Going Out on a Limb

Eight months ago I sat in a tree overlooking Walden Pond with my friend Maiel. It was a day of adventures––philosophical conversations in an empty field, going off the path, throwing rocks defiantly across railroad tracks, and daring society to force us to conform to unspecified societal norms. For those of you who read my post, "...will grow and prosper wherever planted", you'll recognize this as the adventure I went on with Maiel in April, on a journey to decide where I was going to college. After an affirmative "D" drawn in the sand, I could hear my heart voice pronounce its need to go to Denison University in Granville, Ohio. Eight months later, after my first semester at Denison, I've had another soul-fulfilling adventure with Maiel that wonderfully captured my last four months at college.

Our "Adventure Trees" (Mine: Left ; Maiel's: Right)

Above is just one of the many crafts we made. The inspiration for these trees come from Windy Sunset's Creations. Windy Sunset's Creations calls them gem trees. We call them Adventure Trees, reminiscent of the monumental adventure we had back in April. For me, that adventure marked the liberating risk of choosing an uncertain future. Granted, the future is inherently uncertain, but as I reflected in my April blog post, Denison was more uncertain than St. Olaf. I chose Denison because I knew there were parts of myself aside from English and Theatre that I had yet to discover. As I wrote in my April post, "I will bring my sweaters and stuffed animals and love of theatre to Denison, but I will also be given the space to grow in an environment where I'm not surrounded by my familiar tastes. I would bring my solid foundation to the unfamiliar soil, and allow new branches to grow. The result was much like my "Adventure Tree:" very unstable. 

I liken our trees to Banyan Trees. The Collins Dictionary of Biology defines a Banyan tree (Ficus benghalensis) as, "an Indian tree best known for the production of large aerial roots that are let down from its larger branches and, in effect, form secondary trunks which give extra support and allow the tree to spread." Maiel's tree is the main trunk of the Banyan tree. With its well-balanced branches and neat, evenly spaced out roots, it reflects 18 years of a developed foundation: strong relationships with teachers and peers, invested in her high school's drama program, and a developing romance. I could be describing her foundation or mine (they're similar in these three areas), although it's not for me to describe her emotional attachment to it. I can say that my own emotional attachment to my main trunk was strong––stronger than I realized. 

I didn't realize how comfortable I was with my tight knit drama group and established relationships until I started branching out. I brought my stuffed animals and sweaters and love of theatre to Denison. However, despite my initial romanticization of spending every free moment in the theatre and late night walks up the hill from rehearsal, I opted out of the first show for fear of overcommitting myself like I did in high school. Without a cast or a character to immerse myself in, and without my familiar teachers, friends, and environment, I felt like I was dangling in the tree. Unlike the main trunk, the roots growing from the branches aren't neat and orderly, like Maiel's tree. They're like mine––tangled and desperate to cling to something familiar. (I think this is why my first friend was someone who carried a briefcase––he reminded me of my friend Alex.) 

What I sometimes forgot was that this new limb was part of an already built foundation. It's the line I drew between "pre-Denison Megan" and "Denison Megan" that left me feeling so disconnected. It felt like I was starting my life over. When I finally realized that this new limb was attached to my main trunk, and would ultimately strengthen my total foundation, I was able to relish in the uncertainty of the ungrounded roots. I can objectively say now that not diving into theatre was the best decision I could've made for myself this semester. If I had gotten right in with a cast, I likely would've followed one group of people, and lost out on the opportunity to let my roots explore new territory. It's through dangling that I found myself in the Communications department so often, and engaging in interfaith dialogue at the house for spiritual and religious life. I'm clarifying what it is I love about English and Theatre––how they help people communicate. Most importantly, recognizing that my "two selves" don't need to be as separate as I thought opened up the possibility of a multi-dimensional self––a Megan Lovely larger than the theatre-enthusiastic, academic-driven, and self-controlled individual, including parts I don't like. 

As I realized sitting in that tree at Walden Pond eight months ago, going out on a limb is liberating. What's most significant about the Banyan Tree is that it's the trunks that grow from these limbs that strengthen the core foundation of the tree, and allow it to spread. Before going to college, I was in the habit of saying, "I can't make a decision." The growth I experienced during my first semester at Denison–a school I chose–assures me that I can make decisions. It's affirmative of the power of not just choosing, but embracing uncertainty. These last four months have given me the confidence and strength to keep going out on a limb, and spreading out to unexplored soil.

Packing My Suitcase for the Future

After going almost nonstop since four o'clock this morning and turning in my English essay 15 minutes before it was due, I finally had the opportunity at five o'clock this evening to sit on the hill, drink Happy Belly tea, eat some of Mom's homemade cookies that arrived in the mail today, and read heartfelt quotes from Brian Andreas' book, Trusting Soul. The book is filled with rough sketches of people and quotes about uncertainty, change, growing up, and other ideas related to trust and the future. In the introduction to his book, he writes,

The future is what you bring with you & you get to choose. I think of the stories & drawings in this book as the things I have chosen, the suitcase I've packed for the future. It's only the essentials, because I know you'll bring stuff, too. I packed the lilt of a voice, the curve of a neck in laughter, the glance between people who have wrapped up in each other in the soft night. I've put memories of my grandparents & other made-up people because it seemed like they'd be fun to have around. I've thrown in more than enough packages of love & play & chocolate because the future can always use extra of those & I sneaked in a few unexpected gifts, simply because there is no greater joy than an unexpected gift to a trusting soul. (Andreas) 

The things I try to include on my blog are what I've chosen to pack for my future––pictures and quotes and musings and questions and stories and moments that fill me with inspiration and joy. I try to avoid rambling complaints or conclusions that end with bitter emotions, because these aren't what I want to bring along with me in the future. I'd rather leave them behind.

What's even more fun than packing the suitcase is opening it up and sharing it with others, which is why I get such joy out of posting. It's a space for the collective relish of big questions and small moments.

So for you, today, I'm sharing a picture of the autumn trees on campus and one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver.

Morning

Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.
Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum.
The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.
The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.
Then laps the bowl clean.
Then wants to go out into the world
where she leaps lightly and for no apparent reason across the lawn,
then sits, perfectly still, in the grass.
I watch her a little while, thinking:
what more could I do with wild words?
I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her.
I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.

***

What will you pack in your suitcase?

Dandelion Sponges, Brush Strokes, and Runny Eggs

If I painted with a white dandelion puff, I'd get a smattering of dots, a constellation of stars––sponged constellations on the page.

But I don't want to always sponge. Sometimes I want a paintbrush to make big, long, passionate brushstrokes. Sometimes life is a constellation of moments, but other times it's a passionate sweep.

I dreamt about this idea a few weeks ago. It has been a sampling semester for me in college. Although I came to Denison fully anticipating to dive right into theatre, I've found myself wading in, afraid of what I might miss above the surface if I'm underwater. There are so many things to do all the time, and I'm surrounded by so many different styles of living and hobbies and paths of life. Considering that all of my classes have touched somewhat upon the question, "What is the self?" my brain is spinning with existential questions like, "What is life?" and "Who am I?" I've dabbled in a lot of different areas this semester, between talking with a variety of people, trying out different clubs (I'm trying fencing this week!), and going to unique campus events, like a lecture on policing. I'm used to fully committing myself to a few areas that I'm passionate about, so not doing that has made me feel somewhat scattered. This, in conjunction with the dandelion puff I found at a park off campus a few weeks ago, is what I think led to my dandelion puff dream.

I returned to the park this morning. The river and the swings and the trees make it a nice getaway from campus. As I was running over the bridge, I noticed that the trees looked like painted dandelion puffs with their colored leaves. I so badly wanted to stand on the bridge, gather all my breath, and make a wish on the trees, seeing their leaves scatter in the wind.

I also expressed the desire in my dream, though, to paint with a paintbrush. I don't want to always sponge constellations. I want to paint cirrus clouds. I want to dive in.

These are cirrus uncinus clouds, taken from Wikimedia Commons, a public domain.

Somehow egg yolks also leaked into my dream. The only explanation I can think of is that sometimes I want to crack the "egg" and see where the yolk (paint) runs. (Although, I'm not usually one to just crack an egg.) 

The thing is, whether I sponge constellations, take bold brushstrokes, or let the paint run, it's all still a work of art. More importantly, it's the contrast of all these that makes for an interesting composition.

My first semester of college has not been what I expected so far. I'm starting to be more bold with my painting, but it's a process. I think I've repeated that phrase–"It's a process"–every day to myself since I've been here. There are some parts I wish I could paint over, but there are other parts that shimmer. When I step back and I look at the whole picture, I like what I see. 

Wildflowers in Bloom

"I'm an imperfect being, living in an uncertain world, and I embrace that."

This is a mantra someone told me recently, and it has been very helpful to meditate over. Denison has thrown me into a world full of uncertainty, and it has been scary. I'm surrounded by new people and new food and a new environment, away from the relationships I spent the last eighteen years of my life developing. I knew I was entering an uncertain environment when I chose to come to Denison. As I reflected back in my blog post from April, I recognized myself at St. Olaf. I didn't recognize myself at Denison, and that was (is) scary. Most of my life, I chose the certain option, the safe option. I chose what I knew would match the picture on the front of the flower seed packet. But when I chose to come to Denison, I didn't plant sunflowers or tulips. I planted wildflowers. And I'm growing.

The Yin and Yang

This rock I found on the beach is one of the little "you can do it"s that has been keeping me going throughout the college transition. At this phase in my life where everything seems new, I'm questioning myself more than ever. This rock reminds me that it's all about balance, and to find my center and embrace every part of me. 

A Life of One's Own

“Are you a writer?” a customer asked me at work. I was wearing my favorite T-shirt, one I got from the Reynold's Writer's Workshop two summers ago at Denison University. 

"I want to go into English and Theatre," I said.

She beamed, thrusting her hand forward to shake mine. "Best of luck to you! I'm a writer and my daughter wants to go into theatre. Congratulations!" I couldn't help beaming back. I could feel my body swelling with pride, being congratulated just for wanting to go into the field. 

It’s a daunting question that Mary Oliver asks. It sounds similar to the “slower and booming” clock that Lin-Manuel Miranda talked about in his commencement address at Wesleyan University this past spring. In her novel The Bell Jar (semi-autobiographical), Sylvia Plath analogizes all the different paths she could take to figs hanging on branches. As she contemplates which path to take, they begin to “wrinkle and go black,” and eventually drop to the ground because of her inability to choose one.

It’s a question that I myself often get overwhelmed with. After all, I can’t even choose how I want to fill a day, let alone a life of days. But this wouldn’t be my favorite T-shirt if I thought the question was demanding. (Considering the question literally sits right on my chest, I probably wouldn’t be able to wear it without my chest tightening up.) I wear it because it reminds me to be excited about the question, rather than daunted by it. Instead of a melodramatic take on it, I can be enlivened by it. I imagine it phrased like how a parent would ask a child in the candy store, “What do you want to buy?” and the child responding with wide-eyes and a million colors swirling through their heads. Of course, I’ve always been indecisive, so whenever anyone asks me what I want I usually take a really long time deciding. But I’m trying to learn to be excited by choices rather than overwhelmed by them, and to learn to make decisions without attaching so much life or death weight to them (unless, of course, it is a life or death matter, in which case the head in my hands overwhelmed position is acceptable).

I’m at a point in my life where I have so much ahead of me, and I so badly want to make the most of everything that comes my way––every painting I see, every interaction I have, every new place I visit, I want to get something out of it. It seems like a good mindset, except that I try too hard. In trying to figure out how to make the most out of life, I'm losing out on life. So even once I choose the "fig," it's dropping in front of me while I’m trying to figure out the best way to pick it.

My favorite question to ask people right now is, "What did you major in?" followed by, "What do you do for work?" which is sometimes followed by, "Is that what you see yourself doing long-term?" More often than not, the people I talk to aren't exactly where they want to be, nor does where they are directly correspond with what they went to college for. Their paths aren't linear, and that's what makes their lives interesting. We don't have to know exactly where we're going. All we have to do is look at what's right in front of us, and know that it's all a part of our overall experience. Not everything has to correlate, and things may correlate in ways we don't see right away, until we get to the end and finally everything seems to fit together so seemingly perfectly that it seems like it couldn't have happened any other way. It's like at the end of a mystery novel when you finally find out "who did it" and you flip back and wonder how you didn't see it coming, because everything seems to connect so perfectly. What I'm learning from talking to people is that there is no one "right way to do life." 

That energy I felt when that woman shook my hand embodies the excitement of Mary Oliver's question. I thought about how my math teacher gave me a hug at the end of the year. "Good luck, kiddo," he said. I thought about my classes for this semester, and how next month at this time I will be preparing to head off for Denison University. I thought about working in the scene shop, all the plays I will get to direct, spending long hours in the theatre, and all the people I'll meet. I get to make this life my own. And that's an empowering thing, one not to melodramatize, but to celebrate. 

Salt Water Heals All

When I have a sore throat, my grandma tells me to gargle with warm water and salt. It's one of those things I've always done without questioning. I think part of it might be the mental game of, "This is going to make me feel better," like how I tell myself that eating mom's homemade chocolate chip cookies are going to make me feel better when I'm feeling lonely, or how my stepdad says that eating cinnamon sugar Pop-Tarts will ease his sour stomach. The Mayo Clinic confirms my grandma's remedy, though, recommending a solution of half a teaspoon of salt with a full glass of warm water for best results. After brushing my teeth and stretching, gargling with salt water was the first thing I did this morning to try and combat my sore throat.

I'm learning that salt water can also combat a sore attitude.

After a long first day at work today, I was left feeling more tired and very hungry. This poor combination heightens my typical indecision, making me unable to commit to anything, whether it be what to eat or what to do. There are times I'm able to shrug off my indecision––laugh at myself or roll my eyes––and others when I get frustrated with myself about my indecision, sending me into an extended and unproductive rut of self-irritation.

I spent the majority of dinner picking at the food on my plate, not feeling in the mood to eat even though I knew I was hungry. I was irritable and didn't talk much, and was mad at myself for being irritable. I knew I was being ridiculous, and I knew getting mad at myself wasn't making the situation any better, but there are times I'm good at getting myself out of the rut, and others when I'm not. I went to the beach after dinner with my family to check out the surf. As my stepdad observed the waves to the far right, I walked down to the water silently, anxious to feel the salt water on my skin. I took off my glasses, put them in my sweatshirt pocket, and scooped the water in my hands and splashed my face. My whole body instantly relaxed. I splashed my face again, wanting more than anything to submerge myself entirely in the water. 

We went back home, and I was tempted to go back to the beach to swim. I wanted the salt on my arms and legs. I wanted coarse and salty hair. The grainy water makes me feel raw, scrubbed clean, and refreshed. My mom and stepdad warned me against sharks, though––apparently they're more frequent at dawn and dusk. 

"I'll go for a dip with you," my mom said. I agreed, but then questioned whether I wanted to go alone, and then whether I wanted to go at all. I got in my swimsuit, told my mom I was going alone, and then froze at the door––classic "paralysis analysis." I collapsed on the steps in my tri-colored swimsuit, feeling deflated and frustrated at my continuing indecision.

"I'm taking you to the beach," my mom said, and I got in the driver's seat of our Ford Explorer. She came out moments later in a towel identical to the one I was wearing. I couldn't help but laugh. We drove to the beach, and I left my flip-flops in the car, wanting to feel the sand underneath my feet. I could already feel the calm setting over me. We dropped our towels on the life guard chair and ran in.

"Next wave, we dive," I said. We did without hesitation. I could feel my heart skip a beat as it plunged into the cold water. I felt my skin absorbing the salt water, like settling into a hot bath. I dipped again––and again. I laid on my back and floated, letting my hair fan out like a mermaid's, like I used to do in the bathtub. I laughed the kind of laugh I do when I'm really happy and feeling free.

"If you're feeling down, find salt water." That will be the remedy I tell my grandchildren.