Colleen Conrad

“Such is friendship that through it we love places and seasons.”     -Henry David Thoreau

 Internet dating wasn’t as big nine years ago as it is today. 

So you’d think that the most lasting relationship I’ve had here in Austin wouldn’t have been forged online.  And yet, it was.

In the fall of 2003 I was part of an incoming-class email list for a graduate program at the University of Texas (American Studies, to be specific).  And I have to say, I thought we had an awfully nice group of noobs. 

In all of my naïve and candid glory, I emailed everyone six months before we started classes, introducing myself to my future compatriots.  Something along the lines of, “I’m moving from Massachusetts, and I don’t know anyone!  Be my friend!”  And as nice as everyone was, only one person wrote back reciprocating my arguably needy plea. 

Allison and I “friend-dated” via email for the spring and summer leading up to our grad program start-date in August.  We exchanged pictures.  We talked about our relationships and our dogs.  We planned to get together when I arrived in Austin, and she promised to help me unload my UHaul.  My local friends joked that we’d probably realize that we hated each other when we were actually in the same city, and part of me agreed that it was almost too good to be true. 

But we just clicked.  She was friendly but edgy; smart and attractive; sassy but outgoing.  If not warm, specifically, certainly she was funny and generous with time, praise, and support.  And that didn’t change when I arrived in Texas. 

Allison and I ate lunch together twice a week, took almost all of the same classes, introduced our respective partners to each other.  We read each others’ essays, commiserated over the most arduous of readings, and shared dog-sitting.  And even when our worlds turned upside down over and over again, she remained a fixed part of my life.

So here we are, after three major break-ups (including two divorces), a wedding, twelve (TWELVE!) moves, three degrees, half a dozen varying jobs, countless cups of coffee, and more alcohol than I care to (or can) remember.   

And she’s leaving.

I exited our graduate program with my master’s, realizing that my experience there had run its course. But Allison stuck it out, and this spring she earned her Ph.D.  She’s Dr. Allison!  Huzzah!  But academic jobs are hard to come by, so that degree takes her far away from Austin.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m supremely happy for her.  She’s worked her ass off for this degree, and she deserves every bit of success that comes her way.  I know that she’s about to embark on a tremendous adventure; to grow personally and professionally; to fulfill lifelong goals and test her considerable mettle. 

But there’s a part of me – and not a very small one, either – that wants to stomp my foot and stick out my lower lip.  I want to blockade the door so that she can’t go.  I want to “borrow” some handcuffs and just send the movers on their merry way when they arrive at her doorstep.  I want to stand outside her window with a boom box playing “In Your Eyes”, my chin raised defiantly.  Don’t go, Dr. Allison!  How can you leave us?!

Because one could argue that the friendship that I’ve shared with Allison is the most successful one that I’ve had in Austin.  She’s marked my experience here.  I don’t know this city without her.  She’s been here from Day One.  I’ve made so so many great friends, and I know that (while I’ll miss her desperately), I won’t be lonely.  Still…there will be a void.  Allison is my Austin.  Here in this capital city, all roads lead to her for me.  

I know that we’re grown-ups, and your friends aren’t supposed to mean quite as much to you as you age.  That you’re supposed to transfer your attention to things like kids, career, romance.  But honestly, I think that’s a load of bullshit.  Who says we need to grow up at all?  Who says that our friends can’t be just as important as those things?  Not me. 

I’m confident that Allison and I will keep in touch.  We’re already planning a visit, actually.  And I know that no matter where our friendship leads us, I’ll be grateful for the closeness that we’ve shared.  But there’s no denying this:  A chapter is closing, and Austin is (once again) reimaged for me due to her absence.

In the winter of 2005 I took an extended trip to Europe, and Allison burned me a CD for my wanderings.  I still have that disc…somewhere…and every so often I pop it in to remember that time and place.  One of the last tracks was cleverly selected by Allison so that I’d keep her in my thoughts during my travels.  So here’s my dedication to my friend, who will in some ways always embody this place for me:  “Allison Road” by the Gin Blossoms.  Enjoy, friends.  And fare thee well, A.

“I brought some intention cards,” the yogi tells us before class begins.  “I’m going to spread them out in the front of the room.  I encourage you to pick at random.  Sometimes people like to sift through and pick a specific card, but I think it works better when you draw spontaneously.  It might surprise you how well it fits.”

I love this kind of thing.  Sure, it’s pie-in-the-sky hippie nonsense, but I’m at yoga for crying out loud.  That’s what I came for.  I’m so used to high-intensity, competitive team sports.  It’s always refreshing to be in the me-centered, forgiving atmosphere of a yoga class.

I’m a little distracted by the instructor’s pink pants, long legs, and overall brightness (she’s so darn cute), but I manage to get the gist of what she’s saying.

I draw a card.

My future is glorious.  My life is filled with limitless light, love, and joy.  All is right with my world.

I’m not sure that this is what I imagine an intention to be.  I always thought that “establishing an intention for my practice” was more about setting goals rather than mantras.  And if I was looking for blah-dee-blah earthy-crunchy gobbledeegook, well…I got it.

But that aside, it’s exactly what I need.  The yogi was right.  I am surprised, and pleasantly so.  And even if the word “glorious” was forever ruined by Will Ferrell in Old School  (as someone pointed out when I shared my intention), something tight and knotted in my chest releasess a bit when I read the words.  It’s just a card, of course.  Something sold at a little indie bookshop or curio market, I’m sure, for far more than it cost to make.  It isn’t a crystal ball (or even a Magic 8 Ball, for that matter).  It’s vague and arguably trite.  But I repeat it to myself a few times before we even begin the class.  It just makes me feel better.  Who cares, then, about who made it or why?  What I hear in the words is, “You have nothing to worry about.”  Or, at least, “Worrying doesn’t help.”  And that I do know.

About a year ago I threw security out the window.  I took a very reliable and predictable life and chucked it in favor of happiness.  I’m sure that a lot of people – close friends included – were thinking, “What the HELL is Colleen doing?”  I abandoned much of what was familiar and safe and dove head-long into the unknown.  And it wasn’t scary in the moment, to be honest.  It was liberating.  I knew that I was listening to what I needed and wanted – or at least what I didn’t need and want – and any sacrifice was worth it for that cause.  The lack of fear was proof, in fact, that I was doing the right thing.  I was in crisis mode, only managing the most dire of issues at any given time.  Stressing over things like medical insurance and retirement and home ownership…Well, that took a backseat to the more pressing need of, you know, personal fulfillment and emotional satisfaction. 

I came out safely on the other side of that transition…although just barely.  I got through it, but I’m not without some late-blooming bruises.  Fear has crept up on me recently.  It’s all part of the process, I know, but sooner or later the security that I abandoned had to taunt me a little bit.  I’ve started to think about “little things” again.  Not the immediate woes of adulthood, but the long-term, “What will happen to me?” anxieties.  The “what ifs?” and the “what would I dos?”

Because they’re bound to come up, right?  When you’re young (or young-ish), it’s easy to imagine that you’ll work forever, or that money will just work itself out, or that you’ll always be healthy.  You forget that your parents will pass away one day, or that you may lose a friend or fall ill yourself.  You don’t think about supporting another person (like a spouse or children), or the housing market, or unemployment.  (Or maybe you do.  For a while I didn’t.)  Those things are all there, waiting to spring at you when you’re least expecting them.

None of these issues have actually leapt at me from their dark and shadowy corners, but I’m reminded that they exist again.  I’ve been dreaming a lot more, waking with the awareness that my subconscious has been spinning stories.  (Ah, anxiety, my old friend.  I wish I could say that I missed you…But I sure as hell didn’t.)

So when I read that reassuring card, I remember that, even though this year of flux didn’t eliminate life-stress, it did teach me that I thrive even in the darkest of times.  Sure, hardship and pressure and chaos will be part of my future.  It’s guaranteed.  But to me, “glory” isn’t about winning, or about perfection, or about ideal circumstances.  It’s about shining through the difficulties.  Overcoming.  It’s about magnificent grace. 

Just like my student said all of those months ago, without the wreck you wouldn’t see the beauty.  My future is glorious because I’ll make it so, even amidst struggle.  And I’ll be stronger, more complicated, more interesting because of the mess.  It isn’t a new idea to remember that you can only experience loss if you have something to lose.  But it’s no less true.  And it’s worth it. 

Sure, I can worry all I want about the unknown and the obstacles.  But it doesn’t do me a damn bit of good.  All I can do is enjoy this moment…and this one…and the next…And then roll with the punches when they descend (which, I know, they will).  That’s ensuring that all is right in my world.  That’s filling my life with limitless love.  Opening my arms to the opportunities and the scars and the trouble.  If I lose someone I love – yes, it will be tragic.  But how lucky am I that I have so many people that I love in this world?  To be surrounded by such joy and colorful experience?

My future is unknown.  But it is also glorious.

I dreamt we were dancing.

The floor was creaky and unsure.  A life raft on turbulent water.  Your hand rested on the small of my back, and I wished that you would hold me tighter as we glided and stumbled with the music. 

When we found a rhythm it didn’t matter that you weren’t pushing or pulling me as firmly as I’d wanted.  It wasn’t a slow dance, and it wasn’t fast, but we fell into time with each other.  The sky was a painter’s navy blue, peeking at us through low-hanging Oak branches.  We knew it was nearing the end of the night, and that this would be one of the last songs.  We moved without urgency, without agenda, without frenzy or spectacle.  

I don’t know if we spun, or if you twirled me like a top.  Maybe you did, and I don’t remember for the spring air on my face, the creamy glow of Japanese lanterns, and the warm space between our palms. 

When you keep your eye on something steady, the world seems anchored.

I’m moving in two months.  Again.

Which is funny, because I’m generally someone who likes to stay in one place, put in some roots, settle down.

But I’m surprisingly excited about the prospect, even though I’m sure it’ll be an expensive hassle.  This will be my third move in a year, which is entirely unheard of for me.  But it does appear that I have options, each more appealing than the last.  Most of all, I’m hotly anticipating spending more time in a different part of Austin.  I’ve lived north of the UT campus for almost nine (count ’em, NINE) years, and I’ve loved it.  But Austin has all kinds of thrilling nooks and crannies, filled with culture and personality.  It’s packed with unique neighborhoods, each boasting their own character and style.

Yesterday I went to one of my potential neighborhoods – Barton Hills – and slowly drove around the streets, just feeling the vibe of the place.  Spurred on despite the rush-hour traffic, I meandered over to South 1^st and South Congress and did the same.  And I found myself torn. 

“If I lived here,” I’d think one moment, “I could walk to Austin Java and Barton Springs!” 

But then I’d drive a little further, and sigh contentedly.  “Ooh, around the corner from Alamo Drafthouse and Black Sheep…” 

And then I’d remember how much I’ve recently fallen in love with SummerMoon Café and Freddie’s, and how I play wiffle ball at South 1^st and Oltorf…

So it’s a win-win situation, really.  There’s no wrong choice.  I don’t know yet where I’ll be living in two months, and for the most part I’m okay with that.  It causes me a little anxiety, worrying that all of my options will fall through and I’ll find myself homeless.  But let’s be realistic.  That isn’t going to happen.  This is an opportunity, not a problem.  I get to pick up and experience something new; to explore a city that I love more every day; to grow and play. 

This is an adventure.

I came to explore the wreck.

The words are purposes.

The words are maps.

I came to see the damage that was done

and the treasures that prevail.

            -Adrienne Rich, “Diving Into the Wreck”

 

 

It was difficult for my students to see the extended metaphor in Adrienne Rich’s poem, Diving Into the Wreck.  (Read the full poem here.) 

But then I saw the proverbial light bulb over one seventh grader’s head.  She realized that Rich might not really be talking about exploring a sunken ship, but in fact her own soul.  Gretel* understood that the human character is just as complicated, just as damaged, and just as wondrous as something that’s been lying at the bottom of the ocean, perhaps following a storm or a cannon battle or an act of sabotage.

“Without the wreck,” Gretel tentatively proclaimed, “You wouldn’t be able to see the beauty!”

I’m the first one to admit that my students regularly raise goosebumps on my arms with their insights, but this is one of the few moments when it was hard to fight back the tears along with the chills. 

…we are the half-destroyed instruments

that once held to a course…

Regret is a tricky thing.  If we don’t make mistakes, we don’t learn.  Without the stumbling and the slip-ups, we’re simple, uncomplicated people.  We’re less interesting and more tentative, like a team going into the playoffs with an undefeated record.  (There’s so much to lose when you’re perfect!)  Allison and I often play a game in which we joke about what we’d do to erase certain missteps from our lives.  You know, “Would you let a dozen cockroaches crawl all over you for 60 seconds in order to remove that lower back tattoo?”  That kind of thing.  (No, I don’t have a lower back tattoo.  But I do know a girl…)

Anyway, the point is, it’s a hard game for me to play.  Because even though I’ve made some huge errors in judgment, and I do have regrets, those mistakes add to the tapestry of my life.  They’re part of my story.  And when I look back, I want to see them as beautiful patches on a huge, intricate, multi-textured quilt. 

Now I’m just mixing metaphors, so I’m going to stop.

Bottom line:  Gretel is right.  If you didn’t have those glorious errors and terrifying blunders, you’d be a completely one-dimensional person.  And you wouldn’t know yourself or your capabilities.  If you didn’t have the hard times – the battles and the horrific sinking that follows – you wouldn’t appreciate the victories and the triumphs.  You would skate by on a cloud of safety and denial, under-appreciating the splendor and the brilliance all around.

…We are, I am, you are

by cowardice or courage

the one who find our way

back to this scene…

I’ve had a stormy year, and I’m not going to kid myself; it’s been hard.  I mean, devastatingly, outrageously challenging.  Sometimes it still is.  But it’s left me feeling stronger and more fearless than I ever could have anticipated.  I’m diving into the wreck, learning more about myself every day.  I’m reveling in the good days and the joy in my life…because there are so many good days and there’s so much love.  Far more than before the mess; before the destruction.  Every morning I wake up excited for the day, looking forward to seeing or talking to someone.  And what’s more, I’m lucky enough to recognize that.  I’m not taking it for granted for a second.  I’m thankful to be mining the hidden, uglier parts of myself.  And I know that if it hadn’t been for the storms – for the wreck – I wouldn’t be able to find them at all. 

…the thing I came for:

the wreck and not the story of the wreck

the thing itself and not the myth…

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Sarah (a.k.a. “Slev”) prefaced her gchat message.  “But I thought you might appreciate this.”  And then she attached a link. 

I braced myself.  Hmm. 

Take it the wrong way?  What a loaded way to introduce a little YouTube video!  Would it be something illicit that I shouldn’t open at work?  Was I on the verge of learning more about Slev than I ever hoped to know?  Something that, perhaps, she believed we had in common?

Sarah moved to Austin this summer, and I already felt like I knew her through a network too complicated to explain here.  (Let’s just say that it involves one of my college professors, Sarah’s roommate, and a former Austin Ultimate player who now resides in Richmond.  Yeah, it’s that kind of tangled web.  In a good way.)

But such is the nature of our friendship.  Just days after her arrival, she and I traveled to Houston together for an Ultimate tournament, and there was never a dull moment in our conversation.  I already felt like I’d known her for years.  (Or, at least, a few solid months!)  Despite being roughly ten years my junior, she had insight about [my] life well beyond her age.  I was impressed…and appreciative.

So in truth, I wasn’t worried about her link.  In fact, I anticipated that it would be thoughtful and unique.  Which it was:

HOW TO BE ALONE

How to be Alone.  Such a basic message, like a  …For Dummies  book.  Things that few of us would ever consider, like dancing publicly when you don’t have a date or a friend, broken down into terms we can understand and identify.  Interesting.

But it isn’t the simple element of the piece that interests me – the idea of starting with small practices of being alone, like visiting libraries and coffee shops.  It’s the directness.  The artist’s conviction that there is beauty in aloneness.  Which, of course, there is.  But not when you’re idly checking Facebook on your phone, or tearing through recordings on your DVR.  The true magic of being by yourself comes when you embrace the moments; you take stock and look inward, appreciating who and where you are.  Celebrating it, even. 

 

“Lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it.”

Sometimes we just need permission.  We need someone to say that there’s wonder in the ugliness; meaning in the emptiness.  Here, it’s almost as if the speaker is making it okay to be not only alone, but lonely; to savor the sweet agony of time with no one but yourself.  She makes it less painful and more empowering; tells you to find strength in the dark and hollow places of your heart. 

Darkness may be the absence of light, but it’s also filled with glorious shadows and complicated hieroglyphics hidden on the cave walls.  You just have to find a new way to illuminate them; to look without seeing.

It is frightening to envision being alone forever.  Even the most contentedly single people I know have expressed that fear to me (much to my surprise).  But it’s far scarier to be lonely in a room full of ‘friends’ or sitting at the dinner table with the faux company of an empty relationship.  To be happily – or least comfortably – alone is the best of both worlds.  To consider yourself company enough.  In fact, that may be the highest form of self-love.

“The conversations you get in by sitting alone on benches might’ve never happened had you not been there by yourself.”

When you remove the fear of being alone, you access opportunity and joy in all kinds of unexpected and inspiring ways.  You see things that you may not have noticed before, like the wisdom of a stranger or the kindness of a new friend; the pleasure of dancing by yourself or the release of sitting on the back porch with a cup of tea (or a beer, for that matter) to watch the squirrels scamper across the yard. 

Being a writer requires time alone.  Even when I’m with a group of people gathered specifically to write, I’m more productive when I set aside time for quiet, solitary craft. 

“Maybe being a writer, you just can’t worry about other people’s needs right now,” my friend Dallas said to me this summer.  I tend to be a bit of a Mama Bird, taking care of others and worrying about them incessantly.  But Dallas is right.  I need to know how to be alone, and sometimes that means actively choosing graceful isolation.  They (those writerly folks, that is) say that ‘God is in the details’.  Maybe that’s just another way of saying that he/she is found within; something you need to coax out to play now and then. 

 

“If your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.  There is heat in freezing.  Be a testament.”

My heart has been bleeding quite a bit lately.  For myself, for others.  For the gorgeous, acute pain of love and loss and change.  I had a lot of time alone this summer, and I was making the most of the mess.  The blood was pouring over my hands and into my writing like the rain after a Texas draught.  But I’ve been pretty crowded lately – in classrooms filled with middle schoolers, at workouts with groups of girls, at shows teeming with people and at meetings piled high with discussion and action items.  And I’m grateful for these communities, these flashes of insight and these wonderful muses.  But the moments that I’ve had to myself (sitting beside my Christmas tree, curled up in the covers of my bed, bent over a cup of coffee on a Sunday morning) I’ve turned to my journal or my laptop for company.  Does that count as being alone?  Does my art make me, somehow, less lonely?

I have to believe that it doesn’t.  I have to believe that it’s my art “needs practice,” and that I should “stop neglecting it”.  My writing isn’t my friend, it’s me. 

Although maybe those two things are, in fact, one and the same.

Last night a new reader joked that my blog depresses her.  “Please write an upbeat (albeit fake) post!” she requested.  And I’m nothing if not accommodating to new fans.

Especially since, in looking back over the last six or seven months, I realize that my writing has adopted a somewhat intense tone.  And sure, I’m intense sometimes.  I’m stormy and occasionally grumpy and now and then I get angry or sad.  But I’m also pretty goofy, really.  I go to happy hours with big groups of girls where we tell dirty jokes (or true, dirty stories) and make friends with the bartenders.  I play wiffle ball and ultimate and my favorite thing in yoga is handstands.  I have a huge sweet tooth that makes it impossible to resist chocolate and very sugary coffee.  I teach middle school and write young adult fiction largely because, in my heart, I’m a big kid who still giggles at bathroom humor.  This is, actually, who I am a lot of the time.  Where did this always-serious girl come from? 

While the trappings and realities of this grown-up life do have the potential to bring me down at times, I would hazard to say that I’m usually quite up.  So here it is – my first (deliberately) “upbeat” post of 2012!

***

Some time ago a good friend tweeted, “Writing is like life:  Transitions are rough and conclusions are hard.”  I’m pretty sure that I proved part of this assessment when I transitioned from potty-talk to being a grown-up.  Awkward and clunky, indeed!  Transitions are rough.

But we didn’t need my poor writing to know that Allison is quite right (and not only because this wise observation emerged from the veritable hell inside her Dissertation-Writing-Closet-of-Death).  Allow me, if you will, to expound on a few more writing/life parallels…

On Paragraphing and Structure:  Sure, it’s nice when things are neat and organized, and you can separate your ideas into clear and concise groupings of 5-7 sentences.  But when the dog is tearing the stuffing out of her new chew toy, and you have 150 essays to grade, and you’re searching for a reasonably-priced bridesmaid dress, and you’re querying literary agents and paying bills at the same desk, and your mom keeps emailing you about buying a condo, and you’re between gym memberships, and all you really really want to do is watch that new episode of Glee…well, who can stay organized all the time?  Isn’t it easier to just allow things to be a little helter-skelter?  To let work overlap into your personal life?  To make the professional personal in your writing?  To grade papers at teacher happy hours?  (Well, maybe not that last bit…) 

Verb Tense (in)Consistency:  I can’t compartmentalize!  The past bleeds into the present, and sometimes gets confused with the future.  And irregular verbs?  Forget about it.

Diction (a.k.a., Word Choice) = Trouble:  Ah, the moments when we realize that we’ve just said something (unknowingly) uncouth, and everyone quietly scratches their heads in uncomfortable silence.  Damn, those times when we misuse a word, or say exactly the thing that everyone else is avoiding.  Sometimes, word choice is everything.  Speaking of which, should I quit while I’m ahead?  Or should I have quit three paragraphs ago?  Is it already too late?  Oh, man…Stop…writing…Colleen…   

Punctuation is Inconsistent and Confusing:  Those little dashes and marks, the curls and dots…they can be so baffling.  And they change everything.  They dictate meaning as much as the words themselves.  Sometimes they appear completely arbitrary and unpredictable.  And they raise so many questions.  Does this sentence require a question mark or an exclamation point?  Where the hell do the quotation marks go at the end of that statement?  When and how does one utilize parentheses?  (Seriously, I really don’t know.  And I totally over-use them.)  And can someone please explain the semi-colon, for godsake? 

Yes, writing is like life, Allison.  Glorious and joyful, tragic and complicated, filled with beauty and ugliness.  And that’s not phony at all.

Whew, 2011. 

You were one sassy bitch.

My blog is evidence that I’ve had some major highs and lows in 2011.  I was busy, to say the very least, and that included an upswing in writing over the spring/summer and a distinctly somber fall. 

But I’m not here to re-live the last twelve months.  I’m writing now in an effort to welcome the coming year with broad, open arms and warm hugs.  I sit quietly on New Year’s Eve, my third glass of wine cozying up to my laptop like they’re old friends.  (And really, who am I kidding?  They are.)  Matt the Electrician sings his version of “Jesse’s Girl” on my speakers, and the Christmas lights still twinkle from all corners of my living room. 

I could write a bulleted list of New Year’s Resolutions, as I have the last two years.  (Full disclosure:  I will be jotting down just such a list in my brand-new journal very soon.)  But that’s not what I want to do with this post.  This is about one resolution, and one resolution only:  “Say yes to what is.”

While I was visiting my family in Massachusetts last week, one of my oldest and best friends, Will, recited this mantra to me.  Will and I have been friends since kindergarten, when I refused to share my cheeseballs with him in the Fort River Elementary cafeteria.  He knows me better than most people in my life, and he’s aware that I often struggle with letting go.  New Year’s Eve is frequently a bittersweet holiday for me, because I perceive it as a goodbye; as forced closure; as the relentless passage of time when all I want is for things to (please, please, please) just slow down. 

Will (and his bright, insightful, bombshell-hot girlfriend Genevieve) talked with me about our lives over spiked hot chocolate in front of a crackling fire.  We evaluated just how much has changed and how much is happening for me right now.  They recognized that it’s a complicated, challenging, and altogether exciting time.  Yes, some doors are closing for me along with 2011, and that is sad in many ways.  But 2012 holds so much promise…

And so Will advised that, obstacles-be-damned, I should say yes to what is.  Look toward this new year with an open heart and an eager mind. 

I’m so lucky to have friends like these, who recognize that life is never simple.  That it’s best, in fact, when we live in those shades of gray and see the beauty and wonder in the darkness.  I resolve to take Will’s advice.  I’m looking into the unknown – even though I’ve always been afraid of the dark – and rushing headlong into what is.  

And so now it’s New Year’s Day…And after I post this latest insight into my sordid and crazy life, I plan to put on a bikini and head to the Polar Bear Plunge at Barton Springs.  Yes, this northerner will be swimming on January 1st.  Step One toward saying yes.

“I don’t remember stealing

But I do it all the time

I took your heart and kept it

And put it next to mine

 

I am no good for anybody

I am a cautionary tale

I am an accidental thief

Won’t be locked up in a jail

 

I didn’t mean to hurt you

Or waste all of our time

I am an accidental thief

These are accidental crimes”

 

–Matt the Electrician

 

*****

 

This is being an adult.  This is human experience.

I woke up yesterday and my comforter felt too heavy, like it was pinning me to the bed.  It was an effort to push it off, to start my day fresh.  And so I dragged myself through the morning with that heaviness bearing down on me like a weighted cloak.  Like chainmail.  Like chains.

No matter how we might try, we always carry the feelings and expectations of others.  We perpetually hold ourselves to standards that we can’t maintain; consistently raising and reaching for the idiomatic bar.  But it’s so far, so high.  Too lofty to grasp, unless we become less human.  Unless we remove ourselves entirely, push people away, hide in our safe and dark places like small animals, where it’s quiet and calm and otherwise empty.

And the same can be said of our own feelings and expectations.

We ask much of others, too, hoping that they’ll reach for their own ethical bars in the interest of care and consideration.  Our hearts are exposed all the time, whether we choose for them to be or not.  Some of us crack open our ribs and tear it out, presenting it like a bleeding, throbbing gift.  And others curl in around it protectively, only to find that it’s just as vulnerable that way.  Perhaps moreso. 

And in the end, it doesn’t matter.

This is human experience.  To break, to be broken, to dis- and reassemble over and over again, with cracks and splinters and scars.  These are acts of living.

The truth is, I find myself just a bit startled by where I am in my life. 

This isn’t what I expected.  It isn’t what I planned for.  In fact, I made decisions and commitments that should have dictated that I wouldn’t be precisely where I am.

And yet…

I can’t imagine it any other way. 

It’s hard to let go of what I anticipated; to abandon that vision of what my life would be.  But when I do—when I push myself to embrace not so much what might have been but instead what is—I’m aware of how happy I am.  And I remember that (to state the very obvious) it’s pointless not to celebrate it.  We can’t change where we’ve arrived, we can only affect where we’re going.  (And right now I’m content not knowing exactly where that is yet.)

In April I invited the Austin band Full Service into my classroom to perform an acoustic show for roughly 50 of my students as part of a unit on lyrical interpretation.  (Check out my post about that show.)  The founding members, brothers Hoag and Bonesaw, were new friends of mine.  I met them before knowing that they were in a touring band, but quickly became a “Fansaw” when I heard their music.  I followed their acoustic classroom-show with an electric one at Stubb’s Barbecue soon after. 

Enter transition.

I’d been quietly, inwardly struggling with some things for a long time; silently and privately wrestling my proverbial demons.  I finally found the courage to face them head-on in the spring — to talk talk about them, even — and that naturaly led to a series of major life-altering decisions.  Since April I’ve changed jobs/schools, moved twice, and taken some major steps in my writing life.  Full Service songs like “Strings”, “The Pieta” and “Ramona” became the soundtrack to one of the most pivotal seasons of my life. 

But summer is over now.  Fall is officially upon us, and winter rapidly approaches.  It’s all happened so damn fast.  So when I saw FS perform an acoustic set at their house party  last weekend, I felt distinctly aware of the changing seasons, and just how much has changed for me in these last months. 

I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but the music sounded different.  Not better, and certainly not worse, just…new.  I know the songs (and the people, for that matter) better.  They were mainstays on my iPod for six months, and now everything in my life is flipped upside down.  Maybe it’s even beginning to change again.  I’m a new person in many ways, and so “Hi Ho” and “Kristine” sounded fresh and unique.  I was slightly startled when Bonesaw declared that “No One Can Find Me” is his favorite track on Roaming Dragons (I’d always thought it was “Strings”—my favorite as well), but when they played the tune I realized just how good it is.  I heard it with new ears.  I’d always liked it and all, but I appreciated it more somehow.    

We all have those songs that we associate with specific times and places, so that when we hear them we’re brought back in a palpable way.  That night was the opposite for me.  It wasn’t a reminder of where I was seven months ago, it was a realization of where I am now.  And a piece of bittersweet evidence that I like this place.