inspired by a Dolly Parton quote.
I don’t always know how to restart after a long hiatus from
writing. I just know I need to cleanse.
To empty my heart and soul in a different way than running my brain all
night long, instead of sleeping.
Because, turns out, I need to sleep, too.
I’ve just returned from an impromptu trip to the
mountains. A 1400-mile excursion
that provides me with 20 hours alone in the car, with nothing but me, the dog,
and my rambling mind to keep me occupied.
And a random assortment of
cds I keep stashed in the glove compartment for when I can’t handle my own
noise anymore (Jay-Z and Gillian Welch…pick your poison).
As much as I’ve come to love Baltimore over the last twelve
years, there still is something magical about hitting the road, and heading
south towards the mountains. Maybe
they just make me feel safe, or comfortable. The drive through the Shenandoah Valley is just the teaser,
as I wind my way down through Virginia, and creep in the side door of
Tennessee. When I hit that North
Carolina line in Madison County, I frequently force myself to stop at the
“scenic pullover” stops, designed for tourists, but used most frequently by
this used-to-be-local-girl. To
take a deep breath. And look at
the panorama of mountains that surround me on all sides. It’s truly breathtaking. Most likely the first true “pause” I’ve
taken in weeks. And I feel it in
my heart. This deep pang that
could almost be mistaken as arrhythmia or heartburn or some other ailment; but
I know better.
The mountains are home. In a small valley wedged between the lavender purple and
deep blue hills, where I spent the first 18 years of my life. Those hills are filled with people who
make my heart complete; my sisters, my family, my friends. And though a trip home is rarely quiet,
or uneventful, they’re always full.
Full of life. And love. And little kid hugs. And usually cupcakes. And probably BBQ.
The last few years have felt particularly complicated. Between the health of my family and my close friends, and
truthfully my own health, and the seemingly never ending string of national and
international tragedies that seem to rock my very core, I’ve been having those
cyclical conversations with God.
The ones where you challenge what else could possibly be added to your
plate (which is always the cue for just a few more things, which is basically
just a cruel trick to remind us that we really are stupidly strong and capable
of handling pretty much most things that come our way; one of those life
lessons that I’d frankly rather put on a poster and hang in my office instead
of “living through it”, but whatever, I’ll bring that up with God later).
And in the last few months, I suppose I’ve found myself
somewhere between overwhelmed and incredibly grateful and blessed. Another trip to West Africa. Some new challenges and new
opportunities. Another semester
down and grad school is all but under my belt, and I seem to have survived it
all with minimal scarring. Which
is proof for me that God still listens to my prayers, even if I haven’t been
his best advocate over the years.
And as we just wrapped up another commencement, and I’ve
said my tearful goodbyes to another incredibly amazing class of young people
ready to take on the world, I’m finding myself feeling reflective. And emotional. And perhaps a tad bit vulnerable.
I turned 30 this year.
Which is one of those things you think about almost every day of your
twenties. Like the ticking clock
in Peter Pan. And then all the
sudden it happens, and really nothing earth-shattering occurs. Except I do feel a bit more comfortable
in my skin. And maybe I feel a bit
more ready for what the world will throw at me. The anxiousness and nervousness of my twenties, and the
looming sense of not being “good enough”, has all but subsided. And I’m hitting this interesting
little stride in my life that I don’t want to preemptively label as confidence
in myself, or trust, but maybe they’re the little saplings of those words. Just starting to take root and grow.
I’m learning life is hard and unfair. The Rolling Stones didn’t lie to me. It doesn’t always let up, just because
it should. And I can’t always get
what I want.
And I get tired.
Which perhaps is easier to admit now that I’m thirty. Partially because I love the work I do so
deeply, that I actually find myself with heartache. And frustration.
And aspiration. Like
actually being in love. And
partially because its hard work. Maybe
not hard like lifting heavy things all day, or hard like being a school
teacher. But there are endless
conversations about how to be better people, and how to really create change. How to look at the world with new eyes,
and see new possibilities. Work
that requires the brain to be in connection with the heart. And lots of flip-chart paper.
But also I’m tired because I have had too many burners
burning. Too many big things going
at once. Which gets
exhausting. Juggling and peddling
at the same time.
I haven’t really allowed myself the space to process all the
tragedy that has happened this year.
The world we live in that seems to get nuttier by the minute.
Generally when terrible things happen, my guttural reaction
is to get in my car and drive to North Carolina and squeeze the faces of my
nieces and nephews until they know, in their deepest cores, that they are loved
so hard by so many people (okay, especially me, I’m a little bit obnoxious
about being their “favorite”). Or
to build an impenetrable bubble for all four of them to live inside and give it
to them for Christmas next year so that I never have to think about something
happening to their innocence. Their
sweet smiles. Their goofy moments
of ultimate silliness. But
driving home isn’t always an option.
So I settle for a phone call, or a quick text message. A connection.
Because I’m deeply troubled by what this world holds for
them. And not just them, but all of my students. All of my “kids” (most of whom are
indeed over 18, and are, for all intensive purposes, considered “adults”,
unless I’m talking, in which case they’re absolutely my “kids”).
Especially just after graduation, just as we begin to
release, I want to be able to explain it to them.
I want them to understand why it is so complicated. Why things aren’t always just black and
white. Or good and bad. That as much as I’d like to dream of a
simpler world for them, sometimes the complicatedness of our humanity is our
greatest weight and asset. And
that there is beauty embedded in what is difficult to understand.
Through some of the darkest times, we humans seem to find our
greatest strengths. The journey through the dark and complicated can deepen our
roots, and challenge our assumptions.
And it can also leave us scared.
And raw. And confused. And sometimes we just have to live that
pain for a bit, until it gets better.
Through our struggles, we uncover unlikely communities,
friends, and connections.
I want them to understand that the human capacity to make
mistakes, and also to forgive, is a wondrous fact of life. That our bodies and hearts have the
ability to heal. To
transform. To adapt. But that we are also vulnerable to pain. And heartache. And suffering. And that vulnerability is where we do our best growing.
Sometimes it won’t be so easy to understand what to
do next. The decisions won’t
always be simple. It’s a delicate
dance with the line. A fine piece
of thread pulled taut between right and wrong. Okay and not okay. An infinite line; pulsing, moving, under the constant
pressure of life. And it will be
stressful sometimes, but that they aren’t doing anything wrong. In fact, it means they’re doing it
right.
Things will happen that we can’t explain. And that sometimes life can feel really
unfair. But that it all happens in
balance. And when you’re lucky,
you have to remember just how lucky you are. And be grateful.
Humility is not just a word. It is something you must learn. It is hard. It
takes work. But it pays off. Being honest. Being willing to be wrong. Open to the discovery.
Prepared to let someone else win sometimes. Prepared that others might see something differently, and
that you might both still be right.
There are some basics, though. You should be nice to people. Be kind. Be generous of heart and spirit. And no promises, but generally, the scales will always try to tilt back to some kind of equilibrium. The good days will counter the bad. But it will take patience. And genuine bull-headedness. And sometimes the formula won't work.
But maybe these are things that you can only learn as you
go. Perhaps my desire to protect them won't really change anything, other than remind them that they're loved. Because some things only make sense as you live it. And survive it. Storms make trees take deeper roots.
Dolly’s always right.
