Wednesday, April 20, 2011

i count the steps from where i am to where i started

these empty halls held our disease before we caught it.
what a poetic way of putting it. i'm also a fan of the "slow dancing in a burning room" by John Mayer. i cannot stop listening to Andrew Belle. I thought maybe this obsession would pass, but it's just worsening. He needs a new album asap. I can let him have my journals to inspire some more lyrics that I feel like he writes intimately about my life. I love this guy. I'm serious. Okay, now to the post.

I was having an intellectual conversation with a dear friend from high school last weekend to satisfy a longing for one. I get these intellectual conversation itches that few people care to indulge me in. But, I am deeply grateful for those that do. When someone is up for one on the Holocaust, time and place I am there.
Anyway, we were talking about phases of life. It's odd how if a book ends poorly, it leaves a sour taste in your mouth for the entire book, regardless of how much you liked the majority of it. When one chapter ends unexpectedly, or not how you would prefer, that's when you have to remember that you are not the author but instead the reader. You have to pick it back up and keep reading. Eventually, you realize why that was written the way it was, and you're not upset about it anymore. As Death Cab puts it, "when memories of me seem more like bad dreams."
I am a pro memory-holder-onto-er. But in thinking about the importance and uniqueness of each "phase," event, memory, moment, I've made an outstanding distinction. No one particular event, person, tragedy, dramatic episode, accomplishment, test, disaster, hook up, break-up, embarrassing moment, group project or professor will stand out over another. All of these things have encompassed my collegiate experience, or as referred to by some, the "best four years of my life." However, I'd like to argue (as stated in my prophecy I do quite a bit of) that every phase of life is going to be sweet in its own way. Each letter forming words that create strings of sentences to slowly piece together a huge story. It's my job to make sure that story is one of love with no regrets.
I loved taking naps in kindergarten, but I'd really rather not go back to learning how to read. Talk about room for embarrassing moments! I thoroughly enjoyed the breathing exercise that we use to do as a cast before competition play practice or the massages after a long run-through. But if tomorrow, someone appeared with the option to go back to GAC uniforms, regulations, Dr. Morris and busy work, I would mull it over and kindly reply, "no that's okay. I'll stay right here." This is how I want to think about college. I am not terrified of this G-word, ggggradduatttion. I am thrilled for it. I worked too hard for that day to be filled with depressing terror of what's to come and that my world as I know it has ended. So, I'm done with feeling guilty.
Maybe cyncism has creeped in too deeply, and maybe I am just excited for change. Maybe I do love the idea of an "open door" a little too much and that my shaking for my running shoes is catching up with me with remarkably great timing (for once). But, there is no reason to fret. I remember thinking that fifth grade graduation was the end of the world as I bawled hysterically walking the halls of the elementary school. What a joke. At the time, I was legitimately concerned. The very idea of junior high was filled with unknowns and rumors that you had to write in cursive for each class. In retrospect, I don't think I have ever been forced to write in cursive, ever. In fact, much of the time it's the opposite.
I thought I would never speak to those friends again. Those friends that mattered then (actually mattered), still matter now. I don't just still talk to them, I love them even more now than ever. One of whom I called a hot crying mess a few days ago. He gave me a solution and said he'd have vodka waiting for me as soon as I entered Roswell.
I have great friends that have gotten me to this point, gotten me through all kinds of shit and will continue to be there. When they fade (if they do), new faces will surface to help hold me together. Thank you Facebook, blogspot, Twitter, Skype and the not-so-glorious "network" for reassuring me that whoever I want to stay in touch with that wants to stay in touch with me will have plenty of tools for doing so at their fingertips. Though, it is natural at an event as emotional as Senior chapter or intense questioning about post-graduation plans to have "back and forth and in between like my emotion" (Andrew Belle, Static Waves) I'm standing solidly on optimism. When my eyes scan the printed words of "Oh, The Places You'll Go!" I have by my mirror, I am reminded that I have great things waiting for me. Whatever the hell those may be. We ALL do. Regardless of what phase of life we are on. I can't wait to travel to Thailand, to live in Europe, to live in NY, to deposit my first 4 digit paycheck, to stand proudly as a bridesmaid in a dear friend's wedding, to frame my master's degree, to hold my father's shaking hand walking down an aisle of my own, to order business cards that have impressive credentials following my last name, to fall so deeply in love no words can describe the feelings, to win my first trial, to support Reggy and the shelter monthly, to have an excuse to eat cake nonstop all day long because I am pregnant, to run a complete mile without decrepitating exhaustion, to sign the line with my name signifying I own my own house, to look at my first born in a face that resembles my own...
Who knows which of those things will occur and in what order, perhaps all of them will. I refuse to be convinced that at 22, I have expended the best years of my life. Regardless of how wonderful those 22 years have been lived. As "I count the steps from where I am, to where I started" (Andrew Belle, Static Waves), what an insane journey its been. But I am leaving it, regardless of whose permission I have or have not received and going onto something equally great, just great in a different way.

All things are good in their own time. And for this, it is time. As I painted on a canvas as a gift for a friend freshman year, it's time to return to a bumper-sticker inspiration. In the next three weeks, I will live it up and drink it down. Laugh it off, avoid bull shit and take chances, without regrets because at one point, everything was exactly what I wanted.
What I really needed was to reminded last week that "I am the captain of this ship, curious hands and fingertips. It's for no one but me to say what direction I shall turn in now." (Dave Matthews, Captain)

1 comment:

  1. This left me speechless. Are you sure you're only 22? You sound much wiser.