Gratitude

This is one of those weeks that is always difficult for me, as it is for many Americans. One of those moments in American history that none of us will forget, assuming we were old enough to understand what was happening.  9/11 happened just three weeks into my freshman year of college.

I was asked to share a remembrance of 9/11 at my alma mater and place of employment this afternoon.  One of the great things about working in higher education is that we place great value in processing experiences. In sharing our stories. And though these events are often targeted for our students, those of us who participate find ourselves thinking and weeping and learning right alongside our students. Which is a great blessing.

I spent the latter part of this week trying to figure out what I was going to talk about. How I could even begin to stand in front of others and talk about this moment that has changed my entire adult life. My 18 to 28 years. Because 9/11 infuriates me. It makes me incredibly sad. It confuses me. It makes me feel uneasy and sick to my stomach. Still. 10 years later. And not just because it happened. But because of the decade that was born out of these attacks. A decade of fear and polarized politics and racism. A day that forever changed our definitions of words like “security” and “terrorism”. A day that would change virtually every practice we had in traveling and entering and departing public spaces. In our assumptions that we were safe here. Always. And a day that would forever impact the average American’s perceptions of “other”.

And yet this was a day that our whole country stood united. That everyone stopped. And watched. And grabbed the hands of those around them for support. For some security that we were indeed safe. And we built communities inside communities inside communities, like tight concentric circles, made of human hands and warm embraces and candlelit vigils.

Here’s what I remember: I woke up on a Tuesday to a beautiful clear morning. Unaware that I should watch the news, I didn’t. I dressed and walked to class. Finding the academic buildings mostly empty, I walked back towards my dorm, confused about what holiday I had missed or what time change I had failed to make, and found a small group of people standing near a television. I stopped to watch an unbelievable scene on the television. The eery silence of the academic quad began to make sense. Though I couldn’t quite make out what was happening yet, or just how significant it would become, there were billows of black smoke and people running in fear. Alarms and noise and chaos. Buildings were crumbling in flames and chunks of concrete and bodies jumping from windows. I watched, with my heart in my throat, never expecting to see New York City in the background. And later, the Pentagon.

What I remember most clearly, however, was that there was an immediate community in that group of people. And an immediate and overwhelming sense of patriotism, fear and anger. A loss of words. A numbness that overcame us all: Was this really happening? Could it be true?

Within the next hour, the whole campus was awake. We had found ourselves in small huddled groups all over our wooded campus. It felt like everyone was crying. All day. Our shoulders heaving in unison, hands holding each other tight. Two of the girls on my floor had parents in the towers. Almost a whole day later we’d learn that they had actually not gone to work that day. Others weren’t so lucky. My dear friend Devita lost her brother, Romeo, in the Pentagon. Others lost family and friends. It seemed everyone knew someone in New York or Washington. And all of us knew someone who had been affected. Someone who had survived. And sadly, someone who hadn’t.

Keep in mind, this was my freshman year. I was nearly twelve hours away from my home in the deep western mountains of North Carolina. Just three weeks in to my first year of adulthood, I suddenly questioned if I should have ever left my beautiful blue-green valley. Or its deep purple hills that would have protected me from these planes and these loud noises. But that morning confirmed that I was in a place that would quickly become more than just my school; this place became my home. The rest of the day quickly turned into weeks and it was all a blur from there. What events I attended, how we found the strength to go back to class or to take anything else seriously; I can’t remember.

In reflection, I now can say that 9/11 was the first time I was able to place the word “gratitude” in my adult vocabulary. It was the first time I acknowledged my Americanism. My privilege. While it seemed like the whole world was falling apart, I had landed in this small community of thoughtful people. Of people from different places and backgrounds and cultures. I felt safe here that Tuesday. And so lucky. Like so many communities across America, we became one campus that day. One body of grieving souls. One community. For which I remain grateful.

Here’s where it gets hard for me. At this point, I can’t always dissect my life experiences from one another. 9/11 was an integral part of my first year of college, but moreover an integral part of the emergence of my adulthood. That same year, I lost a grandfather and a dear friend, David. I met hundreds of people and made thousands of mistakes. Over the next four years I'd travel abroad and meet thousands more. I'd watch a friend succomb to suicide and another battle with serious mental illness.  I'd begin and end (and begin again) relationships that would teach me the capacity with which I was capable of loving.  Over the last ten years, I’ve lived a lot of life in a short number of years. This community has been the backdrop for most of that life and in this space I’ve learned how to process the things that don’t make sense. To grieve. To grow. To laugh at myself. And those first weeks, and those first relationships, have remained so significant.  Perhaps because this was how we started.  This was my very first big thing.

In my ten years in this community, we’ve watched towers fall and gasped as two wars have been declared. We’ve protested and rallied together. We’ve learned how to define big grown- up words like “community” and “justice” and “inequality”. We’ve watched presidential elections and debates. We’ve heard the voices of famous politicians and policy makers. We’ve debated controversies and we’ve shared great stories. We’ve laughed until we’ve cried. We’ve listened to world-renowned musicians and held small, intimate conversations in our rooms and classrooms and offices. We’ve struggled through moments of ignorance and misunderstandings together. We’ve grieved losses and shared humility with each other. We’ve been outraged by each other and ourselves. And we’ve helped each other process it. And though we don’t always agree, we celebrate the freedoms of academia.

And for me, this day of remembrance is a remembrance of all the things I’m thankful for. For this community where we have the freedom to think critically about issues like social justice and kindness and humanity. For the grace and courage to ask hard questions. For the multitude of opportunities we have to learn about ourselves and the world. And how to make it a better place.

I’ve always loved that our College seal references First Thessalonians, chapter five, verse two: “Prove all things; hold fast that which is good.” I find this fitting because this is what our students have always done so very well: ask questions, dig deeper, challenge the status quo, seek solutions.

On this day of remembrance, I’ve challenged myself to have deeper gratitude. For my work. For my students. For my family. For my experiences. For the ability to dig deep on the issues that I care about. For the freedoms I have to learn as much as I can and to share that knowledge back out with my community. An endless ebb and flow of knowledge seeking and information sharing.

For our greater community, I challenge us to transform a decade worth of confusion into action. To allow our anger to motivate intellectualism and compassion. To allow our discriminations to motivate democracy and justice. Our apathy to motivate empathy and civic engagement. That we move into the next decade not discouraged by our lack of progress, but encouraged that there is still great work to be done. Motivated that we are the dreamers and the thinkers and the activists and the policy-makers for the next generation. And that we all have the ability to do something. To be a part of it.

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.

And the world spins madly on...

This week my boyfriend and I decided to end our nearly 9-month relationship. It was a mutual decision, made over one of the hardest, most real conversations I’ve ever had about who we are, what we need, and what we deserve. Despite the healthiness of this break-up, it didn’t prevent my heart from thinking someone had decided to start beating it with a baseball bat. Or that my face might completely fall off from crying for so many hours. Or that someone had just completely knocked the wind out of me. And frankly all of this has left me in a bit of an emotional blur this week. I even cried at Starbucks yesterday. The barista failed to add vanilla to my soy latte, and when I asked her to re-make it, a tear rolled down my cheek and I’m sure she thought to herself, “holy shit this lady is crying over a vanilla latte.” Oh if only we could wear t-shirts that shared what we were going through, so strangers couldn’t pass judgment.

Because I loved this man. And he loved me. But we needed different things from life, something we rarely actually acknowledge when we’re in relationships. How quickly we fall into patterns. Patterns that can be wonderful and fulfilling, but patterns nonetheless. Repetitive motions that might not be really coming from our hearts but rather from our brains, because we’re humans. We like patterns. We like waking up, making coffee, and turning on the shower. Making the same jokes about the morning news. Ironing our clothes and checking our Blackberrys for our first morning meeting. Coming home. Kissing each other on the lips and asking, “How was your day?” as if any of us could really capture what happens in 10 hours in a 30 second bit. Patterns that make us comfortable and safe. But patterns that can start to feel like chains. Like heavy burdens. Routines that make your stomach twisty and uneasy.

I’m a child of divorce. My comfort level with the topic is probably unnaturally high. I come from a true modern family, with all kinds of half-, step-, ex-step- relationships that make sense to me but baffle others. When you’re born into it, you learn to make it work. They’re all my family. They just don’t all necessarily share genes with me. But my definitions for relationships are probably a little different than most. And I think as a way to accommodate all of this chaos, I’ve become someone who is not always the most traditional person. I believe love comes in a thousand forms. I believe that marriage, albeit important and very beautiful, is entered into far too lightly. And for the most part, people do it when they’re too young to know who they are. I like to think I’m not jaded, but I guess that part is semi-unavoidable. I’m just less fascinated by the fairy tale; I’ve never known the fairy tale to exist.

And I’ve spent most of my twenties convincing myself that I’m not entirely sure I ever want to be married. That it’s an archaic institution that plays on some heteronormative Christian value that doesn’t really apply to most humans in 2011. But that’s just my liberal educated pretention talking. What little girl doesn’t at some point dream of her wedding? What angst-filled teenager doesn’t cry herself to sleep because the boy (or girl) she’s convinced herself she’ll marry takes someone else to see the new Superman movie? On some level, we all want the love and security of monogamy. Of marriage. Of family. But the questions becomes when. And where. And how.

Because if my life has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you don’t know who you are until it’s too late. And sometimes that doesn’t end so well. And so you should really make sure you know who you are before you enter into such serious relationships. You should understand your own check-list. But we’re the worst at taking our own advice. Sometimes the things we know the best are the last to make it to our tongues.

My relationship with R. was amazing. We met online. On our first date we talked for hours. We ate food. We laughed. We had so much to talk about. And our relationship was a lot of that—laughing, eating, and talking. I ignored the timeline of his recent separation and impending divorce. I didn’t listen when people in my life suggested things we’re happening too fast, “especially for a divorced man”. Hah. Listen folks, I’m an expert on divorce. I’ll make the calls.

I was loving and being loved and it felt too good to challenge. I got to know his kids and fell in love with them almost immediately. Just one of those relationships that just happened when neither of us expected it, probably against both of our better judgment. And we had a connection that just worked. Chemistry that neither of us could quite explain. The patterns started working and before I knew it I was knee deep in the children’s section of TJMaxx and starting to enjoy washing the pizza stains out of his son’s t-shirts. One Saturday morning, not too long ago, we were all piled up in the bed. R., his 2 kids, my dog, and me. We were laughing and singing and telling stories. My heart almost stopped beating. It was one of those moments people build an entire lifetime around and here I was borrowing it. It felt so strange and yet so entirely normal. And simple. But breathtaking. And significant. And my palms got sticky with anxiety.

I’m a nurturer and a giver. He’s a protector and a provider. I think the patterns got too simple. Too easy. We both lost sight of who we were in it. The patterns spun themselves even when we didn’t want them to.

And in truth, when we’re really honest with each other and ourselves, we want very different things from our lives right now. He’s a good man. He’s a kind man. But you can’t force timing. You can’t force patterns. Which is why we’re here in this space. Sad. And confused. And spending time a part. Regrouping. Healing. Repairing. And wondering if we’ve made good decisions. And hoping to God we’ve respected each other.

And when I share that I’ve just broken up, everyone asks, “What did he do?” with an assuming tone that says, “men are assholes.” And I fight back the urge to shout. “He didn’t do anything, you assholes!” We stood up for ourselves. We asked for more. We didn’t settle. We decided not to hurt each other. We were grown ups, for once.

Last week I spent the entire week with a large portion of my family. My two older sisters and their families, my mom, my step-dad, an aunt, an uncle, some cousins. A funny combination of halfs- and steps- and ex-steps-, but somehow, a family. On the beach. Oblivious to our titles for each other. Building sandcastles with my nieces and nephews and feeling so damn lucky I could burst. And wishing R. was there to share it with me. And that his kids were there, to complete the circle. But I had this nagging suspicion from somewhere inside that it was just a dream; that there was something looming in my heart. I spent most of the week knowing things were not great with R. Anxious that I knew I was coming home to a big talk.

And I did. And we did. And here we are. And I’m thankful for the words we’ve shared with each other. For the last nine months. For the loving we’ve done. For the clarity I’ve gained. For the things I now know I want that I didn’t know before.

And I’m baffled at the way the world works sometimes. At the ways in which we’re taught our biggest lessons. And how despite a heart feeling like its never going to heal, how the world goes on without you. Life continues to happen. Expectations don’t go away. Flowers still bloom. Grass still grows.

In the time I’ve been dealing with all of this, my brother-in-law’s father has passed away; an enormous oak tree fell at my dad’s house and totaled 2 cars, damaged the horse pasture, and the roof; my childhood best friend’s great-uncle passed away. My best friend is sick and fighting a virus out of her body. My aunt is sick again and a baby has been born. I move to a new apartment in two weeks, started a new job on Friday, and am in an intensive summer class where I’m already a week behind in paper-writing and reading. Life happens. Overwhelmingly so.

As a reminder, I think. As a reality check. That we’re constantly moving, constantly evolving, and perhaps not as cut out for patterns as we think.