Colleen Conrad

I write a lot of poetry, but I rarely share it or attempt to publish it.  Recently, though, I read a poem to a writing group.  As I listened to myself, I realized that the work just felt like prose.  My partners agreed, and it even occurred to me that it sounded like an intriguing prologue for one of my new projects. 

So here it is.  The would-be poem that became prose that may be a prologue.  Hope you like it.

 

Heartbreak should always come with locked doors, burned bridges, and houses flooded with tears.  It should come with a hurricane, a tsunami, a tornado.  A certain natural disaster that destroys everything that came before, so that we have no choice but to rebuild.

What do we do with whispers of endings?  With those quiet, muted, drawn-out masterpieces of stolen life and art?  Where do we put the remnants when they don’t fit neatly into boxes and dark closets?  Or when we still want to gaze mournfully at what’s left behind?

Yes, this is why endings should always be permanent — black ink on white paper, a scar from the kindergarten playground, a tattoo deep under the skin.

This is how we repair, how we build up, how we reconstruct the bruised and battered components of a heart.  Of a life.

But here I sit, the cremains of an ending still warm in my brown hands.  The sun is bright on my face, and I smell summer.  But I breathe in the ash and bone and sinew and muscle of what we were, willing it—crying for it—to breathe along with me.

 

Ultimate has defined my experience in Texas.

I moved here as a field hockey player, but within six months I was a convert to the Frisbee-based sport.  As a graduate student, I was hungry for a new team; for competition; for the good, hard sweat that comes with a grueling practice.  Much to my shock and awe, I missed the structure, the challenge, and the expectations of being a competitive athlete.  As an undergrad I mildly resented the commitment, but maybe all I needed was the chance to miss it.

So I stumbled across the women’s Ultimate team at UT Austin – Melee.  And since then, this sport has been at the center of my life.  It’s defined my vacations, my social life, my romantic life, my weekend plans and my physical activity.  It’s become who I am.

Unlike in typical sports, Ultimate teams generally opt for unique names.  Rather than being “The Tornadoes,” “The Tigers,” or “The Matadors,” Ultimate teams go for names like “Furious George,” “Riot,” and “Slow White.”   Which explains my first Ultimate team’s moniker. 

A melee can be defined as a fracas, a clash, a fray.  A scrum, if you will.  A mess, a shitstorm, a brawl.  Conflict.

And the irony is that, in some ways, this has also defined my experience in Texas.  I’ve gone through periods of calm and peace, but for the most part I’ve learned that being a grown-up is often fraught with difficult decisions.  With messiness.  With complications and change.  With tremendous inner struggle.

Now, maybe it’s just me.  But in observing my friends and family, I’m inclined to think that being an adult is simply…difficult.  Unless you hide yourself away in the wilderness to live by your wits outside of civilization, you’re bound to face some internal and external melees.  And wouldn’t it be sad not to have choices?  They can feel so paralyzing, so desperately painful.  But at the end of the day, I’ll hold on to my free will, thank you very much.  I’d rather have too many options than not enough.  I’d rather have to navigate thorny relationships than not connect with other people in meaningful ways.  I’d prefer to make a decision and wonder if it was the right one than to not have a choice at all. 

There was a time when I wanted to run away from these conflicts, and I even thought that I could avoid the ones inside my head and my heart.  I thought that leaving Austin entirely would calm things down.  I imagined myself out in the boondocks (or at least the suburbs), living a quiet and peaceful life with the birds and the wild bears.  But I’m an intensely social person, and it wasn’t long before I realized how much I truly love where I am.  How much I appreciate my choices, and even the emotional clashes that I have to face in order to be a citizen of the world. 

So I say, bring on the melee.

EMILY:  Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?

STAGE MANAGER:  No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.

–Thornton Wilder (Our Town)

I sat on the patio overlooking Lake Austin, remembering this line, and I thought, “I want to be like that.”

I want to realize life—to appreciate it, to make the absolute most of it, to be thankful for every moment—as I live it. 

But of course, that’s asking too much.  And it’s so easy to think that when you’re in your pajamas, drinking sweet coffee, looking out at a gorgeous sunrise on the water and your dog is napping contentedly at your feet.  It’s a simple thing to be grateful for those moments.  You’d be crazy not to sit back and appreciate them.  The trick is catching your breath during the difficult times.  Sinking into them and being thankful—yes, thankful—for the lessons that you can learn from the pain.

I’ve talked with writer friends and written before about how the challenging times can make the best fodder for our art.  Sure, I write when I’m happy and at peace, too.  But what about those times of struggle?  Of conflict and discomfort?  Of heartbreak and fear?  I’ve often thought, that’s where the good stuff is.  It’s buried deep down inside those dark experiences.  Mining the gritty stuff, the ugly bits, the angry and the sad stuff.  That’s where it’s at.

So maybe that’s what Wilder meant when he wrote that saints (who inevitably sacrifice) and poets (who invariably struggle) realize life every minute.  Because they actually know that life isn’t always easy, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t always beautiful.  And since being a saint just really isn’t my bag, I’ll be a poet.

It was two days after my birthday, at 4:00 in the afternoon on a Saturday.  I was standing on the corner of 4^th and Colorado in downtown Austin wearing a bikini and a Harry Potter towel.  My hair was wet, my makeup was smudged, and I’m sure I smelled like chlorine.  As I waited patiently for the “walk” signal, I noticed two guys dressed as Uncle Sam (in ridiculously small cutoff jean shorts, I might add) heading my way from across the street.  They joined me on the corner and we happily struck up a conversation.  You know, just a girl in a bathing suit in the city and two dudes in costume.  Totally normal.  But then, that’s the city where I live. 

I knew almost immediately that I’d be writing about it.

Almost eight years ago I packed up my life and left beautiful western Massachusetts, bound for the scrappy hills, hippie-cowboy vibe, and artistic and academic culture of Austin, Texas. 

A lot has happened in those eight years, but I’m not going to get into that here.  I already do a lot of reflecting back to years past, and right now I want to think about the last seven days.  About how Austin has become my home and my center.

Last week I turned 32 (despite one friend’s repeated insistence that I’m 33; ugh).  It was a Thursday.  Just a normal day, when the only thing I had on the books was time for writing and a few ultimate games.  I’ve never been huge on birthdays (as evidenced by how frequently I forget others’), so it wasn’t a big deal to me that I didn’t have a party planned or that I’d be playing ultimate for three hours when I could be drinking 32 for my 32^nd.  That said, I still made a point to meet Sheila in the afternoon for a margarita at the coffee shop/bar/performance space Spiderhouse Café.  Sure, I should have been hydrating for ultimate…but what fun is that?  Sheila is relentlessly smart and funny, so naturally we had a fantastic time just sweating it up on the outside patio, margaritas in hand.  (I had the spicy melon, she had the cucumber lime.  Both were delicious.)

I was pleasantly surprised when Tina also suggested that we grab a birthday drink following our games.  I’m a teacher on summer vacation, so I happily accepted.  Go to a bar in sweaty athletic clothes on my birthday?  Why not?!  It’s not like I had to get up in the morning. 

We went to one of our favorite spots, Black Sheep Lodge, owned in part by a fellow ultimate player and friend named Keith (a.k.a. “Homie”).  I was further pleasantly surprised when a number of other friends showed up to wish me a happy birthday, making it a far more celebratory gathering than I’d originally expected.  Homie kicked things off with birthday shots and a tasty IPA (I still don’t know specifically what it was because he ordered it for me), and Jenna helped out by driving me home at the end of the night…Thank goodness.

On Friday I hit Barton Springs with fellow teacher and ultimate player Dawn (a.k.a. “Dawngo”).  She and I slathered ourselves in sunscreen, laid down two huge blankets, and hid her cooler away in her bag since it’s considered Against the Rules at the springs (even though we only had ice and water inside).  The pool was blissfully cold as always, the weather fantastically hot, and we fell into deep conversation while lounging in the sun.  About halfway through our stay, we ran into new friends Bonesaw, Hoag, Connor and Morgan (the first two are members of the Austin band Full Service, the other two houseguests of theirs), who were looking for a reprieve from the heat since they’re currently building an addition on their house off South Congress. 

This is one of the things that I adore about Austin:  It has all of the great restaurants, happenings, culture and activity of a big city, but the small-town feel of my own Amherst.  Running into the guys was a complete coincidence, but it wasn’t really a surprise.  It’s Barton Springs.  Everyone goes there in the summer.  (Especially when you’re a musician who makes your own schedule or a teacher on break.)

Dawngo and I eventually recognized that we needed to get out of the sun, so we said our goodbyes and I went home to get ready for the evening’s birthday activities with Allison:  Dinner and the Full Service show at Stubb’s Bar-B-Q.  Things started off great—with Mexican food and just enough margaritas to set the mood—when I got a text from Hoag saying that the show was cancelled due to plumbing problems.  So sad.  We paced around outside of Stubb’s for far too long, mourning the show’s cancellation, but eventually ended up at Lovejoy’s drinking good beer and playing “Conversion” (a game I’d explain here except that it’s really too complicated and not all that important). 

The next morning I hit up free yoga at Barton Springs and followed it up with an iced turbo (a sweet, cold, frothy coffee drink) at Jo’s.  Amanda popped over on her bike to chat, and then we both headed from there to Hannah’s place at 2^nd and Lavaca, where we laid poolside with Holly, yet another Hannah, and Jess (a.k.a. “Venus”), basking away the Saturday afternoon.  When I finally left, I realized that I didn’t want to put on my dry clothes…Which brings me to the chance encounter with my Uncle Sam-impersonating friends. 

The guys explained that they were on a scavenger hunt, and shared their current clue with me.  We laughed about taking a picture together—two guys in costume, one girl in almost nothing—in the middle of downtown Austin.  They walked me to my car and I wished them luck as they took off at a run for Rainy Street.  Then, on my way home, I caught a glimpse of a march going down Cesar Chavez, which appeared to be a men’s statement against domestic violence.  I rolled down my window and caught a picture as they turned off Congress and passed by my car. 

It had already been a busy weekend, so I was happy to slow down with Alexa that night.  We ordered pizza, baked cookies, and watched Labyrinth, laughing and gasping like little kids the whole time. 

Sunday was pretty quiet, with a little housecleaning, time at the gym, and The Hangover Part II with Hannah for my birthday.  We went to The Alamo Drafthouse, though, which is easily my favorite theater in Austin.  A menu with my movie?  Yes, please!

On Monday I started ultimate camp at the UT Intramural Fields.  We have an almost entirely new staff at camp this year, but they’ve proven themselves to be amazingly adept at this coaching thing.  Their instincts are spot-on, they know exactly how to engage the kids, and they’re a hard-working bunch.  (Breaking the stereotype of the always-late, lackadaisical ultimate player.)  Monday night picked up with wiffle ball with the Full Service guys and friends.  I’ve only recently joined their game, but I’m hooked.  We play around various obstacles in the park—a cement bench, a sand volleyball court, low-hanging tree branches, etc.—and it’s always a bit of an adventure.  But the hazards keep things interesting, and we all show up for the company and the competition anyway.  On this particular night, we followed up the game with a trip to Barton Springs for the free hour from 9:00-10:00.  I’d never been at night before, but Bonesaw had promised me that it would be worth it, and he was right.  There was something very summery about the cooler air, the quiet chatter, and the artificial light in the night sky.  Save Our Springs Alliance featured a bluegrass band that night—Whiskey Shivers—who played while we paddled around in the freezing water.

On Tuesday I hit up my regular yoga class at Yoga Yoga (although my instructor, Mandy, is out of town for her honeymoon), and that night I went to Cipollina with Nazish for my birthday.  We split the crepes and the risotto—mmm.  After dinner we walked over to Contigo for a few more drinks and a bit more conversation.  (I had a Moscow Mule, she had El Pepino.)  We’re neighbors now, so we stumbled our way back home, alternately giggly and pensive.  Because our lives are never simple, but for as long as I’ve known her we’ve shared them with each other.

 Wednesday brought the first practice of the year with my women’s ultimate team, featuring a gorgeous sunset over the IM Fields, solid play, a strong turnout, and an overall good atmosphere.  At one point, after setting up cones for the field, I stopped to reflect on how good it felt to be surrounded by such a positive group of women.  Walking up to the cluster of ladies as they laced their cleats and took swigs from their stickered water bottles, I reveled in the comfortable chatter.  It’s a mixed group of women, ranging almost two decades in age, and many of them don’t yet know each other.  But they were happily introducing themselves, laughing, and gearing up for some frisbee.  I started the team just last year with two friends (Amy and Naz), and I’m captaining again this year.  It was gratifying to see our first practice so well-attended, with the girls gelling quickly and smoothly.  My girl-athlete heart swelled. 

After practice I chatted with Amy in the parking lot about how well practice went.  Then, throwing sleep out the window, I caught the tail-end of an impromptu Full Service jam and hit up Opal Divine’s for beers and darts with Hoag and Connor. 

And that brings me to today.  Thursday.  I’m now 32 and one week, and if you’re only as old as you feel, well then I’m…I don’t know, younger than 32.  I feel like every day holds new excitement and new discoveries here in Austin.  I’m back at Spiderhouse with Allison in a corner booth, both of us clicking away at our laptops, occasionally pausing to talk about our sordid lives or ask an academic/professional question.  We’re both yawning, because neither of us sleeps enough.  I’m still in my clothes from camp this morning, whereas she looks put-together and polished (as always).  We have earbuds in, but sometimes we’ll share a song with each other when we need a break.  I’m drinking an Italian soda because I just can’t have any more coffee, and she’s on her umpteenth refill of caffeine.  I’m headed back to summer league tonight, and even though know that I will once again be without a female sub, I’m looking forward to it.  I’m exhausted already, and my voice is hoarse from pushing it too hard at camp all week.  But it will be good to run around and play, however poorly. 

My good friend Tessa once told me that she moved back to California in part because California is in her blood.  That its culture is the right fit for her.  My family is in Massachusetts, and it’s a struggle being so far away from them all the time.  I miss them tremendously.  But I’ve found another family here in Austin, and when I’m honest with myself I know that the culture of this city is—as Tessa might say—the right fit for me.  I’m a Gemini, so I love its eclectic feel.  I appreciate meeting so many different kinds of people all the time, and it’s that much better that everyone seems so warm and open.  Austin is liberal with a sense of humor.  It’s quirky and cosmopolitan.  It’s educated and down-to-earth. It’s come-as-you-are.  And no, I’m not saying that I’m specifically all of these things, just that I appreciate these qualities about this city.  There are times when I wish that I could slow down a little bit more, but Alexa told me over the weekend that she’s never seen me so happy.  So maybe there’s something to that.  Maybe this activity does sit well on my shoulders.  Maybe this snapshot of Austin—or my version of the city—is the one that I need to frame and hang on my wall, or keep on my bedside table.  Because it’s the one that’s giving me strength and life.  It’s the one that I want to remember and hold on to.

I’ve been working on a post for almost a week now, and it just doesn’t feel right yet.  It’s become a bit of a monster, really, growing more elaborate every time I revisit it.  (Clearly I need to work on my editing skills and make some friggin decisions!)  I have a feeling that I’m going to need a bit more time on that one.  So while I continue to plug away, here’s a Gratitude Journal—Summer 2011 Style.

I’m grateful for the new friends that I’ve made in the last year.  People who’ve added a whole new color to the spectrum of my life in Austin; energized me; inspired me; and reminded me that life can be full of wonderful surprises when you’re open to them. 

I’m grateful for the old friends who’ve rallied around me in the last six months.  They’ve provided support, distraction, words of wisdom, sage advice, confidence, and unconditional love. 

I’m grateful to live in a city that is so eternally filled with life.  And I’m grateful to discover something new about this city almost daily.

I’m grateful that I have a body that allows me to play, escaping from the trappings of my busy mind.

I’m grateful to have another season leading and playing on a women’s ultimate team full of enthusiastic, committed, fun female friends and teammates.  Teams like this confirm the value of women’s sports.  They’re validating; life-giving; challenging; motivating; stimulating.

I’m grateful to live in a country that allows women to be strong and athletic; to speak their minds; to be aggressive and assertive; to make choices for themselves.  (And yes, I know that we still live in a patriarchal society…But I’m thankful for the freedoms that I do have.)

I’m grateful for the things that I’ve learned about myself during this time of flux.  My life may be in transition, but I’m finding myself calmer, stronger, more resilient and more independent than I ever could have hoped.  I had almost forgotten that I was all of these things…And I’m thankful to have this opportunity to learn more—or be reminded—about who I really am.

Remember when you got your first Magic 8 Ball?  You’d ask it to predict the future by asking questions like, “Will Jacob ask me to the dance?” or “Will I make the All-Star basketball team?”  Or maybe you were grade-conscious, and you’d ask about passing a certain test or whether you should sign up for advanced placement social studies.  You’d give it a good, solid shake, and wait for the answer to present itself. 

Of course, shaking it made it that much harder to read, because all of those little blue bubbles would turn to foam, further clouding the multi-sided die when it rose to the surface.   But you’d shake it anyway, because really—who can resist shaking a Magic 8 Ball?

My life has been quite the Magic 8 Ball lately.  And the questions are all much more grown-up, involving career and marriage, dream-chasing and realism, living situations and familial distance.

I’ve definitely been shaking this Magic 8 Ball.  And it’s alternately thrilling and terrifying, not knowing all of the answers.  The more I shake it up, the less clear things become.  But I’m feeling almost bizarrely calm about everything.  I’m just surrendering to the chaos.  I’m winging it, to say the very least. 

I most recently described the feeling to a friend:  “It’s like I’m carrying a really large tray, with lots of glasses of water on it.”

“So having a job would remove one of the glasses?” he asked me, because my simile was intentionally vague.  “Or would it be adding another glass?” 

I thought for a second.  “I don’t know!” I shrugged at him, because I really didn’t.  And I was (and am) strangely okay with that.  “But I feel like I’m doing a pretty good job of balancing it all.”

I’ve reached a point where I accept that the answers aren’t all that important.  I mean, sure, they’re going to make a difference in my life and all.  I’m at the proverbial crossroads; a turning point.  But as someone who likes to have control over everything, it’s been incredibly liberating to just wait and see.  To sit with this indecision, this not knowing, this constant change and uncertainty.  To trust myself enough to know that I’ll be okay—great, even—no matter what.  To allow the die to settle at the top of the 8 Ball whenever it’s ready and wait for the bubbles to clear. 

I guess I’m embracing the idea that there are no “bad” choices.  There are just different paths, and whichever one I choose (or whichever one comes to be) is mine.  It will be up to me to make the most of it.

In attempting to play, she thinks.

I begin every academic year by inviting my students to write six-word memoirs.  Some are painfully adolescent (I mean, they are twelve), but others are strikingly insightful and adult.  I treasure them.

And I always write my own as well.  This year my six-word memoir was, “In attempting to play, she thinks.” 

I come from a sports family.  Play has always been a huge part of the way that we connect with each other and with the world around us.  And I do love sports—even more now than when I was growing up.  As an adult, I really appreciate the way that athletics have given me a foundation for a healthy lifestyle; the way that I’ve built friendships (and even romances) around sports; the way that playing can be an escape from the exhausting places in my mind.

I say exhausting because even as I grew up around athletes, I found myself drawn to the quiet solitude of my room and my journal.  I was writing poems and novels as early as fourth grade.  By fifth grade, I’d decided that I wanted to be a writer.  (Or a dancer, actually.  But that dream was disregarded before graduating from elementary school.)  So while I spent a great deal of my spare time in gymnastics, softball, volleyball, field hockey, swimming, diving…I also buried myself in books and letters.  My mom says that she would watch me disappear even when I was young.  My family would take one look at me and know that I was blocking out the world; retreating into the distant musings in my mind. 

And that hasn’t changed.  But I have become aware of how scary a place my mind can be.  It’s sometimes a lonely place.  Other times it’s just overwhelming. 

So I’m thankful that I was also given the tool of play.  And I’m grateful that I’ve continued to play—and to love it even more—as a grown-up.  It’s a coping mechanism, really.  A place where I can turn off my brain and put the worries, the anxieties, and the neuroses aside.

Today, for example, I found myself spinning.  My mind was a twisting, turning, up-and-down rollercoaster.  By mid-afternoon I realized that I couldn’t sit by my laptop anymore.  I pushed through yesterday, and I’m glad that I did because eventually it became productive.  But today I hit a wall.  Today, I was on a downward spiral, digging myself deeper into the troubled recesses of my mind. 

I’d planned to go to yoga, as I regularly do on Tuesdays.  But I also knew that there was goaltimate (basically a form of half-court basketball played with a frisbee) a little later in the evening.  And while I adore yoga, my favorite instructor is out of town.  And somehow I knew that I didn’t need meditation or quiet.  I needed noise; I needed cleats on grass; I needed heavy sweat and grunting and maybe even a little cursing at a dropped throw or a defensive misstep.  I needed something all-consuming.  I needed the kind of tough competition that would shut out the very loud chatter in my head. 

In attempting to play, she thinks.

Even as I love play, it’s still hard for me to just let go sometimes.  To throw caution to the wind, let down my guard, and enjoy myself.  It’s a challenge to release my inhibitions and my insecurities.  Moreover, it’s difficult for me to just enjoy play when I’m so much in my own head, and I have to make an active choice not to criticize how well I play and my skill or decisions.  But I’m getting better at it.  And no matter what, I never regret playing.  I always feel better afterward.  Where would I be if I’d never been introduced to sports?  If I didn’t enjoy them so?  If I weren’t at least decent at them?  Or if I lived in a place that didn’t offer so many opportunities for physical activity?

I guess I’ll never know.  And I’m so, so glad for that.

This weekend, my classmates will celebrate our ten-year college reunion.  Unfortunately, I’ve moved across the country and can’t make it back there to join everyone.  But I started thinking recently about how I’ve changed—and how I’ve stayed the same—since I was a starry-eyed co-ed wandering around a small Norman Rockwell-esque liberal arts college.  I lent someone a book that I read as an undergrad, filled with my undergraduate highlights and chicken scratches, and thought about what those marks say about me now.  If that was my college self talking, what are the messages I was sending to my (arguably) adult persona?   

We’ve all thought about what we’d tell our younger selves if we could go back.  But if I could sit down over a cup of Cool Beans coffee with that girl, what would she tell me?  What advice would she impart?  What expectations would she have of her future self?  How would she hope to grow and change, and how would she hope to stay the same?

******

Choose your impulse purchases wisely. 

Mozzarella sticks are delicious.  But if you order them to your apartment at 3:00am, someone else will probably intercept the delivery guy on his way to your door.  And you’ll find yourself waiting up, losing your buzz, wondering where the hell those late-night appetizers could possibly be.  And if they do finally arrive, you’ll probably regret scarfing down all of that processed cheese right before going to bed anyway.  In other words, they may taste good, but they’ll cost you.   

 

Your friendships are just as important as your romantic relationships. 

This won’t change.  Some people say that it will.  They argue that eventually you and your friends will settle down with reliable men (or women), have kids, buy a house in the ‘burbs.  Your immediate family will eclipse your friends—even those amazing women that you live(d) with, who build you up, sometimes tear you down, call you on your bullshit and love you just the same.  But “some people” are wrong.  Because no one person can meet all of our emotional needs.  Ever.  You need your friends so that when the tough times come around, you have an army.  Trust me, you’ll be happy you have the troops. 

 

Be brave. 

Like, stupid brave.  And confident.  And uninhibited.  Being bold has worked for me.  I don’t think so much about what people are going to say, or how they’re going to see me.  I raise my hand before I’m sure that I know the “right” answer.  I take the classes that interest me and spend time with the people who inspire me.  I just assume that people are inherently good, and that they’ll believe I am, too.  And if they don’t, so what?  This is who I am:  Opinionated, confident, direct.   This is how I’ll make friends when I move to a new city, keep connections with professors, get jobs and sell myself in a grown-up professional world.  Be audacious.  Own it.

 

Give yourself a break sometime. 

You don’t have to be perfect.    Could I be better at field hockey?  Maybe.  But it’s so much more fun to let myself off the hook sometimes.  I enjoy practice, but I don’t let it make (or ruin) my day.  I could probably write some better papers, and be more responsible when it comes to my obligations.  But I don’t lay awake at night worrying over it.  I let some things go.  And that works for me.  And at the end of the day, I’m pretty darn happy with my life.  (Plus, I think it’s that much sweeter when I score the winning goal against Brown, or UVM, or whoever…)     

 

Do everything. 

I’m tired.  I’m an officer in aBiGaLe, co-chairing Poetry Circle, playing field hockey, and I made it into that acapella group and just picked up another minor.  Time is tight.  This is exhausting.  But it’s so worth it.  All of these experiences make me a better person, with interesting and supportive friends and experiences that feed my soul.  Sometimes you’ll feel full, but it’s the good kind of full, like a totally satisfying meal that covers all of the food groups.

 

And lastly,

Know yourself.  And then re-discover yourself when you change. 

One of the best things about college is that I’m still trying new things and learning about myself.  I think I have a pretty good sense of who I am, but I also know that I may be different tomorrow.  I don’t mean that I’m changeable or inconsistent, I just mean that I might know even more about myself next week or next month.  I may discover something that I’m good (or bad) at, or something that I enjoy way more than I realized.  I may meet a new friend who brings out a different quality in me, and that may be a good quality or a bad one.  But it’s part of who I am.  It’s complicated.  And I’m okay with that.

A month and a half ago, I got my first tattoo — a quill on the top of my right foot.  Most of you know by now that I took a major leap of faith recently in deciding to resign from my job and commit more time to my writing.  The tattoo felt like a good benchmark; a visual reminder about the pledge that I was making to myself.  In a lot of ways it’s also paying homage to an integral part of my identity. 

I’ve been a writer my entire life.  And I believe that I will be a writer for the rest of it.  So it was a surprise when, about a year ago, I had my very first experience of sheer vertigo while writing.  In all of the years that I’d spent writing novels, poetry, short stories, journal entries and blogs, I’d never felt so moved as that moment.    

I’m a planner, so I believe in outlines.  I don’t live and die by them, and I regularly improvise in my writing, but having some structure up-front does help me.  Still, it’s fun when my characters end up in an un-planned scenario.  In this particular case, I found my protagonist in a surprising and terrifying situation.  And the experience was similarly enjoyable, except that it became considerably more intense.  It was as if I was reading someone else’s novel.  Like I truly had no idea what was going to happen next.  I’ve heard writers say this before:  that they’re consistently surprised where their characters and stories take them.  But this was a first for me.  I felt initiated. 

Even more dramatic was my deeply emotional reaction.  Goosebumps raised on my arms; my heart raced; tears sprang to my eyes; butterflies fluttered in my stomach.  I almost felt dizzy, and wondered if the room was spinning for the other coffee shop patrons, too.  (And yes, it was bizarre, having this happen in a decidedly public place.)  I felt like I was watching someone else write, or reading someone else’s work.  I would explain it as an out-of-body experience, if I knew how that actually felt.  I was in the room with my characters, on the edge of my seat, even as my fingers frantically plugged away at the keys on my laptop. 

Was this a preview of the direction that my writing life would take?  Was this one of many moments to come that would lead me to step out of my comfort zone and be a writer for real?  Just yesterday a friend and critique partner told me that almost every successful artist that he knows became so in the midst of a major life crisis.  I’d like to think that I’m not quite in crisis, per se, but I’m certainly in a position to mine some serious material from my own circumstances.  A year ago my life was stable and predictable; right now, not so much.

My life isn’t following an outline, and clearly my characters don’t really give a damn what I have planned for them, either.  This is a great time to pick up my quill and scribble away.  To seek and celebrate some more of those butterflies.

Last weekend I went to the wedding of two good friends.  It took place at a beautiful ranch just southwest of Austin, with rolling hills providing the backdrop for their ceremony and reception.  (The reception notably centered around a large pool.  Many people desperately avoided falling in, while others eventually did back-flips into the water later in the night.  The bride’s father, in lieu of a speech, performed a massive crowd-soaking cannonball into the pool himself.  But this is all beside the point.)

As the night went on, I found myself deep in conversation with another dear friend, Amanda.  I’m not really sure what we were talking about—but we were apart from the group and clearly in serious discussion.  The ranch happened to feature a lit tennis/basketball court a short distance away from the reception, down a rocky path, just within earshot of the music.  So Cara cut into our shared whispering  with a proposition:

“I know that you two are having a Serious Talk right now,” she began, “But would you be interested in playing a game of tennis with me and Tessa?”

Did she even need to ask?

The three of us stumbled down the hill, over the rocky path, and on to the dilapidated court.  Cara and I teamed up against Amanda and Tessa.  We were all still wearing our dresses and heels, the balls were weathered and ratty, and clearly none of us were ever tennis masters.  But we managed to rally a few times, and most of our serves landed in-bounds…or close to it.  At one point Amanda hiked up her dress and tucked it into her underwear, and in between serves we wiggled and swayed to Michael Jackson’s “PYT” and Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance.”  (Cara would later say that it wasn’t so much a game of tennis as a game of “dancing with racquets”.)

When we tired of tennis (or perhaps when we’d hit all three balls out of the court, I can’t quite remember), we moved on to the flat basketballs and very low hoops.  We managed a weak lay-up drill, and several of us attempted to dunk.  (Something that we’d later regret when we realized how painful the rim would feel on our hands and that landing barefoot—or in heels/sandals would aggravate whatever athletic injuries plague each of us respectively.)  We only retreated back up the hill when we heard Amanda’s husband whistling to us that the bride and groom were leaving and we should see them off.

In looking back, there was a moment on those courts when I felt perfectly, completely happy.  Maybe it was the late-spring chill in the air, or the feel of the old court on my feet.  Maybe it was the way that the game reminded me of spring break in Jamaica circa 2000, when my friend Kelly and I spontaneously jumped into a pick-up basketball game (also in our skirts and heels) in the parking lot of Margaritaville at midnight.  Maybe it was the fact that those girls know me so well, and I know that they will see me through any storm, or the way that I laugh with them in total reckless abandon.  Maybe it was the fact that we were dressed to the nines but playing sports—always a beautiful juxtaposition in my mind—or maybe it was the fact that I felt entirely at home with them. 

I’m not sure, but I knew this—this—is what happiness looks like.  Four grown women in party dresses, running around a tennis court at midnight, like girls at play.