Tuesday, June 30, 2015

From Cairn to Cairn

One ________ at a time. I first learned it through open water swimming. One stroke at a time. There are days when the water is calm and warm, and the swim is easy. I can enjoy watching the hermit crabs scuttle on the sand below me, and allow my mind to drift. Then there are days when the waters are rough and jagged. I'm tossed side to side by the waves, I swallow salt water, and I battle the current the entire time. These are the days I must take the swim one stroke at a time. I look for the orange buoys ahead. If I make it to one, I can make it to the next.

I learned something similar from the mountains this past weekend. My uncle, who has lots of hiking experience, agreed to take me hiking along the Presidential Range. It was a challenging experience, mentally more than physically. I found that in the mountains, even more so than in the ocean, you never know what is going to get thrown your way.

Our first two days of hiking were beautiful. It was clear and sunny, but not hot. Hiking along the ridge on Saturday, we could see for miles. We stayed at the Lakes of the Clouds hut that night, and overnight the mountain quickly reminded us of its strength. With 60mph winds blowing against the hut all night, it sounded like a war zone outside. From my bottom bunk, I tried to tell myself that I liked the wind. I loved storms. But every time I listened to the wind, I felt a pit in my stomach as I thought about having to hike in that weather outside, over 5000ft in elevation, in just a few hours.

When I got up a few hours later, the weather hadn't gotten better. We put on all our rain gear, bundled up in layers (significantly lightening our packs) and stepped outside, where I was promptly nearly blown over. I felt like I did the first time I swam at Nauset Beach, with the big waves: frozen with fear. Except this felt scarier, because I wasn't in water. I was in open air, with nothing to catch my fall. On top of that, neither my uncle or I could see the trail because visibility was so poor. We went back inside, questioning whether we should continue. After a hut crew member pointed us in the direction of the trail, though, we figured as long as we could keep on the path, we could get down.

That's when we began our cairn to cairn trek. Cairns are piles of rocks that are used to help mark the trail above tree line. For two miles, we were exposed to the winds. There were moments when the wind was so strong, all I could do was stand my ground, grip hard on my uncle's hiking pole, close my eyes, and wait for the gust of wind to pass. Other times we had to hold hands through the wind and make it to the next big rock, where we could take shelter for a minute. The whole time, we just kept setting landmarks for ourselves. One cairn at a time. If we could make it to one cairn, we could make it to another. One step at a time.

I'm learning that's how I can get myself through my moments of anxiety. When my mind starts spinning, I need to slow it down by looking at what's immediately in front of me. I can't think about what I'm going to have for dinner or how tired I might be tomorrow or how I'm going to finish everything on my to-do list. I just need to take it one step at a time, put one foot in front of the other, and site the next cairn ahead.

Saturday, June 6, 2015

The Ticking Clock


Yesterday was my last day of high school classes. Next week at this time I'll be lining up for graduation, ready to turn the tassel and graduate. It feels anti-climactic. These last few weeks were so stressful. I was on auto-pilot, not quite aware of what I was doing until I got to the end and it was over.


I’ve been up and down all week. There are moments I’m desperate to cling to everything familiar. I just want to fall asleep next to Mom on the couch. I hug her goodbye when I leave for school in the morning, and then go back for another because I wasn't fully present with the first. I kiss my brother goodnight and take him out for ice cream probably more than he has the craving for. I steal every hug I can from my friend Connor. I want to make sure I touch base with all my senior friends. I plant myself down at their lunch table and will myself not to leave, for fear that I'll later regret I didn't spend enough time with them. I visit my grandparents next door often. I'm anxious to eat as much of home food as I can, from Mom's homemade cookies to my stepdad's oatmeal to Grandma's crepes. I'm scared about not getting enough of all those I love.


Then there are moments, sometimes only an hour later, when I'm anxious to throw it all away. I want to toss all my t-shirts from high school drama. I don't want my parents to talk to me. I'm determined to be independent. I don't want help or advice. I put on my Denison sweatshirt and browse their website, watch the campus tour and envision myself there in a few months. I just want to run away to Denison, away from familiar influences. I feel uninspired and stuck. I’m ready for a change of scenery and new voices. I feel uncultured and ready to move on.


I can just as quickly switch back, suddenly feeling overwhelmed about leaving, scared that I'm losing part of myself. I tear off my Denison sweatshirt, nauseous at the sight of anything red. I dig through my closet trying to find something to wear. Then somehow I decide that nothing I wear feels like me and everything is restrictive, and all I want is to be naked on the beach, where no fabric restricts my chest and I can just breath the salt air.


I get frustrated at myself for these fluctuating emotions. I don't eat and then I binge and then I get more frustrated with myself, unsure of what to eat or who to talk to or what will make me feel better. I didn’t know the direction in which this post was going, except that I just needed to write and get out all these emotions. As I wrote, I realized that what I’m scared of and very aware of is time. I'm conscious of time slipping by, and I'm paralyzed by everything I want to cling to and everything I want to do. I remembered that Lin-Manuel Miranda, who graduated from Wesleyan University in 2002, delivered the Wesleyan commencement address this year, and he mentioned something about a “ticking clock.” I re-watched the video and realized that Miranda was describing exactly how I was feeling, and, as he often does, he put me at ease.


(Before you read further, I recommend you listen to Miranda’s commencement address, beginning around 4:15. http://newsletter.blogs.wesleyan.edu/2015/05/24/mirandacommencementspeech/. Although I will provide some context for my references throughout this post, they will be easier to follow if you watch/read the address. It’s also just a really good address.)


In describing how he felt upon graduation, Miranda said,

“Most of all, I remember the sound of two distinct clocks in my head. One is super fast, whirring. T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t. That’s the sound of your four years at Wesleyan. With one day to go, all the packing you still have to do, all the people with whom you are still trying to find a moment to say the right goodbye."

That "super fast, whirring "T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t" clock in my head is the sound of the last 18 years of my life.

Then there’s the second clock, “slower and booming.” “[T]hat’s the sound of the rest of your life,” Miranda says, “and what you’re going to do with it in the time you have on this earth. Some of you hear this clock constantly. You wake up in cold sweats at the thought of it. Some of you are utterly oblivious to it, God bless you. Guess what? It’s ticking whether you hear it or not.”

That “slower and booming” clock is the clock in my head that is so anxious to go off to Denison and start this next phase of my life. I want to immerse myself in the arts. I’m so ready to “sink my teeth” into them. But I feel like I keep delaying it, choosing an outdoor orientation instead of an arts one because I was afraid the art one might be too stimulating for transitioning into college, and I thought I might like a lower-key transition. But the thing is I’m hungry for inspiration and stimulation. These last few weeks have been so hard to stay motivated in school, and my lack of investment in my classes has been bothering me, because I’m usually someone who is very invested. So even though I know that I’m going to enjoy the outdoor orientation, the part of me that regrets my choice is the part that's very aware of the "slower and booming" clock and is anxious to start following her passions. 

I cried as I watched Miranda’s address. I just want to be where he’s at. So badly. I want to be so angsty with emotion and things to say that I crank out some project in three weeks. I want to be so invested that I forget to eat or sleep. (It's the romantic idealist in me.) I just want to do something, but I'm so overwhelmed with this desire to do something that I don't know what to do. And the clock ticks louder.

Miranda describes two characters in his new musical Hamilton: Vice President Aaron Burr and Founding Father Alexander Hamilton. He says that both Burr and Hamilton are aware of “the ticking clock of mortality,” and present two different ways of facing death: Hamilton charges forward, while Burr waits for the perfect opportunity. Neither approach guarantees success, and I think what Miranda is trying to say in his address is that sometimes we will wait for our shot, and sometimes we will charge forward. But whether we’re waiting or charging forward, we must “sink [our] teeth into this life” and not let go. We must cherish what we have now while always looking ahead, ready to take our shot.