Sometimes you think you know
everything about life, and then surprise! You get a message from a friend, or
hear a snipet of a conversation not meant for your ears, or catch an unexpected
smile from someone you thought you knew turns things on end. Sometimes I wonder how I even know
anything. How I always mistakenly assume
what I know for the truth, even as it crashes over me like a wave, time and
time again, and just as often. This conviction
in the midst of chaos, of certain, constant change, of knowing I will never
know everything, and I still make lists.
Inspired by a TedTalk during my junior
year of college, I created my first list of things I know to be true. The list was a desperate attempt to put into
words the change in my own worldview that took place over the previous year of
my life. Two months in Oregon, three
months in Guinea, two weeks in my house, at last, that no longer felt like
home, two weeks in Thailand and Myanmar, and then finally back to my little
college in rural Ohio. What did I know
about the world? What did I know about
myself? Was I sure about anything? I knew a lot of negatives: life is not fair,
the world is not complete, there is not always reason for actions, some things
just don’t make sense, and never will.
This was my list of things I knew, but I was unsatisfied that that was
all I “knew” to be true, because it was a list full of anger and
uncertainty. These may have been true at
one time, true for me, but I still felt incomplete, felt like there was
something I was missing.
Fast forward to the next
fall. I’m camping with some of my best
friends in the mountains of North Carolina; I feel that I can finally think
clearly for the first time in a long time.
I take a walk by myself as the sun is setting, illuminating the sky and
the whole world below. My list of things
I know changes. I call it my list of
beliefs. I believe that there is love in
this world. I believe that everything is
somehow connected to everything else. I believe
that I’ll never know the meaning to some things, but just because it evades me,
doesn’t mean meaning, somewhere, doesn’t exist.
May not sound like much of a creed, but it felt right, at that
moment. It felt like I was at least going
in the right direction. Felt right, in
my heart and mind and body. I wanted to
articulate a few more “things I knew,” but three was all I got, and so I let it
be.
Almost a year later, I’m sitting with
students whose names I didn’t know ten days ago, but who now hold a special
piece of my heart. We’re supposed to be
letting go of things we’ve held on to for too long, so that we can make space
for those things that uplift us, positive things that illuminate out lives like
the candles we lit last night, spreading light in the darkness, warmth where
there had been none. I was filled with
awe at the changing color of the aspen trees.
The vibrant yellow against the green of the pines, the gray and brown of
the rocks, the blue sky. This is
love. This is the love of the sun, of
the world, of life giving life, here for us to partake, or no, but here regardless. It’s all connected. And it’s all love. The sunshine kisses the leaves, the wind
embraces the mountains, myself, wrapping us all in comfort. This is love.
Love means nothing, if not
connection. Love is only shared. It has to be, can only be, and so this thing
that wraps the world in light and warmth, it is shared with me. And I get to share it with others.
And what is connection without
genuine vulnerability? The thing that
scares me most in the world, letting my guard down against the world, the thing
that leads to deep sadness, as well as deep joy. We don’t know what path vulnerability will
lead us down when we set out. As we risk
things we hold dear to us, our views of ourselves and the world, what is
waiting for us around the next bend?
Disappointment? Fear? Loss, grief, confusion, sadness? Or will we find joy? Gratitude, affirmation, wonder, pleasure,
happiness? What is it that we open
ourselves up to, each time we risk?
Last night I got to spend a
wonderful night with my roommates, hanging out, watching a movie, just enjoying
life together. In a week, two of them
will be leaving us, going back to places that were first home, and even though
I’ve only known them for three months, I’m going to miss them a lot. I knew that they were leaving when I started. What’s more, I knew that I would be leaving
shortly, and still we became friends. It
would have been hard not to, as we all live and work together, but still,
sitting on the couch together last night, I realized something I had missed
before. I’m happy here. Really and truly happy here. I miss home.
I miss having internet access and cell phone service. I don’t always enjoy the 30+ hour shifts I
pull a few times a week. The stories I
hear from our students often bounce around my head at night and make it hard to
sleep. Sometimes I wish I lived closer
than a half hour drive to a good cup of coffee.
Even with all those things, I’m happy here.
Coming out here was a huge risk. I knew no one I would be working with. Didn’t even know exactly where I was
going. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t
even sure what I would be doing, specifically, besides “hanging out with high
school students.” I packed my life up in
a car I had bought (and learned to drive) two weeks previous, stuffed extra
pain meds into my backpack, looked up at the stars, and set off. I couldn’t, and still can’t, articulate what
drew me out here, but I knew I had to go.
The same inner stirring that lead me to a small city in West Africa, the
same conviction that there’s more to life than what I’ve known thus far, and
the desire to learn all that I can about it.
This could have been a disaster.
This could have, very easily,
gone bad quick. I live and work with the
same 14 people. Anything more than a
pizza place is a half hour drive away.
It’s cold here. I’m far away from
the comforts of home. My drive to work
is five minutes, and I get to look at the mountains the entire way. The students we work with exhaust me and
inspire me every day. My housemates here
my best friends. I get to paid to hike
mountains. Life is an adventure, and I
love it. This could have gone any
direction. When I set off three months
ago, I didn’t know which direction it would go, but I had said yes to the
journey, walked to the edge of the diving board, and trusted that the world
would catch me.
When we set off, we can’t know
for sure where we’ll end up. That’s the
thrill, the adventure, the really scary part of vulnerability. Will I make friends? Will I find some sort of fulfillment? Will people respect me? Will I feel valued and important? Will I find joy? What will happen when I open myself up to
others? Is it worth the risk? There’s no way to know. Last time I crossed the country, then crossed
the ocean, it wasn’t easy; joy was evasive, life was frustrating and
chaotic. And so, two years later, I set
off again. Hoping it would turn out
better, terrified it wouldn’t, determined to find something I hadn’t even known
I was looking for a few months ago. In a
world filled with material comforts and friends I had overlooked, I went off in
search of adventure and found joy-filled gratitude. Joy is always possible because there is
always, always, something to be thankful for.
At home, I became so blinded by the call to adventure I missed enjoying what
I did have, friendships built on years of shared hearts, the familiarity of a
city I grew up in. And even here, some
days I miss home so much I fail to notice the beauty of the mountains and the
love of my housemates. It’s here,
though. At home, in Colorado, wherever I
go.
Vulnerability is always worth the
risk because wherever I go, joy is possible.
There is always, always, something to be thankful for. Where I find grace, where I allow myself to
be loved and share the love within me, there I find joy. May you, too, find joy wherever you are this
holiday season.
Love always,
Bridget
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