Becoming

This is my commencement post.  Which isn’t entirely just for those who have recently graduated, but a “commencement post” because commencement has just passed and left me feeling particularly reflective.  And emotional.  And frankly a little unstable.  So this is a post about life.  And about the future.  And about how really no one knows what’s coming next.  And how to keep moving forward even when everything in your body tells you to sit down.

I’ve had a lot of “those” conversations over the last few weeks.  With anxious students just beginning to think about what happens when you leave the nest of college.  Those hard conversations about “what-ifs” and “where-do-I-gos”.  Riddled with insecurity that it will be too hard, too complicated, or too big to manage.   Fretting over the big leap.  The journey.  It.  Life.  The not knowing of where you’ll land or what it’ll take to get to where you’re going (if you’ve already determined you have a final destination). 

These conversations always loop me back to my own journey, thinking about my own choices and adventures, and the many hard and beautiful paths I’ve found myself on in my 29 years of life.  Like a Grateful Dead song.  What a long strange trip it’s been.  Indeed.

I don’t know much about life.  But I watch it happen all the time.  All around me.  Life in abundance.  And I know that we all have in us the capacity to survive it.  

I read The Sun, an independent journal packed to the brims with good writing, stunning poetry, beautiful black and white photography, and interesting interviews with people I’ve never heard of (which is a great change of pace from my other “journal”, UsWeekly).  This month they interview a painter, Ran Ortner, who paints incredibly large and emotional seascape pieces.  In answering why he paints the ocean, he shares: “It wasn’t until I read Thomas Merton that I came upon something that helped me.  He wrote that there’s nothing as old and as tiresome as human novelty; there’s nothing as immediate and as new as that which is most ancient, which is always in the process of becoming.”

There is nothing as immediate and as new as that which is most ancient, which is always in the process of becoming.  Wow.  How profound, Mr. Merton.  Even though Ortner relates the quote to the ocean, and the ocean’s infinitival presence, this line jumped out of the magazine and practically hit me in the head.

Like the ocean, we humans are in a constant state of becoming.  Of finding things about our soul and our minds that are brand new, all the time, while our bodies physically remain the same.  Our bones and cells unchanged by the choices we make, while our values and our belief systems grow stout and heavy with ideas.   Only as we age do we begin to show the scars from our battles.  The lines from our laughter.  The stretch marks from our gracious giving.  And even these changes are slight.  We remain, at our core, the same DNA.  The same cellular structures.  Our hearts still pump blood through our veins.  Our skin softens, our hair thins, but we remain the same person.

So when people get all panicky right before a big change, there is validity to it.   Change requires growing.  And allowing new patterns to develop.  And requires the emotional capacity and space to rebuild something for yourself, no matter how many times you’ve built it before, or perhaps never at all.  There is a truth to our fear of the unknown.  A bittersweet knowledge that growing up is hard work.  Growing into your skin and your voice and your body can be a beautiful, painful growth.  Learning your limitations.  Identifying your weaknesses.  Discovering your strengths.  Allowing yourself to see your own beauty.  All a process of growing up that doesn’t magically end at 18 or 22, 25 or even 45.

There is no mysterious point where the universe says, “to whom it may concern, just as a reminder, you haven’t accomplished x, y, or z, so here is a list of things you need to accomplish to get there. love, the universe.”  Nope.  Frankly, you’re lucky if you ever hear the universe talk at all.  Life is too noisy.  People are too loud.  The silent nuances of the earth get lost.  The cue that the rain is coming or the weather pattern is changing.  All signs that should help us make choices, hidden between concrete beltways and planned communities.

But our world is what it is.  With all its failing systems and warts and flaws, we still live in a beautiful world and in an incredible space in time where anything can happen.  Where there is so much possibility.  And we have all the tools we need to figure it out.  And yet there are aspects of our humanity—of our simple breathing and aging—that will always make things harder.  Because despite being so simple, we humans are capable of great complications.  We don’t always speak our truths.  Sometimes we don’t try hard enough.  We make bad choices.  We get greedy.  And we ladle in grief and illness and it can all feel huge.  Impenetrable.  

But the mediocrity of it all is part of being human.  It’s falling for the gimmick.  Getting your heart broken (as many times as it takes).  Being disappointed.  Falling in love with the wrong person.  Accepting a job that isn’t work you love, but just helps you pay the bills.  Working really hard and still not seeing any change.  Meeting people you hate.  Fighting with your siblings.  Or your parents.  Or your friends.  Misunderstanding each other’s words.   Misunderstanding each other’s body language.  Falling apart.  Getting in trouble.  Making those painful choices where there really is no good side.  No silver lining.

And part of growing up is also about recovery.  Finding the strength and grace inside that unchangeable body to move beyond what hurts in the immediate.  Remembering that our bodies cannot be purged by our emotions.  Discovering the things you shouldn’t ever do again.  Learning what you love to do.  Creating a home for yourself, when it feels like you have no where else to go.  Finding people to be with who become your family.  Thoughtful, kind people who love you no matter what.  People who create a web of love and support and honesty for you and who allow you to grow with them, even in the darkest spaces.  Apologizing.  Accepting responsibility. 

And when you find yourself in a place where everything has fallen apart, taking the time to locate the pieces of your life you want to bring back again and slowly putting them back together.  Even if it takes a slightly different shape than before.  Learning to make do with what you have.  Appreciating the simple things.  Learning the things you can do and have a great time without spending any money at all.

It’s about understanding the patterns we live.  Understanding that every action has a reaction and learning how to manage that.  How to be responsible with that pattern.  How to not take too much from others.  The process of learning how to filter our words and our actions so that we don’t unintentionally push people away from us.  Even strangers.  Even people on the other side of the world. 

Discovering our happy places.  The places that renew us.  The people who restore us.  The spaces that allow us to just be without needing to explain ourselves.  Our safe houses.  Where nothing can touch us, even if only for one day.  Or one hour.

It’s about learning that big ideas like justice and sustainability are more than just helping someone through a rough spot or recycling your cans—they’re about people and relationships and building community.  About connecting to people from different places and learning from each other about what could be.  About what should be.  About doing the dirty work of working through decades of ignorance and misunderstanding.  About rebuilding new paths towards justice.  Acknowledging our sources of privilege and power and learning how to use those to make the world a better place for everyone, not just ourselves.

It’s about listening more than you talk.  Learning to watch for those beautiful silent signs we send to each other with our bodies and our voices and our eyes.  And being aware of the way we communicate back with the world.  Learning to adapt.  Learning to accommodate.  Learning how to say I’m sorry in a sincere way.

And when we’re in those tight spots.  Those dark afternoons that seem like they’ll go on forever.  Those moments where it feels like you’ll never feel better.  You’ll never wake up (or you don’t want to).  You’ll never stop aching.  We have to remember that it always changes.  It always gets better.  If we let it.  If we allow it.  If we’re willing to work on it.  If we’re willing to admit our dark secrets to someone.

Learning to be honest can be the hardest part of it all.  Learning how to say the things no one wants to hear.  Or the things you yourself don’t even want to hear out loud.  Being open to the idea that we all make bad choices sometimes.  We all do it: we ignore all the signals and the people telling us “no”, “stop”, “don’t do it”, and do what we want, when we want, and sometimes that doesn’t end well.  But that it’s just like everything else.  There is always a way out of it.  There is a gradual process of rebuilding.  Reconnecting.  Repairing.

It’s about perspective.  Realizing that we’re constantly in a state of becoming.  Even when we think we’re finished.

Keep on, keepin' on

I’m sorry my last few posts have been so heavy, but it’s been a heavy couple of months.  And what have I learned from these months?  Too much.  That growing up sucks.  That a hot bath and a bottle glass of wine can temporary relieve anything.  That family supersedes everything.  That life can be unfair.  That bad things happen to good people.  That keeping busy is a great way to move on but it takes time and space (and vodka) to truly heal.  And that bad television is a great distraction from real life.

One of the hardest lessons to learn in life is that you can’t avoid living it.  It.  Life.  You gotta wake up every day and do it, no matter how impossible that feels.  And sometimes, despite your best efforts to be a good person, to look both ways before you cross the road, and to pay your taxes, shit happens.  It just does.  And when it does, you have two main choices: crumble or live through it. 

The good news is that most of the time, when you choose to live through it, you learn an awful lot about yourself.  And the people around you.  And on the occasion that you choose to crumble (which doesn’t necessarily guarantee tragedy), you still learn something about yourself.  And the people around you.  Because that’s the way it works.  It.  Life.

Sometimes you get these feelings in your gut.  The ones that dictate what you do and don’t do.  Not because they’re logical, or calculated, although sometimes they are, but because they feel right or they taste good or they look nice on your feet.  And sometimes the choices aren’t great choices, but they’re choices nonetheless. 

And under most circumstances, we all survive.  Good choices and bad choices.  The sun still rises the next day.  And it generally works out, even if it doesn’t seem so just yet.  Even if what happens is the last thing we’d ever thought might work.  Cliché though it may be, we emerge on the other side of things stronger, wiser, and perhaps with better judgment.  Bruises, cuts, and all.  Better jokes.  Longer stories.  More poignant punch lines.

And when we’re in the middle of the storm, it’s hard to keep perspective on how we’re ever going to come out of it.  Or when.  Or in what shape.  But we forge forward with the faith that we’re strong enough to take it.  Knowing we’re strong enough to survive.  Even if we don’t entirely believe it.  Even if we doubt it.  Because what else are we going to do?  What other choices do we really have?  We wake up and do the damn thing.

And eventually, one day, out of nowhere, it’s over.  The hurricane goes to sea.  Our heart stops aching.  Or the worry goes away.  Or the grief dissipates.  The virus dies.  The symptoms disappear.  The cancer is gone.  The bad people eventually stop knocking on the door.

Because that what it means to live.  That’s what it means to be real.  Like the Velveteen Rabbit.  If you’re real, and you’re human, it can’t always be easy.  It can’t always work out just right.  Sometimes you gotta get all your fur loved off and get shabby in your joints.  Because that’s what life, and love, will do to you.  And I suppose you haven’t really been living if you haven’t had the breath knocked out of you yet.

Lately, I’ve been convincing myself that your mid- to late-twenties must be simultaneously the best and the worst years of life.  And perhaps also the most confusing. Which of course is easy for me to postulate because these are the only years I’ve lived through so far, and they’re by and large the hardest and most confusing years I’ve yet to live (that I can remember, let alone intellectualize).  For every amazing, awesome, life-changing thing that happens something equally devastating, unexplainable, and gut wrenching seems to happen.  A constant yin and yang of joy and sadness.  But I suppose this “with the good comes the bad” thing is fundamental to life; is universal for all people, of all ages. 

And though it has felt like the whole world is against me, and my people, I remain hopeful.  Because I have to.  I have no choice.  I still wake up each day thankful for the breath in my lungs and the carpet at my feet (even if I'd rather it was hardwood and hand-tufted wool rugs).  I continue to be humbled by the opportunities I have to do the things I’ve been granted the freedom to do everyday.  That I have a job I love.  Students who keep me balanced, mindful, and hip (mostly).  Family who loves me unconditionally.  Friends who support me.  Experiences that root me.  And a dog who thinks everything I do is amazing.  And always right, no matter what.

The best part about life is that each day is a brand new day.  Which isn't always easy to remember.  But everyday is a new chance to fix something that isn’t working.  A new sunrise to wash out whatever mistakes might have been made in the dark.  A new opportunity to reflect on where we’ve been, where we’ve come from, and where we’re going.  

To keep on, keepin' on.  Because what else are we going to do?  What other choices do we really have?  We wake up and do the damn thing.  And if we're lucky, we blog about it later.

Change Gonna Come

It would be a lie to say that these last two weeks have not been a complete and total mindfuck.  And though each day my heart gets less achy, and I have stopped irrationally bursting into tears over mundane activities, what’s left is a lot of questions, and a busy brain, and a lot of picking things up and putting them back down again and not knowing what to do next.  And an abnormal amount of anxiety.  Which I guess is normal. 

The hardest part has been the adjustments to my routine.  The not looking at my phone a thousand times a day in anticipation for his calls or his texts, and the adjustment of my disappointment when indeed there is no message waiting for me.  The going to bed and waking up alone part, and knowing its not just a week apart or a business trip.  The eating meals solo part.  The not sharing of all the funny and weird things that happen in a day with someone part.  All parts that suck.  All parts that are messing with my head right now.  Which is just something I’ve got to get used to again.

And to complicate matters, in the midst of all of this, I’ve changed jobs.  Same location but with a new title, a new supervisor, and a new office.  And lots more responsibility.  Over the week, I’ve kept myself distracted by packing up my books and files and trucking across campus to settle in somewhere new, to learn new routines with new office-mates, new procedures and protocols.  Try and pick up where someone else has left off and wondering all the things you worry about in a new job—Will I like this?  Will I be good at it?  Can I do it?

And to even further the disruption, I’m moving to a new apartment to be closer to work in a little under a week, to give the dog a fair chance at being able to pee at least every 8-10 hours with my new schedule.  So my house is a disaster zone of cardboard boxes, newspapers, and cleaning supplies.  And I’ve unearthed things I had forgotten I owned.  And have found dust bunnies the size of full-grown antelope hiding under bookcases I haven’t moved in two years.  And little corners of “gems” covered in dirt and dog hair, nestled in with 45 million pairs of shoes, some random dried-out art supplies, and a magazine (or nine) about food or cottage-style decorating.  I’m all of the sudden feeling like an episode of Hoarders.

Sidenote: I also have three papers left to write for a class that ends on the 22^nd of the month and I just made the choice to scrub the top of the refrigerator with bleach over writing a paper due on Tuesday.  Can we say, avoidance tactics?

I’m 100% overwhelmed.  All the routine changes.  All the stress.  All the must-dos but have-no-energy-or-time-to-dos.  Oh and the just-don’t-wanna-dos.  Like at all.  All the gross piles of dirt and dust and dog hair.  Blech.

And thus my second avoidance tactic (besides the compulsive cleaning and the previously unmentioned, but not to be forgotten friend, vodka) to all of this change has been to put on my softest, oldest, cut-up t-shirt, remove any clothing articles that are binding and/or restrictive to my fat rolls and/or lady parts, and to get under the covers and hide.  And to watch depressing television.

Which, for the record, hasn’t helped much either.  Because I choose shows like Treme and Intervention, which provide temporary relief, as I always think, “well at least I’m not addicted to heroin, have three crack-addicted babies, and/or am recovering from a natural disaster.  And furthermore,” I think, “at least the police aren’t corrupt and there aren’t entire groups of people in Baltimore being ignored because of their race and class”…oh wait.  Nevermind on that one (and damn you, David Simon, for thinking of all the things that make me angry, anxious, and disgusted and making it into yet again another highly-addictive HBO series). 

I’ve blogged about this show before.  And I can’t say it’s the best show on television, but the scenes of jazz fest make me smile and the music makes my heart swell.  Despite the often cheesy storyline, it didn't stop me from watching 11 episodes over the last 4 days.  There are these great scenes with New Orleans legends and they all make me pine for home and for the South.  The Mardi Gras Indians give me goosebumps and I get so goddamned hungry watching the food.  So it’s been a good distraction, albeit a depressing one.

And the whole lying under the covers hiding from the world gig makes me want to go home.  To my mountains.  I lie in bed and wish for the ability to take off on a whim and just escape it all, and to not risk failing a class or losing my job in the process.  To roll the windows down, take the long, windy road home, and sing Gillian Welch until my voice cracks and the sound of cicadas and the river wash me out.  To yell all of my anxieties and worries into the thickets of honeysuckle and wild blackberries, knowing nobody is gonna yell back.  Or judge me.  Unless it’s a black bear.  Or a wild turkey.  And they’re not judging.  They’re just hoping I don’t have a gun.  I crave home and the comfort of the mountains.  The smell of my childhood.  And though I’ve worked hard to surround myself with artwork and pictures that substitute home, it’s just not the same. 

One of the perks of packing up everything I own over the last few days has been that I’ve found pictures and objects that comfort me, things I haven’t looked at in years.  I’ve found sweet cards written to me from my nephews and pictures from high school.  I’ve read ridiculous comments in my yearbooks and remembered all the good, and sometimes sad & hard times I’ve already been through in this little life of mine.  I’ve also managed to squeak a few more days of life out of my previously dead and ancient laptop and dig through the thousands of songs I’ve uploaded over the years.  What a joyful surprise it was to try one last time to plug this sucker in and for it to actually work.  To find the playlists I made for my last breakup and the ones from college that I made for falling in love (and for getting drunk).  The ones I made for when I needed to feel like a real liberal-arts college feminist (oh, Ani).  The ones I made to gain street cred from my students at my first Baltimore City middle school.  The country songs, the bluegrass songs, all of it.  It’s been over a year since I’ve been able to turn on this computer, let alone listen to any of my music.  And I’ve found good company with these old friends. 

I’ve always identified myself as part artist.  But when asked about my medium, I never know what to say.  I’ve played music over the years—a couple years on a piano, a few more on the saxophone.  I sang in a few choirs.  Did musical theatre in high school.  I’ve painted.  I write this blog and some bad poetry, too.  I’ve woven a basket or three.  I’ve thrown pots.  I can knit.  If there were an arts & crafts showdown, I’d take home a prize.  I’m all over shrinky-dinks.  And collages.  But an artist artist I am not. 

I do, however, have a special love affair with music.  Music has magic in it.  And healing power.  And I’m lucky to come from a family of musicians and to have had real music in my life since the day I was born.  It’s been a constant source of energy in my life and the first place I turn to when I can’t figure something out.  Most of my best childhood memories involve live music—or food—or both.   Which is why good live jazz can give me goosebumps and bring tears to my eyes.  And classic rock and roll puts me in a quiet, peaceful state of mind.  And zydeco and bluegrass wakes up that little rhythm monster inside of me and I can’t sit still.  I have to dance.  Or I hear the sound of African drums and I immediately sink low into my hips and begin to rock.  It’s a reflex.  Like blinking.  Or breathing.

So it makes sense that through this grieving process I’ve hardly had a quiet moment. Today’s playlist has included a lot of Allison Krauss, Emmylou Harris, Lucinda Williams, Nancy Griffith, Patty Griffin, and Gillian Welch.  Music that allows me to close my eyes and transport myself to Western North Carolina.  To a living room with my sisters and their babies.  To a kitchen with my mama.  Music that returns me to my roots.  To my foundation.  The same voices that coached me through my hardest teenage years, nestled in with those who kept me awake for those all-nighters in college, are right here.  Sharing their secrets and revealing their souls.  They’ve been right by my side encouraging me, strengthening me, and keeping me in check that there’s always somebody else worse off (thank you, country music) and that I should probably stop whining. 

Reminding me that there are things that are unshakable in my soul.  Parts of me that will never budge.  No matter how much the world changes around me.  No matter how much life hurts.  That home is inside me, no matter what.