Exactly a month ago I was just
getting home for the first time in since moving to Colorado. I had no idea what the break was going to
bring, but had no idea the extent of what would come my way. Lots of questions, lots of clarity. It always amazes me how the two come in
pairs. Chaos and confusion, frustration
and uncomfortable situations, and still, there arises out of it all clarity,
heart-felt moments of connection, times of deep joy. What do I look for? How do I make sense of what lies before me,
even as I ponder what I left behind? If
you’ve spent much time with me, you probably know I like to over-think
things. I look for questions. I look for other ways of looking at things,
and yet I often find myself stuck on one train of thought, going forever in one
direction, forgetting that there’s more than one destination to arrive at.
I have more options than one or the
other, stay on or get off. It’s
terrifying to even think of leaving the security, but there’s so much more out
there! And yet, isn’t that part of what’s
keeping me inside? It’s terrifying. There’s so much out there. I’m safe here, the inside of this train car
may not be the most comfortable, or the nicest, or even have what I want on
board, but at least I know what’s here.
I know what to expect, how to make sense of things. I can look out the window and admire the passing
scenery from the comfort of my recliner, question what is happening outside the
window, wonder at the coolness of the stream, the warmth of the rocks, and
never have to leave. In this safety, I
like to question the world.
College for me was one giant
boxcar. It was one of the safest places
I ever could imagine myself living. Don’t
get me wrong, it challenged my assumptions of the world, it challenged my
assumptions of myself, it made me question almost everything I had previously
been taught to believe about the way the world works, yet I still lived in a
bubble. On a few occasions, I threw
myself off the train. Once I ended up in
rural West Africa. I was miserable, but
I knew I was suffocating and I needed some air.
And still, I was so terrified of what I found, I happily went back to my
boxcar afterward to “process.” I needed
the safety, the comfort, the support of everyone and everything I knew before
if I was really to make sense of what lay outside. The river was cool, but it was full of
garbage and dead fish; the rocks that made up the road were warm, too warm, and
I, unlike so many others, was wearing shoes.
It was everything I expected, yes, and everything I was afraid it would
be.
I needed the boxcar that was my
carefully constructed life in college to help keep me from losing my mind. If you’ve been lucky enough to go abroad, you
know the feeling of returning home. It’s
a joyous celebration to be back where life again follows a course of action
where you know the rules, know how to sit and when to talk, know which words to
use to convey what it is that’s in your head, your heart, no longer have to
defend every move you make (to yourself or to others).
After all of this, my boxcar was a
welcome retreat from being bombarded for months with all things strange, and
wonderful. And yet, it was there,
underneath the foliage of a 500-year-old baobab tree, that I first realized,
there is always good in the bad. There
is always source of joy and beauty in the chaos, the frustration, the
confusion.
I find myself coming back to this
moment often. It’s not a comfortable
place to be, even after all this time.
Recognizing that there is meaning in the chaos, beauty in every unpleasant
moment, joy in moments where grey skies seem to blanket the world in
sorrow. There is always one in the
other. On days when chaos and confusion
and sorrow abound, this is a comforting thought. It helps me look for the ray of sunlight, to
hold onto hope that it exists, even if I can’t see it in this very moment. It’s a happy thought, knowing that if I can
find a different way of looking at things, I’ll be able to see the joy, see the
meaning, see the beauty I know I’m missing.
I climbed a mountain yesterday; elevation
change of 2,500 feet in 3.5 miles. It
was hard when I climbed it in September, maybe it should have been easier now
that my body and lungs have adjusted to living at altitude, but when you’re
walking on snow, it doesn’t really matter how well prepared you are. The trail was never not covered in snow, and
where it hadn’t mostly turned to ice, you’d have to watch your step so that your
foot didn’t fall 10-20inches deep in snow.
We slid all the way up the mountain, and all the way back down. Today, my body feels like I got hit by a
train. I wish you could have seen the
view from the top, though. It’s
something I will always remember. Even
as I forget how cold I was sitting at the top with the wind whistling all
around us, how my legs ached with every slippery step, I will remember the
majesty of looking at the world from way up high. There was nothing to obscure the view of
Mount Meeker and Long’s Peak; there they stood in all their glory, with only
the wind and the sunshine between us. I
wanted to stay there forever. Because
even though I was freezing, I was hungry, I was in physical pain, there was
such joy both surrounding me and within me.
In the midst of all of the bad things, there it was, a glimpse of
delight, of deep satisfaction. Times
like this, it’s easy to recognize and fall in love with those few good things
because they’re literally right in front of you.
When everything is good though, when
life is the best it’s ever been, it’s harder to accept that there’s good in the
bad, because it means that there’s also not-so-good floating around, too. And that’s hard. Acknowledging that even though I wouldn’t
trade this life I’m living for anything in the world, I still get homesick on
occasion. I still miss aspects of the
life I left in Ohio. I still have bad
days occasionally, I get grumpy even as my friends try to cheer me up and
lavish me with love. It’s almost harder
to acknowledge those bad feelings when everything else is going right. I want to just see the good things; I want
the love that surrounds me to always be enough.
And yet, it isn’t always. I miss
morning coffee in college, “quiet time” that ended up not-so-quiet because we
found we could share what was once only allowed in our journals to be shared
aloud; I miss the chaos of the camp dining hall filled with 200+ smiling faces
and the anticipation of what’s to come; I miss short naps on the couch and
going out with friends ready to dance the night away; I miss waking up early
every Sunday, regardless of what happened Saturday night, because smiles and love
(and breakfast) were waiting.
I don’t like this uncomfortable
longing that I feel in the pit of my stomach.
I want this feeling to go away. I
want to not miss all this, I want to not long for the good things I left behind;
it makes my heart hurt. I know I don’t
want to go back, I know I don’t want to give up any part of the life I now
lead. I’m happy, life is really really
good, and still the feelings arise, and I can’t will them to go away.
I can’t will this longing in the pit
of my stomach away, and it transports me back to the baobab tree. It transports me back to the time when I
stood absolutely mystified at how life could be so hard and so beautiful at the
same time. It’s been a while since I’ve
thought of this tree. I hope it’s still
standing, hope that it’s still a part of this strange and beautiful world. I hope it’s still offering its wisdom, I hope
people are still listening. I don’t like
this feeling in my heart that comes from missing a life I once lived, but I’m
so happy for all that has been, both good and bad, that has brought me to this
point. It is because of the hard days
that I try to forget and because of the love that I miss, that I’m able to be
who I am today. I wouldn’t trade that
for the world.
And as uncomfortable as the feeling
of missing things is, it reminds me to reach out. It reminds me to write, to make a phone call,
to send my love to those who have loved me so hard, and still do. This living in the moment, being here now, it’s
important. It reminds me of all that I
love about where I am. It’s also
important, even though it’s uncomfortable, to remember all of what was, the
good in the bad and the bad in the good, that brought me to now. Some sort of wholeness exists, between the
past and the present and the future; it fills in the cracks of time, of space,
of my own thoughts and feelings. It’s a
hard place to be, loving even the uncomfortable, thankful for the longing that
makes me remember, but it’s here. I’m
here. To deny it won’t do any good, and
to forget what got me here, I wouldn’t want either.
I’m learning not to be afraid, of
what lies inside my heart and of what lies outside my boxcar. I’m learning not to be afraid of taking the
risk that it just might be better than what I have currently surrounded myself
with. It makes me anxious. I don’t know what to expect, and I’ll
probably end up missing what I have now.
Love it all, now, while I have it.
There will always be more out there, and there will always be something
I long for from the past; that’s what makes me human. That’s what makes me alive. So here’s to missing the past- for it makes
me remember all the love; here’s to embracing all that is now- the confusion
and the joy; and here’s to what’s to come, whatever it may be, that I have the
courage to find out.
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