When I was a kid, someone bought me a journal—one of those preteen handbooks for getting to know yourself that was probably made by American Girl or Lisa Frank or Seventeen or something. I remember eagerly flipping through it, savoring page after page of thoughtful questions, clean answer lines, and fresh, white space in which to write and doodle and draw.
I was ecstatic. As soon as I had a moment to myself, I grabbed my favorite pen and dutifully began to fill in the blanks. But somewhere along the line, I made a mistake. I didn't like the look of one of my drawings, or I crossed out a word or two. Suddenly, in my eyes, the story I had written was no longer accurate. I pleaded my way into getting a new copy from the bookstore so I could author a new, untarnished life story.
This kind of fastidiousness in a 10-year old might be cute (okay, or profoundly irritating), but when it persists into adulthood largely unnoticed... it's stealthy, and seductive, and mean.
Four years ago, I tossed aside my dream of being a science writer in favor of the far more practical and stable career of nursing. Struck by an intuitive stirring, I threw myself headlong into understanding everything I could about birth and the perinatal experience. I was going to be a labor and delivery nurse.
Then I was a labor and delivery nurse.
And then, I wasn't.
It has been a year and a half, and I still haven't gotten over how swiftly that transition came about. How I started out so thrilled and ended up so miserable. How my patient care never once suffered, yet in the course of mere days I suddenly became both the instigator and the defendant. How a dream that I had harbored for the better part of two years evaporated in a single instant.
A very big part of me wishes I could have squeezed my very square self into that very round hole. An even bigger part of me thinks that I was rounder than I gave myself credit for—that if I had just been able to muscle my way through the days, it would have gotten easier and I would have changed and grown in ways that I didn't think possible in those first couple of months. That, in time, I would have developed the strength to fight the system to which I was so viscerally opposed.
But whether out of simple self-preservation or a paralyzing fear of failure, I walked away. And as much as the profession called after me, I just couldn't get myself to turn around.
Today I'm doing a job that would make that 24-year old in Boulder swell with pride. And I love my job. I'm great at my job. In quite a few respects, this seems to be the work I was born to do. But there are days and weeks when I am still overcome by shame and regret over what might have been.
And only now—after managing (or failing to manage) intractable back pain for the better part of a month, after seeing an acupuncturist who unearthed dense, knotty ropes of muscle not only in my upper and lower back, but also in my jaw, neck, shoulders, diaphragm, hips, glutes, hamstrings, and calves—do I consider that maybe, just maybe, it's time to let. it. all. go.
Because here's the thing: we can't live every life. I don't get to be a Nobel prize-winning astrophysicist and a paradigm-shifting midwife and an acclaimed science writer with admirable work/life balance. Say what you want about having it all, but there are some choices that are simply mutually exclusive. We pick and choose, we release and forego. For such an obvious fact, I am amazed at how novel and instructive it seems.
I have to acknowledge that there's a path I chose not to follow. That I can't do and be everything, that my life and the story of it may never come full circle. That some things may not make sense. That it will be messy, and there will be strikes and scribbles and unfinished business and hanging ellipses.
I have to find a way to trust that just because it isn't perfect doesn't mean that it's not okay.
It is okay. It's more than okay. I'm happy. And I think it's time to let that be enough.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
Monday, December 29, 2014
Enchantment on a (Mostly) Barren Island: Part One
I awoke from my restless airplane slumber to the surprisingly soft lilt of the local Nordic tongue wafting through the airwaves, announcing our arrival. "Welcome to Reykjavik, Iceland. The local time is six o'clock in the morning." Blinking, I opened the window shade to reveal my very first glimpse of Europe. Hmmm, I thought to myself, Flat.
My blessedly adventurous husband, John, and I were just setting out on our honeymoon, intent on exchanging sunny beaches, palm trees, and poolside relaxation for an ambitious excursion across a different type of island. Over the next eight days, we would cross fault lines, lava fields, fjords, and glaciers, wander into caves and across black sand beaches, swim beneath white mountains and towering volcanoes, discover lonely towns and weathered ruins, cruise icy lakes, sail the open ocean, and soak up the midnight sun.
But first, we would have to dump our bags and find some caffeine.
Outside the airport, we boarded a local bus bound for a station on the outskirts of downtown Reykjavik. As we headed northeast toward the city, I gazed out the window at the surrounding landscape. Miles and miles of drab, volcanic soil gazed back. Every so often, the monotony would be interrupted by knotty patches of lava rocks - miniature quarries that, to my growling stomach, looked suspiciously like crumbled Oreo cookies. Shaking my head, I reminded myself of Iceland's most famed delicacy: ammonia-soaked shark. My hunger, like so many sharp-toothed fish, was cured.
After some time, desolate vistas gave way to petrol stations and roadside shopping plazas. The suburbs of Iceland's capital city whizzed by, and before we knew it, we had arrived at the station. John and I unloaded our suitcases and set off on our kilometer-long stroll toward the heart of the city.
The early morning air felt brisk and refreshing as we meandered down narrow streets, through empty intersections, and past sleepy, closely-nestled homes, our bags softly disturbing the peace as they rumbled over the cobblestones behind us. We matched passing road signs with the strips of unfamiliar letters that dotted our map. Lækjargata, Ingólfsstræti, Lindargata. Finally, a modest wooden sign affixed to a tall fence post told us we had reached our destination. We climbed a steep set of stairs to a tiny guest room on the top floor. Opening the narrow corner door, we found ourselves on a small balcony, overlooking an array of gardens and colorful, slanted roofs. Just opposite was a view of Reykjavik's northern waters, the very "Smoky Bay" that the city was named for. John and I looked at each other and spoke the words that were on each of our hearts: Let's explore! But first... coffee.
***
Every foreign traveler hopes to round out his or her adventure by meeting a couple of interesting locals. Enter Russ*. We met Russ at a coffee shop downtown, just after lifting the first decadent sips of holy java to our jet-lagged lips. In fact, Russ was not a local. He was an Australian native who had moved to Iceland to complain about politics, have casual sex, father a child, and avoid working a steady job. Russ explained with some frustration that, while he moonlighted at almost every pizza place in town, his true genius as a restauranteur had repeatedly gone unnoticed by their owners. He could fix the way these establishments were run, you see. But The Man always got in his way.
This was too bad, Russ went on, because one restaurant in particular had fantastic potential: a local pizza place that had no name. Just a random set of stairs leading to an unmarked doorway. I was skeptical. "So, how might one find this pizza place with no name?," I asked. "Just cross the street, round the next corner, cross into the back alley, head up the wooden stairs behind the building, and open the door." John and I exchanged glances. For the next ten minutes, we savored the dregs of our lattes while Russ prattled on about his escape from the working world, the many shortcomings of the local government, and the people he has met during his time in Iceland.
"I met Björk once," he said, "She was very nice, intelligent. Farmer's kid. That's right, daughter of the hand of God."
Imagine our surprise when, later that evening (after a generous helping of samples at the local brewery), we stumbled up an unmarked staircase and found ourselves in an upscale pub, devouring some of the most delicious pizza we had ever tasted.
Perhaps Björk is quite nice, after all.
*Name has been changed.
My blessedly adventurous husband, John, and I were just setting out on our honeymoon, intent on exchanging sunny beaches, palm trees, and poolside relaxation for an ambitious excursion across a different type of island. Over the next eight days, we would cross fault lines, lava fields, fjords, and glaciers, wander into caves and across black sand beaches, swim beneath white mountains and towering volcanoes, discover lonely towns and weathered ruins, cruise icy lakes, sail the open ocean, and soak up the midnight sun.
Outside the airport, we boarded a local bus bound for a station on the outskirts of downtown Reykjavik. As we headed northeast toward the city, I gazed out the window at the surrounding landscape. Miles and miles of drab, volcanic soil gazed back. Every so often, the monotony would be interrupted by knotty patches of lava rocks - miniature quarries that, to my growling stomach, looked suspiciously like crumbled Oreo cookies. Shaking my head, I reminded myself of Iceland's most famed delicacy: ammonia-soaked shark. My hunger, like so many sharp-toothed fish, was cured.
After some time, desolate vistas gave way to petrol stations and roadside shopping plazas. The suburbs of Iceland's capital city whizzed by, and before we knew it, we had arrived at the station. John and I unloaded our suitcases and set off on our kilometer-long stroll toward the heart of the city.
The early morning air felt brisk and refreshing as we meandered down narrow streets, through empty intersections, and past sleepy, closely-nestled homes, our bags softly disturbing the peace as they rumbled over the cobblestones behind us. We matched passing road signs with the strips of unfamiliar letters that dotted our map. Lækjargata, Ingólfsstræti, Lindargata. Finally, a modest wooden sign affixed to a tall fence post told us we had reached our destination. We climbed a steep set of stairs to a tiny guest room on the top floor. Opening the narrow corner door, we found ourselves on a small balcony, overlooking an array of gardens and colorful, slanted roofs. Just opposite was a view of Reykjavik's northern waters, the very "Smoky Bay" that the city was named for. John and I looked at each other and spoke the words that were on each of our hearts: Let's explore! But first... coffee.
***
Every foreign traveler hopes to round out his or her adventure by meeting a couple of interesting locals. Enter Russ*. We met Russ at a coffee shop downtown, just after lifting the first decadent sips of holy java to our jet-lagged lips. In fact, Russ was not a local. He was an Australian native who had moved to Iceland to complain about politics, have casual sex, father a child, and avoid working a steady job. Russ explained with some frustration that, while he moonlighted at almost every pizza place in town, his true genius as a restauranteur had repeatedly gone unnoticed by their owners. He could fix the way these establishments were run, you see. But The Man always got in his way.
This was too bad, Russ went on, because one restaurant in particular had fantastic potential: a local pizza place that had no name. Just a random set of stairs leading to an unmarked doorway. I was skeptical. "So, how might one find this pizza place with no name?," I asked. "Just cross the street, round the next corner, cross into the back alley, head up the wooden stairs behind the building, and open the door." John and I exchanged glances. For the next ten minutes, we savored the dregs of our lattes while Russ prattled on about his escape from the working world, the many shortcomings of the local government, and the people he has met during his time in Iceland.
"I met Björk once," he said, "She was very nice, intelligent. Farmer's kid. That's right, daughter of the hand of God."
Imagine our surprise when, later that evening (after a generous helping of samples at the local brewery), we stumbled up an unmarked staircase and found ourselves in an upscale pub, devouring some of the most delicious pizza we had ever tasted.
Perhaps Björk is quite nice, after all.
*Name has been changed.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
On finding a way through the woods.
I don't know where I got the idea that there was A Path. Or at least, A Destination. That your ultimate success in life relied on making exactly the right choices so that you would end up there. And if you happened to make a "mistake" and wander into the wilderness, you would forfeit your chance for success unless you tore out a battle axe and started hacking your way back toward The Path, harshly scolding yourself with every trudge. All I know is that it's a persistent illusion, and somehow seductive, and also very, very difficult to shake. Especially after all that scolding.
A few months ago, I left my job. Partially by choice, and partially not at all by choice. It was a complicated situation. But that job was supposed to be the start of the career of my dreams, and that's where it gets sticky.
Maybe it would have been different if it hadn't been a combined unit, if it had just been labor & delivery, if it had just been postpartum or a neonatal ICU. Maybe it would have been different if I had a little more experience as an RN under my belt. Or if I wasn't planning a wedding and trying to learn 50 new skill sets at the same time. Or perhaps if I was already a mother, if my boundaries could have been a little cleaner, a little more rigid, when terrible things happened to healthy young women or seemingly healthy newborns. Or perhaps if I didn't leave work every day feeling like I had blood on my hands because of all the interventions I was responsible for that I just simply didn't believe in but wasn't yet skilled enough to fight.
Regardless of the what-ifs, it was an enormous disappointment. And despite the ways I knew it wasn't working, part of me was still holding out hope that it would change. That I would change, perhaps into someone stronger who could just muscle her way through it. But it wouldn't, and I didn't; and despite my great performance, voicing my concerns got me a swift kick in the butt out of the organization faster than you can say "oxytocin."
I was hired by a wonderful pediatrician within 48 hours, and I have been happily working in his primary care office ever since. But I still have regrets all these months later, and part of me is still afraid of whatever fate I sealed when I turned my back on That Old Path. After all, I still feel incredibly passionate about pregnancy and birth - I just don't feel that there is a place for me in the system as it stands. And while I do enjoy my current job, I know that it won't last forever.
So here I am in the woods, wandering, mostly contentedly, just waiting for the hint of another break in the trees. I'm trying my hardest to enjoy the process - being here now, and all that - but some days I still find myself spellbound by the fear of getting lost.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Ode to the Apostrophe
DiaMEEKo. DeeAMico. DmAHKio. dA'mico. DiAmico. D'Amico. Never being able to find my name in any database ever. Being assigned email addresses and usernames that simply don't work, or are unnaturally case sensitive. Never knowing which version of my name is on IDs, credit cards, bank statements, employment documents, medical records. Almost not being able to take the nursing boards because the name on my driver's license didn't "match" my legal name.
It's nothing more than a cough, really. A small jerk of the pen, almost accidental in its appearance. But I give the apostrophe a lot of flack. Sometimes I deliberately leave it out when signing my name - that's right, little mark, you go in the corner and think about all the trouble you've caused. And now, the ultimate revenge: in less than a month, my name will change and all the confusion will vanish. Take that!
I thought that was all there was to it. But then I had to write my post-wedding name on one of the vendors' contracts, and I felt a small pang for my soon-to-be-lost apostrophe. There's actually something very subtle and strange about changing one's maiden name. Because I have never been anyone else. When I learned to write, I learned to write that name. When one of my teachers in elementary school had to ask the class five times whether I was present that day because I wasn't paying attention, her voice would incrementally rise as she called out that name. In high school, that was the name I frantically searched for when the cast list for an upcoming play finally went up. Acceptance and rejection letters to college, all of the important exams I ever took, my degrees, my resume, all of the places I have lived and all of the people I met and then lost touch with - twenty-seven years' worth of experiences belong to a girl who identified herself by that name. And of course all of those things are still part of my story - it's just the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. The way all of that would feel is just not something I ever considered before.
We tie our identities to many things. Our names, our jobs, our roles and relationships with other people, our interests and hobbies, our chosen spirituality. And really, when I look at that list, I would argue that a name falls pretty close to the bottom. As a late twenty-something navigating my impressions of what it means to be a wife, embarking upon a brand new career, working to create a home out of a relatively new apartment, learning to cultivate interests and hobbies in a new community, and trying hard to discover what the heck this life is all about, I think I have my hands full. But, dear apostrophe, when I do sign those papers in just a few weeks, I want you to know that despite my complaints and grumbles, and despite how thrilled I am to be marrying into such a wonderful family, I've been proud to be a D'Amico.
And don't worry - I fully expect that after the wedding, when it's time to begin the endless line of red tape that comes along with legal name change, you will relish the opportunity have your own revenge.
It's nothing more than a cough, really. A small jerk of the pen, almost accidental in its appearance. But I give the apostrophe a lot of flack. Sometimes I deliberately leave it out when signing my name - that's right, little mark, you go in the corner and think about all the trouble you've caused. And now, the ultimate revenge: in less than a month, my name will change and all the confusion will vanish. Take that!
(also, this.)
I thought that was all there was to it. But then I had to write my post-wedding name on one of the vendors' contracts, and I felt a small pang for my soon-to-be-lost apostrophe. There's actually something very subtle and strange about changing one's maiden name. Because I have never been anyone else. When I learned to write, I learned to write that name. When one of my teachers in elementary school had to ask the class five times whether I was present that day because I wasn't paying attention, her voice would incrementally rise as she called out that name. In high school, that was the name I frantically searched for when the cast list for an upcoming play finally went up. Acceptance and rejection letters to college, all of the important exams I ever took, my degrees, my resume, all of the places I have lived and all of the people I met and then lost touch with - twenty-seven years' worth of experiences belong to a girl who identified herself by that name. And of course all of those things are still part of my story - it's just the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. The way all of that would feel is just not something I ever considered before.
We tie our identities to many things. Our names, our jobs, our roles and relationships with other people, our interests and hobbies, our chosen spirituality. And really, when I look at that list, I would argue that a name falls pretty close to the bottom. As a late twenty-something navigating my impressions of what it means to be a wife, embarking upon a brand new career, working to create a home out of a relatively new apartment, learning to cultivate interests and hobbies in a new community, and trying hard to discover what the heck this life is all about, I think I have my hands full. But, dear apostrophe, when I do sign those papers in just a few weeks, I want you to know that despite my complaints and grumbles, and despite how thrilled I am to be marrying into such a wonderful family, I've been proud to be a D'Amico.
And don't worry - I fully expect that after the wedding, when it's time to begin the endless line of red tape that comes along with legal name change, you will relish the opportunity have your own revenge.
Monday, December 2, 2013
On passion and purpose.
When I was maybe 12 or 13 years old, I remember staring dreamily at the television as a young George Clooney donned scrubs and deftly saved lives (thank you, E.R.), and decisively announcing to my mother that the only way I would ever become a doctor is if I was going to deliver babies. A few years later, as I contemplated my future more seriously, I decided against a career in obstetrics because, as I informed a friend in the bluntly scientific Vanessa way, "I just don't want to spend the rest of my life staring into vaginas all day."
Such class at such a young age.
Fast forward to that time after college when I decided against doing anything constructive with the degree I had just earned, and was once again looking into my options in the medical field. At an information session for a Physician Assistant graduate program in Colorado, I remember raising my hand and asking whether PAs ever got to work with laboring women. I was told that the only medical professionals to do such a thing were OB-GYNs and nurse-midwives. I thought, "Crap. Like I'd ever want to be a nurse." Ha. Hahaha. Later on, faced with mounting bills from that hard-won and useless degree of mine, I was dismayed to find that it cost thousands of dollars even to become a doula. Slowly, that mild yet persistent itch to get myself into the labor room found its way back to the shadowy recesses of my brain.
Until last fall. My very first clinical rotation in nursing school sent me to labor & delivery, where I promptly fell in love. Not to mention the dynamite professor who pretty much changed all of our lives. After that class ended, getting myself to school every day was raw, brute will-power. Midway through the summer, as my motivation teetered on empty, I quickly realized that if I wanted to get through the next few months without losing my mind, I had to remind myself why I was back in school in the first place. So I watched documentaries and I listened to audiobooks and followed blogs and I read my Ina May. And then, as the countdown to graduation descended into double digits and I became accustomed to the reality of looking for a job in a market that is decidedly unkind to newly licensed RNs, I stopped. Fast.
I generally try to avoid true desire at all costs, usually justifying my disinterest with some heady internal monologue that rambles on about non-attachment to outcomes or how everything happens for a reason. But really, like it does to most of us, the risk of failure or disappointment scares the ever-loving daylights out of me. And when I say that that all I want is a job - any job, just as long as it puts this degree of mine to work - I'm lying to myself. Now, don't misunderstand me; that doesn't mean that I'm not keeping an open mind, or that I wouldn't take the first good job offer that comes my way. After all, bills still need to be paid. But it also doesn't mean that it's ok to settle for something that doesn't make my heart sing, not long-term. It doesn't mean that it's acceptable to forget the things I'm passionate about because it's more comfortable to convince myself that I would be "content" with whatever happens, and that getting excited about a job that I would ultimately love to do isn't worth it in this economy.
In The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho writes, “Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams.” So a couple of days ago, I sized up my dusty stack of books about birth history, labor, and midwifery, and dove back in. One of the hospitals I applied to has two spots on the L+D unit for new grads. Two. I do not like them apples. I can't tell if I will get an interview, I have no idea if I'll get a job offer from that hospital at all, and I certainly don't know what my chances are of being picked for one of those spots.
As purposeful and re-engaged as I feel right now, I know that being passed over for such an opportunity would feel pretty awful. But you know what? Despite all the discomfort, I think I'd rather be passionate and disappointed than successful and bored. Besides, Coelho also writes, "When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” I hope that's true, for all our sakes.
And even if it's not, here's to vulnerability. Here's to having high hopes, and having them dashed, and having the persistence and chutzpah to keep on fighting the good fight.
Such class at such a young age.
Fast forward to that time after college when I decided against doing anything constructive with the degree I had just earned, and was once again looking into my options in the medical field. At an information session for a Physician Assistant graduate program in Colorado, I remember raising my hand and asking whether PAs ever got to work with laboring women. I was told that the only medical professionals to do such a thing were OB-GYNs and nurse-midwives. I thought, "Crap. Like I'd ever want to be a nurse." Ha. Hahaha. Later on, faced with mounting bills from that hard-won and useless degree of mine, I was dismayed to find that it cost thousands of dollars even to become a doula. Slowly, that mild yet persistent itch to get myself into the labor room found its way back to the shadowy recesses of my brain.
Until last fall. My very first clinical rotation in nursing school sent me to labor & delivery, where I promptly fell in love. Not to mention the dynamite professor who pretty much changed all of our lives. After that class ended, getting myself to school every day was raw, brute will-power. Midway through the summer, as my motivation teetered on empty, I quickly realized that if I wanted to get through the next few months without losing my mind, I had to remind myself why I was back in school in the first place. So I watched documentaries and I listened to audiobooks and followed blogs and I read my Ina May. And then, as the countdown to graduation descended into double digits and I became accustomed to the reality of looking for a job in a market that is decidedly unkind to newly licensed RNs, I stopped. Fast.
I generally try to avoid true desire at all costs, usually justifying my disinterest with some heady internal monologue that rambles on about non-attachment to outcomes or how everything happens for a reason. But really, like it does to most of us, the risk of failure or disappointment scares the ever-loving daylights out of me. And when I say that that all I want is a job - any job, just as long as it puts this degree of mine to work - I'm lying to myself. Now, don't misunderstand me; that doesn't mean that I'm not keeping an open mind, or that I wouldn't take the first good job offer that comes my way. After all, bills still need to be paid. But it also doesn't mean that it's ok to settle for something that doesn't make my heart sing, not long-term. It doesn't mean that it's acceptable to forget the things I'm passionate about because it's more comfortable to convince myself that I would be "content" with whatever happens, and that getting excited about a job that I would ultimately love to do isn't worth it in this economy.
In The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho writes, “Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams.” So a couple of days ago, I sized up my dusty stack of books about birth history, labor, and midwifery, and dove back in. One of the hospitals I applied to has two spots on the L+D unit for new grads. Two. I do not like them apples. I can't tell if I will get an interview, I have no idea if I'll get a job offer from that hospital at all, and I certainly don't know what my chances are of being picked for one of those spots.
As purposeful and re-engaged as I feel right now, I know that being passed over for such an opportunity would feel pretty awful. But you know what? Despite all the discomfort, I think I'd rather be passionate and disappointed than successful and bored. Besides, Coelho also writes, "When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” I hope that's true, for all our sakes.
And even if it's not, here's to vulnerability. Here's to having high hopes, and having them dashed, and having the persistence and chutzpah to keep on fighting the good fight.
Monday, November 4, 2013
On crawling out from underneath the books.
I promised myself I wouldn't do any schoolwork today. Actually... no I didn't. I promised myself that I wouldn't allow yet another day off to go something like this: wake up, make coffee, open and close and open the coursework website, stare blankly at an assignment, feel decidedly uninspired, close it again, eat breakfast, check the weather, blame the weather, read some news, scroll through some social media, walk aimlessly around the apartment, feel guilty, take out a sad-looking half-full bag of trash, scrub a stain, eat breakfast #2, open and close some assignments again, read a page or two of a book for pleasure, feel guilty again, check the weather again, change my clothes, eat breakfast #3 (emotional eating anyone?) and end up drowning my low-productivity sorrows in some trash on Netflix while feeling like a total slouch and failure.
No. Instead, I told myself, I'm going to write. It has been so long! And if I'm not going to be productive, I might as well do something... productive. True Vanessa fashion. Really though, writing used to make me happy. And I suspect that deep down, underneath all the layers of stress and tears and frustration and caffeine-dependence that nursing school has dumped all over my ambitious little soul, it still does. So here I am. Looking back on the last 15 or so months since the last time I wrote - and the two and a half years that have passed since I started this blog, I am feeling pretty amazed at how far I have come... and also pretty amused at all the ways that life is still the same.
For instance, now that graduation is only about a month away, that "thrilled and anxious and ecstatic and frightened and ... utterly bewildered and bittersweet" feeling I described two summers ago is back with a vengeance. I have a sneaking suspicion that nursing school is a sort of rite of passage that (eventually) earns you admission to your first job, at which time you will slowly and painstakingly learn all the things that are actually important to being a competent registered nurse. But not before you pass the NCLEX and are formally given a license to stick people with both sharp and blunt objects of various shapes and sizes. Please stay tuned for the results of that little endeavor.
Another thing I noticed as I perused all my old posts is that I tend to come to the same realizations. Over. And over. Again.
Be here now. Imperfection is okay. You're pretty cool. Everybody else is pretty cool too. Run. Breathe. Relax. Enjoy. This too shall pass. Love is always greater than fear. "Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy." You are exactly where you need to be. And a smattering of remarks about how living in Colorado was awesome, but it wasn't Colorado that made it so great... it was the Living part.
I think I'm finally getting all of those little things (some days). Or, at least, I try to take myself less seriously (most days). I've been listening to and reading a lot of Brené Brown (who is outstanding, by the way, and I would recommend her stuff to anyone with a sense of humor, a spirit or a pulse), and she has a ton of fantastic things to say about loving your stories and owning your journey. I think part of the reason it has taken me so long to get back to this blog is because I was trying to separate myself from all that pain-in-the-butt soul searching I spent the first half of this decade of life doing. I figured that if I ever wanted to start blogging again, I would just start a new page. I've always liked blank slates and closure, because let's face it, who doesn't? Life is messy and imperfect and disorderly and maddeningly slow at times and unbearably swift at others. It would be nice to imagine that one day, all of that will be over and we'll "get it" and have these picture-perfect lives where we know everything and love everyone and flush rainbows down the toilet. But that isn't what happens, and furthermore, dreaming of that impossible tidy package drives us away from all the messy, imperfect, disorderly things that highlight our individuality, make our lives unique and define our personal journeys.
So the blog rolls on! I'm hoping to write more regularly now that I'm approaching my triumphant re-entry to actual adult life. Because if there's anything that I've learned, not only is imperfection the most underrated value on the planet, but life is colorful, and that's pretty cool too.
No. Instead, I told myself, I'm going to write. It has been so long! And if I'm not going to be productive, I might as well do something... productive. True Vanessa fashion. Really though, writing used to make me happy. And I suspect that deep down, underneath all the layers of stress and tears and frustration and caffeine-dependence that nursing school has dumped all over my ambitious little soul, it still does. So here I am. Looking back on the last 15 or so months since the last time I wrote - and the two and a half years that have passed since I started this blog, I am feeling pretty amazed at how far I have come... and also pretty amused at all the ways that life is still the same.
For instance, now that graduation is only about a month away, that "thrilled and anxious and ecstatic and frightened and ... utterly bewildered and bittersweet" feeling I described two summers ago is back with a vengeance. I have a sneaking suspicion that nursing school is a sort of rite of passage that (eventually) earns you admission to your first job, at which time you will slowly and painstakingly learn all the things that are actually important to being a competent registered nurse. But not before you pass the NCLEX and are formally given a license to stick people with both sharp and blunt objects of various shapes and sizes. Please stay tuned for the results of that little endeavor.
Another thing I noticed as I perused all my old posts is that I tend to come to the same realizations. Over. And over. Again.
Be here now. Imperfection is okay. You're pretty cool. Everybody else is pretty cool too. Run. Breathe. Relax. Enjoy. This too shall pass. Love is always greater than fear. "Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy." You are exactly where you need to be. And a smattering of remarks about how living in Colorado was awesome, but it wasn't Colorado that made it so great... it was the Living part.
I think I'm finally getting all of those little things (some days). Or, at least, I try to take myself less seriously (most days). I've been listening to and reading a lot of Brené Brown (who is outstanding, by the way, and I would recommend her stuff to anyone with a sense of humor, a spirit or a pulse), and she has a ton of fantastic things to say about loving your stories and owning your journey. I think part of the reason it has taken me so long to get back to this blog is because I was trying to separate myself from all that pain-in-the-butt soul searching I spent the first half of this decade of life doing. I figured that if I ever wanted to start blogging again, I would just start a new page. I've always liked blank slates and closure, because let's face it, who doesn't? Life is messy and imperfect and disorderly and maddeningly slow at times and unbearably swift at others. It would be nice to imagine that one day, all of that will be over and we'll "get it" and have these picture-perfect lives where we know everything and love everyone and flush rainbows down the toilet. But that isn't what happens, and furthermore, dreaming of that impossible tidy package drives us away from all the messy, imperfect, disorderly things that highlight our individuality, make our lives unique and define our personal journeys.
So the blog rolls on! I'm hoping to write more regularly now that I'm approaching my triumphant re-entry to actual adult life. Because if there's anything that I've learned, not only is imperfection the most underrated value on the planet, but life is colorful, and that's pretty cool too.
Monday, August 20, 2012
On the next transition.
I wanted this to feel like Colorado. I sat down in front of the computer screen, put on my favorite Pandora station, opened up my blogger window, and took one last look out the window to remind me of the beautiful day outside. I wanted to feel as driven and excited by the written word as I did so many months ago, the days I would wake up hours early in order to shake the words out of my head before driving the mile or so to work through the thin, crisp air, the Flatirons looming so majestically above me and the sky cloudless and blue.
But it hasn't worked. Every effort I've made in the past few months to reclaim that peace of mind, that feeling of boundless freedom I lost when I crossed the Mississippi, has ended the same way. I've only recently put my finger on the feeling - like my shoes are too tight. The big sky and mountain breeze helped of course, but the real thing I'm lacking right now has nothing to do with geographical location. Colorado was potent because it was mine. My first half marathon, my move to Bonnet, the relationships I cultivated and strengthened and lost and gained over the nine months I spent there, all the running and the learning and the opening - all of that was mine too. But now it's like I'm living on borrowed time, within the confines of other peoples' homes and in snippets of everyone else's lives. Don't get me wrong, I've had an absolutely amazing summer. I'm so incredibly grateful for the love I've felt and the people I've met and the places I've seen. But it has also felt like one absurdly long vacation, and I think I'm ready for a little solid ground. A place I can really call home.
In two weeks, I will begin yet another experience of my very own. I'm scared. I'm thrilled and anxious and ecstatic and frightened and feeling utterly bewildered and bittersweet. In some ways, the last thing I want to do is leave (ok, one very particular way), but in others I realize it's more necessary than I probably know. I worry about balance and about failure and about the past repeating itself, all the while looking forward to the adventure and the challenge and the opportunity to prove myself once again. I've been having a lot of feelings and doing a lot of soul-searching in preparation for the long road ahead. And here's what I've come up with:
1. Stop being so scared of not having enough time. Whatever that means. John Steinbeck once said in a letter to his son, "Don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens - The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away." So have a little faith. That goes for so much more than love.
2. Don't forget to breathe. Be careful not to get so lost in your head at the expense of the rest of you and the big world around you that's so ripe for the noticing. Because - I wrote it in a previous post, and I've never forgotten it - the truth of the matter is that we'll never be younger than we are today.
3. See everyone you meet with fresh eyes and a beginner's mind. Plato had it right: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," and all that.
4. For god's sake, love yourself. You're pretty awesome and, more than that, you're pretty damn lucky. Take care to see that you never become depleted or overwhelmed enough to forget that.
Yes, I miss the mountains. I miss the big sky. But I love my life today. And as it turns out, the freedom I once thought was exclusive to altitude is tantamount to the ease that arises when I hold myself accountable for my own peace of mind. From loving and letting go and trusting... something. And I've realized all of this before, but maybe that's what life is. Once, during one of our then-customary late night chats in the hot tub, my good friend Liz likened growing up to a spiral staircase rather than a ladder. It's not linear (much to the chagrin of those of us who enjoy control and single-variable equations with rational solutions). We may come back to the same point again and again, but we rise a little each time we do it. So I'm learning the same lessons over and over, which is incredibly frustrating. But at least I'm growing while I'm doing it. And at least I'm learning. Borrowed space and time might be infuriating, but when the time is mine again, I think I'll be plenty ready to jump right in... and hopefully to rise a little more.
In two weeks, I will begin yet another experience of my very own. I'm scared. I'm thrilled and anxious and ecstatic and frightened and feeling utterly bewildered and bittersweet. In some ways, the last thing I want to do is leave (ok, one very particular way), but in others I realize it's more necessary than I probably know. I worry about balance and about failure and about the past repeating itself, all the while looking forward to the adventure and the challenge and the opportunity to prove myself once again. I've been having a lot of feelings and doing a lot of soul-searching in preparation for the long road ahead. And here's what I've come up with:
1. Stop being so scared of not having enough time. Whatever that means. John Steinbeck once said in a letter to his son, "Don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens - The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away." So have a little faith. That goes for so much more than love.
2. Don't forget to breathe. Be careful not to get so lost in your head at the expense of the rest of you and the big world around you that's so ripe for the noticing. Because - I wrote it in a previous post, and I've never forgotten it - the truth of the matter is that we'll never be younger than we are today.
3. See everyone you meet with fresh eyes and a beginner's mind. Plato had it right: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," and all that.
4. For god's sake, love yourself. You're pretty awesome and, more than that, you're pretty damn lucky. Take care to see that you never become depleted or overwhelmed enough to forget that.
Yes, I miss the mountains. I miss the big sky. But I love my life today. And as it turns out, the freedom I once thought was exclusive to altitude is tantamount to the ease that arises when I hold myself accountable for my own peace of mind. From loving and letting go and trusting... something. And I've realized all of this before, but maybe that's what life is. Once, during one of our then-customary late night chats in the hot tub, my good friend Liz likened growing up to a spiral staircase rather than a ladder. It's not linear (much to the chagrin of those of us who enjoy control and single-variable equations with rational solutions). We may come back to the same point again and again, but we rise a little each time we do it. So I'm learning the same lessons over and over, which is incredibly frustrating. But at least I'm growing while I'm doing it. And at least I'm learning. Borrowed space and time might be infuriating, but when the time is mine again, I think I'll be plenty ready to jump right in... and hopefully to rise a little more.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
On stowing the Rocky Mountain High in my suitcase.
I was recently told that I'm too serious. That my standards are too high. That I've got such a stick up my butt, constantly reading all those gosh-darn books. "Men don't like a girl who's so intense all the time, you know." It reminded me of Christmas, and of my grandmother's quip: "You'll never find a man if you keep being a vegetarian, you know." What is with that?? What is with people who barely know me informing me that I have to change who I am in order to, of all things, eventually attract someone with whom I can be completely honest and wholly intimate? Naturally, I laughed my humorless little butt off and went on with my day. But I have to admit, it got to me. If only because it made me wonder whether I come across the way I think I do. If the "me" I put out to the world matches the "me" I'm so well acquainted with inside.
A few days after that ridiculous yet thought-provoking conversation, I left for a vacation in Colorado and had an absolutely amazing time. Knowing full well that happiness has nothing to do with geographic coordinates, I came back to the east coast with the express intention of figuring out exactly what it is about the wild, wild west that makes me feel so wonderful.
(Aside from sights like this, that is.)
And so I did. See, I'd had zero expectations heading into my trip. I was afraid it would hurt too much to be back there, so I had avoided devoting even a single thought to anything about it except for my race training. That really made the whole week very... easy. When it came to our weekend in Utah, I handed the reins to everyone else. For once, I was just along for the ride. I let go of controlling anything at all and just enjoyed myself. My friends. The weather. The mountains and canyons and desert and fresh air. Without any expectations or desire to control circumstance, there was no way for me to feel disappointed.
Let's just say that realizing all that was a definite "a-ha!" moment. I have always prided myself on being an excellent planner - which, unbeknownst to me, apparently translates in proper English as "she who has major control issues." Living life from the neck up comes with an unfortunate desire to be able to foresee the future, the way other people will act and the outcomes of all of your carefully orchestrated choices. And all of these expectations automatically set you up for anxiety, aggravation and, ultimately, disappointment... a.k.a. the New England, Type A way of life.
I've written a number of posts in the last year about how happiness comes from "being here now," but I don't think I ever quite knew exactly how to do that. But Coloradans sure do. Turns out, it happens when you live in your body instead of your brain. When you spend your moments focusing on the person in front of you, or the sunshine on your shoulders, or the depth of your breath, rather than your to-do list, or what other people think of you, or all of the possible twists of fate that you are so deathly afraid of being unprepared for. What is the worst that can happen, really? What good is worrying actually doing you? And more importantly, what are you missing out on by being so caught up in your fears over anything and everything that could go so "wrong"? Maybe I have been too serious, after all. Maybe I have been spending too much time caught up in my safe little cocoon of a brain, building walls against anyone (everyone) and anything (everything) I am afraid of.
So I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm certainly not changing who I am, but I'm finally letting other people know who that girl is. Here and there, I'm letting go of the reins. I'm not going to lie, it scares the ever-loving daylights out of me. But it's also incredibly liberating. And what some might call freedom feels a lot like that bliss I've been chasing after for years. Funnily enough, it was here all along.
A few days after that ridiculous yet thought-provoking conversation, I left for a vacation in Colorado and had an absolutely amazing time. Knowing full well that happiness has nothing to do with geographic coordinates, I came back to the east coast with the express intention of figuring out exactly what it is about the wild, wild west that makes me feel so wonderful.
And so I did. See, I'd had zero expectations heading into my trip. I was afraid it would hurt too much to be back there, so I had avoided devoting even a single thought to anything about it except for my race training. That really made the whole week very... easy. When it came to our weekend in Utah, I handed the reins to everyone else. For once, I was just along for the ride. I let go of controlling anything at all and just enjoyed myself. My friends. The weather. The mountains and canyons and desert and fresh air. Without any expectations or desire to control circumstance, there was no way for me to feel disappointed.
Let's just say that realizing all that was a definite "a-ha!" moment. I have always prided myself on being an excellent planner - which, unbeknownst to me, apparently translates in proper English as "she who has major control issues." Living life from the neck up comes with an unfortunate desire to be able to foresee the future, the way other people will act and the outcomes of all of your carefully orchestrated choices. And all of these expectations automatically set you up for anxiety, aggravation and, ultimately, disappointment... a.k.a. the New England, Type A way of life.
I've written a number of posts in the last year about how happiness comes from "being here now," but I don't think I ever quite knew exactly how to do that. But Coloradans sure do. Turns out, it happens when you live in your body instead of your brain. When you spend your moments focusing on the person in front of you, or the sunshine on your shoulders, or the depth of your breath, rather than your to-do list, or what other people think of you, or all of the possible twists of fate that you are so deathly afraid of being unprepared for. What is the worst that can happen, really? What good is worrying actually doing you? And more importantly, what are you missing out on by being so caught up in your fears over anything and everything that could go so "wrong"? Maybe I have been too serious, after all. Maybe I have been spending too much time caught up in my safe little cocoon of a brain, building walls against anyone (everyone) and anything (everything) I am afraid of.
So I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm certainly not changing who I am, but I'm finally letting other people know who that girl is. Here and there, I'm letting go of the reins. I'm not going to lie, it scares the ever-loving daylights out of me. But it's also incredibly liberating. And what some might call freedom feels a lot like that bliss I've been chasing after for years. Funnily enough, it was here all along.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
2011
I've been staring at this blank slate and blinking cursor for weeks now. Even now, I'm not sure where to start. I could easily use a bunch of flowery adjectives and dramatic metaphors to describe the past 12 months, but I won't. Because to be honest, I don't really want to look back. I'm kind of done with 2011. I started out having no idea what I wanted and no inclination to make choices that were good for me. I didn't get out of my own way until about halfway through the year, when I finally had to scale my way out of the massive mental hole I had built around myself. I finally prioritized taking full responsibility for my life rather than continuing to wait for some elusive opportune moment. I learned to breathe, and to be present, and to be comfortable with uncertainty. I met an incredible yoga teacher who inspired me to get out of my head and stop exhausting myself trying to be perfect. I stepped out of my comfort zone and set goals that had previously seemed leagues out of my reach. I opened myself up to people and realized that there are always ample opportunities to belong, if you'll only let yourself do so. All in all, it has been an amazingly transformative year... that I am very much looking forward to leaving behind.
Of course, one thing I would do well to remember in the coming years is that there is no finish line. Perhaps counter-intuitively, maintaining peace of mind these days takes commitment. And commitment is all about balance. From now on, I'm going to try and embrace Lao Tzu's words: "A journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step." Rather than expending all of my energy on a single inspired task only to crash and burn and lose momentum, I'm going to focus on taking baby steps. I'm going to continue to work on forgiving myself for not being perfect, and I'm going to try instead to embrace the grey area. Essentially, my new year's resolution is not to make any. Yes, I could promise to adhere to a more consistent workout schedule, or eat only whole, minimally processed foods, or maintain a strict daily meditation practice, or put more of my paycheck into savings, or any number of other smart, healthy vows to foster my sense of well-being and improve my life. But, let's be honest. I would break all of those in no time and just end up feeling discouraged and disappointed with myself. Who wants that? So I'm proposing something different. Here's to imperfection in 2012 - to effort and failure and perseverance, and inevitably, to the joy that just might happen to arise from the whole shebang.
Of course, one thing I would do well to remember in the coming years is that there is no finish line. Perhaps counter-intuitively, maintaining peace of mind these days takes commitment. And commitment is all about balance. From now on, I'm going to try and embrace Lao Tzu's words: "A journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step." Rather than expending all of my energy on a single inspired task only to crash and burn and lose momentum, I'm going to focus on taking baby steps. I'm going to continue to work on forgiving myself for not being perfect, and I'm going to try instead to embrace the grey area. Essentially, my new year's resolution is not to make any. Yes, I could promise to adhere to a more consistent workout schedule, or eat only whole, minimally processed foods, or maintain a strict daily meditation practice, or put more of my paycheck into savings, or any number of other smart, healthy vows to foster my sense of well-being and improve my life. But, let's be honest. I would break all of those in no time and just end up feeling discouraged and disappointed with myself. Who wants that? So I'm proposing something different. Here's to imperfection in 2012 - to effort and failure and perseverance, and inevitably, to the joy that just might happen to arise from the whole shebang.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
On moving forward.
As I pulled into my driveway, I instantly regretted not having the forethought to bring supplies and camp at the top of the mountain. It was such a beautiful night. I lugged my backpack from the front seat of my car and gazed up at the crystal clear, star-studded sky above me. The cosmos and I needed a moment, I thought. I set down my pack and lay down on the wet grass, propping my head up on my folded hands, staring into the abyss, chilled by the fall air but warmed by my quiet contentment. I suddenly realized that I couldn't think of one thing to ask for - no requests for clarity from the universe, or guidance, or good fortune. I took a couple of deep breaths, reveling in the perfection of that autumn evening. The following week, life blew up in my face.
And on and on it goes. These days, I'm pretty good at taking it in stride. There will always be crests and troughs; the trick is to be the water rather than the boat. Wise people know that the secret to happiness is relinquishing your attempts at control. Ok, noted. But wait a minute - surely we can't just coast through life expecting everything to be peachy keen without putting forth any effort at all? Call me crazy, but that seems like a pretty serious contradiction. How in the world are you supposed to simultaneously let go of your attachment to a given outcome and continue to maintain your goals and ambitions?
Once again, the answer (for me, at least) is stunningly simple: Be here now. It's all well and good to have grand plans for the future, but too often I've found myself halfway down one road before realizing that my drive to explore it had evaporated miles and miles back. Here's the problem with consciousness: it paints us as vaguely static individuals, when in fact we are changing all the time. In the Western world, we are taught that we each have a distinct "me-ness" that makes us special. From an early age, we are urged to define ourselves based on our myriad strengths, our likes and dislikes, the people we choose to associate with. Later in life our identities might become entrenched within a particular religion or political party or job or community organization. And while some of our values do tend to remain stable over time, little changes often accumulate and mix and mingle to become desires that undermine even our most dearly held self-concepts. And before we know it, we're stuck in a place we can't stand or pursuing a career we hate or married to a person we no longer love.
For whatever reason, I'm becoming increasingly aware of the fact that we only get one shot at life. And time is flying by. For my part, I spent a lot of years backtracking, trying desperately to recover the ghosts of "lost" choices that were never right for me in the first place. Like most of us, I wish I had known then what I know now. So, be present with yourself. Take the time to become intimately acquainted with what you are feeling right now. By all means, have a blueprint for your future, but be prepared to jump ship at a moment's notice. If you're reading this, you're lucky enough to live in a place where you can choose nearly everything about your life; if not circumstance, then at least the way you react to it. All I'm saying is choose, and choose authentically. There is no reason not to live a life you love.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Harder, better, faster, stronger.
If there's one word in the English language that inspires more fear, more apprehension and more shame in me than any other, it's this one: wrong.
I've been thinking a lot lately about that word. Wrong. When I was in college (i.e. when my life was pretty well laid out for me), I spent hours and days and weeks of my life fretting and obsessing about the few choices I had to make, completely paralyzed by my indecision because I was afraid I would make the wrong one. Throughout the last year and a half, I've found it nearly impossible to forgive myself for instances in which I was careless with the feelings of people I cared about, in which I was rash and thoughtless, in which I made the wrong choices.
I've heard it said that humankind is capable of only two emotions - love, and fear. The majority of my adult life has unquestionably revolved around the latter. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that if I made a mistake, no one could possibly love me; and worse, I couldn't possibly love myself. If I didn't make every effort to see that the needs and wants of those around me were satisfied, if I didn't put aside my own desires and feelings - in fact, if I even focused on them long enough to realize what they were and that they could possibly conflict with those of others - I wasn't being a loving friend, or family member, or coworker, or girlfriend. I killed myself to maintain that precarious balance and tend to the needs of everyone I cared about, endlessly berating myself for those that fell by the wayside, trying desperately to hold on to some semblance of control in my own life, and expected that at the end of the day, I would be perfect. I would do everything right, and love everyone, and everyone would love me, and I would love myself.
Well, honey, that's not love. That's fear. Plain and simple.
A few weeks ago, I was having a particularly overwhelming afternoon. Now, when I'm stressed, I tend to just take off. And so I went for a run. I ran until my breath fell into a steady rhythm. I ran until all I could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other. I ran until I felt the endorphins coursing through my blood, and a smile creeping across my face. And suddenly an hour had gone by. It was then that I decided I was going to push myself. I decided to run a half-marathon.
Now, I had never been what you would call a "runner." I'd always preferred to run on a treadmill, with music pounding in my ears and some empty drivel on the television distracting me from the otherwise mind-numbing experience. But somehow, this was different. And since then I've been running exclusively outside, at dawn, with no sound but the beating of my own heart and the scuffing of pavement for company. I can't focus on my past, or my future, or my so-called "mistakes," or what anyone else expects of me. I'm forced to take it breath by breath, trust my instincts, let go of my mind, and listen closely to what my body is telling me. And slowly, I'm picking up the pieces. We've all heard the old cliché - before you can love anyone else, you have to love yourself. And this might be the first time in my life I've ever done something for myself that wasn't based in fear - fear of consequences, or inadequacy, or failure.
They say that if you can run 10 miles, you can run 13.1. This weekend, I'm on track to do just that. Easily. Something I never thought I could do. I'm proud of myself. And while it's not forgiveness, it's a start. Love, like life, is an endurance sport. And I'm working on it. One step at a time.
I've been thinking a lot lately about that word. Wrong. When I was in college (i.e. when my life was pretty well laid out for me), I spent hours and days and weeks of my life fretting and obsessing about the few choices I had to make, completely paralyzed by my indecision because I was afraid I would make the wrong one. Throughout the last year and a half, I've found it nearly impossible to forgive myself for instances in which I was careless with the feelings of people I cared about, in which I was rash and thoughtless, in which I made the wrong choices.
I've heard it said that humankind is capable of only two emotions - love, and fear. The majority of my adult life has unquestionably revolved around the latter. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that if I made a mistake, no one could possibly love me; and worse, I couldn't possibly love myself. If I didn't make every effort to see that the needs and wants of those around me were satisfied, if I didn't put aside my own desires and feelings - in fact, if I even focused on them long enough to realize what they were and that they could possibly conflict with those of others - I wasn't being a loving friend, or family member, or coworker, or girlfriend. I killed myself to maintain that precarious balance and tend to the needs of everyone I cared about, endlessly berating myself for those that fell by the wayside, trying desperately to hold on to some semblance of control in my own life, and expected that at the end of the day, I would be perfect. I would do everything right, and love everyone, and everyone would love me, and I would love myself.
Well, honey, that's not love. That's fear. Plain and simple.
A few weeks ago, I was having a particularly overwhelming afternoon. Now, when I'm stressed, I tend to just take off. And so I went for a run. I ran until my breath fell into a steady rhythm. I ran until all I could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other. I ran until I felt the endorphins coursing through my blood, and a smile creeping across my face. And suddenly an hour had gone by. It was then that I decided I was going to push myself. I decided to run a half-marathon.
Now, I had never been what you would call a "runner." I'd always preferred to run on a treadmill, with music pounding in my ears and some empty drivel on the television distracting me from the otherwise mind-numbing experience. But somehow, this was different. And since then I've been running exclusively outside, at dawn, with no sound but the beating of my own heart and the scuffing of pavement for company. I can't focus on my past, or my future, or my so-called "mistakes," or what anyone else expects of me. I'm forced to take it breath by breath, trust my instincts, let go of my mind, and listen closely to what my body is telling me. And slowly, I'm picking up the pieces. We've all heard the old cliché - before you can love anyone else, you have to love yourself. And this might be the first time in my life I've ever done something for myself that wasn't based in fear - fear of consequences, or inadequacy, or failure.
They say that if you can run 10 miles, you can run 13.1. This weekend, I'm on track to do just that. Easily. Something I never thought I could do. I'm proud of myself. And while it's not forgiveness, it's a start. Love, like life, is an endurance sport. And I'm working on it. One step at a time.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
twelve months.
Tomorrow marks one year since the day I left for Colorado, and two years since the day I graduated from college. Funny how time flies. As the days get longer and the air gets warmer, I find myself becoming increasingly nostalgic for last summer: the gorgeous, sunny day hikes through green meadows filled with wildflowers, the lazy mornings spent floating around on pool rafts, baking in the 100-degree sunshine, the late nights spent in downtown bars, searching for nothing but an innocent good time with a girlfriend or two (though occasionally finding more than we bargained for). Eventually those thoughts give way to memories of the fall: of finally sharing my amazing world with friends and family from home, of trekking over the Rocky Mountains at 12,000 feet, endlessly in awe of the stark contrast between the vibrant yellows of the autumn aspens and the crisp blue of the alpine sky, of learning important life lessons from unfamiliar back woods and the unspeakably haunting, howling wind. After that, it gets muddy. Next thing I know, I'm back in Rhode Island. And a minute later, my life is completely different from what I had imagined and I'm about as comfortable as I would be had I never left. Let's back up.
I'm pretty sure I've said that Colorado changed me about as many times as one can say something without being labeled with a memory disorder. But to a certain extent, it's true. If nothing else, it changed my values. I remember listening to a speaker at the Science Writers conference in November and being struck by the realization that I had always cared about ideas more than people. For the majority of my adult life, I had been far more interested in learning about abstract concepts than I had been in interacting with my fellow man. But sometime between that trip and the time I moved back to New England, all of that changed. At some point, I stopped living my life in my head, and I started living it with my heart. I think it happened over Thanksgiving. Despite my history of running off on my own, I had never felt that kind of profound loneliness before. For the first time, I realized that I needed people. And slowly but surely, my urgent desire to belong to the world has blossomed into a quiet sense of clarity that I've never felt before.
There are days when I miss Colorado a lot. I miss my friends and the sunshine and the mountains. But I haven't once regretted my decision to come back to Rhode Island. Despite the frequent dreary weather, the distinct dearth of open space or elevation, the cranky people, the crappy roads, the constant rush and congestion... it's home. I felt relieved the minute I crossed the state line. I'm going to be honest, it has been a challenging couple of months. Hell, it has been a challenging year. But I worked it out. I accomplished everything I wanted to. I'm happy. And I'm ready for yet another fantastic summer.
I'm pretty sure I've said that Colorado changed me about as many times as one can say something without being labeled with a memory disorder. But to a certain extent, it's true. If nothing else, it changed my values. I remember listening to a speaker at the Science Writers conference in November and being struck by the realization that I had always cared about ideas more than people. For the majority of my adult life, I had been far more interested in learning about abstract concepts than I had been in interacting with my fellow man. But sometime between that trip and the time I moved back to New England, all of that changed. At some point, I stopped living my life in my head, and I started living it with my heart. I think it happened over Thanksgiving. Despite my history of running off on my own, I had never felt that kind of profound loneliness before. For the first time, I realized that I needed people. And slowly but surely, my urgent desire to belong to the world has blossomed into a quiet sense of clarity that I've never felt before.
There are days when I miss Colorado a lot. I miss my friends and the sunshine and the mountains. But I haven't once regretted my decision to come back to Rhode Island. Despite the frequent dreary weather, the distinct dearth of open space or elevation, the cranky people, the crappy roads, the constant rush and congestion... it's home. I felt relieved the minute I crossed the state line. I'm going to be honest, it has been a challenging couple of months. Hell, it has been a challenging year. But I worked it out. I accomplished everything I wanted to. I'm happy. And I'm ready for yet another fantastic summer.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
On being here now.
I've been destination-oriented for as long as I can remember. As much as I loved theatre when I was younger, I never liked rehearsing very much; it was the final performance that always drove me. In high school, I spent my time taking pictures of everyone and everything so I'd have the memories to look back on, rather than focusing on enjoying the experience in the moment. I looked forward to my college exams more than I did classes. I watch movies to have watched them and I read books to have read them. Sometimes I even find myself wanting good things to end simply for the relief of being on the other side of the pain that will ensue when they do.
I know a number of people right now who are undergoing transitions. Some are just a little confused, and some are on the brink of quarter-life crises. Yesterday, a few friends and I were lamenting the fact that we're spending the prime years of our lives consumed by concern over our futures. Personally, I know I've always been in a hurry to grow up because I crave stability. I'm terribly impatient, I despise failing, and I can't stand feeling like life is out of my control. But what's funny about all of those things - and what I'm only now starting to realize - is that all of this evolving is the fun part. Now, somebody once told me that I concentrate so much on purpose that I don't know how to have fun. That comment bothered me for years but, to be honest, in a way I think he was right. And I don't think I'm alone. So many of us are so focused on tomorrow that sometimes we forget to live right now. And the truth of the matter is that we'll never be younger than we are today.
Of course you need to plan for the future. But only until it starts to detract from your present. The answers will come when you're ready for them. I spent years and years hoping to control circumstance by sheer willpower alone, thinking and rethinking my big life choices until I was blue in the face. But it wasn't until I became very still - until I sat on a train quietly observing the world as it flew by my window, until I heard the pounding of music in my ears and felt the wind racing through my hair, rolling down a hill on my bike - that everything seemed to fall into place. I still feel jealous when I encounter people who seem to have their entire lives figured out, but I'm trying not to get ahead of myself anymore. I'm trying to step out of my own way so I can be the one place I need to be: here, now. And so far, it's going swimmingly.
I know a number of people right now who are undergoing transitions. Some are just a little confused, and some are on the brink of quarter-life crises. Yesterday, a few friends and I were lamenting the fact that we're spending the prime years of our lives consumed by concern over our futures. Personally, I know I've always been in a hurry to grow up because I crave stability. I'm terribly impatient, I despise failing, and I can't stand feeling like life is out of my control. But what's funny about all of those things - and what I'm only now starting to realize - is that all of this evolving is the fun part. Now, somebody once told me that I concentrate so much on purpose that I don't know how to have fun. That comment bothered me for years but, to be honest, in a way I think he was right. And I don't think I'm alone. So many of us are so focused on tomorrow that sometimes we forget to live right now. And the truth of the matter is that we'll never be younger than we are today.
Of course you need to plan for the future. But only until it starts to detract from your present. The answers will come when you're ready for them. I spent years and years hoping to control circumstance by sheer willpower alone, thinking and rethinking my big life choices until I was blue in the face. But it wasn't until I became very still - until I sat on a train quietly observing the world as it flew by my window, until I heard the pounding of music in my ears and felt the wind racing through my hair, rolling down a hill on my bike - that everything seemed to fall into place. I still feel jealous when I encounter people who seem to have their entire lives figured out, but I'm trying not to get ahead of myself anymore. I'm trying to step out of my own way so I can be the one place I need to be: here, now. And so far, it's going swimmingly.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
wherever you go, there you are... or are you?
I've been thinking a lot lately about change. I am not who I was ten years ago. Nor am I who I was last year, or last month, or even yesterday. Everyone evolves - friends, family members, acquaintances, people we aren't terribly fond of. It's a fact of life, but it isn't one that we tend to focus a whole lot of energy on. We all care deeply about some people and hold grudges against others without regard for the amount of time that has passed since our feelings arose. But why? Mentally speaking, they have changed. Physically speaking, they don't even possess the same body they did so many days or months or years ago. When you really think about it, such a continuity problem becomes a complicated issue in terms of both love and accountability.
A few weeks ago, a good friend of mine recommended that I read Milan Kundera's short novel Identity. In it, Kundera tells the story of Jean-Marc, a young Frenchman who becomes consumed by the fear that time will change his lover Chantal into a woman he no longer recognizes. And why shouldn't he? In a world where such change often happens imperceptibly, is it even reasonable to believe that two people can spend 10 or 20 or 50 years together without growing apart or eventually encountering some kind of insurmountable obstacle?
In one of my college courses, we conducted the following thought experiment: a ship goes off on a long voyage. While at sea, boards crack, pipes break, and one by one each component is replaced with a new part. When the ship finally returns, every piece of it is brand new. So is it still the same ship? What if, instead of discarding the old parts, each was gradually assembled into a second ship? Both ships return to port - now, which is the one that left? Personally, I'm inclined to assign identity based on some form of continuous memory; that is, the ship with all the new parts is the one that originally left.
But what about in criminal cases? Yesterday, the New York Times published an interesting article arguing in favor of lessening the punishments for juvenile murderers. The author cites factors such as peer pressure, impulsivity and immaturity as reasons to prohibit severe sentences in juveniles. When it comes to accountability, identity becomes a sticky issue. Releasing a 25-year old murderer is still releasing a murderer, even if he was only 14 when he committed the crime. But at the same time, so much of our growth as human beings occurs during our adolescent years. Is it fair, then, to lock him up for the rest of his life based on a crime he committed when he was barely old enough to know what it meant? I don't think so.
Then again, where do you draw the line? If a young girl kills someone the day before her 15th birthday, should her sentence be any more lenient than that of the young man who commits murder the day after his? What about a 17 year old vs. an 18 year old? I suspect that it's less about age than maturity in these cases, but it is extremely difficult to quantify maturity and even moreso to diagram the grand ways in which an individual has changed since the fateful day that shaped the rest of his or her life.
The famed Greek philosopher Heraclitus once claimed, "change is the only constant"; still, it would seem that our society makes very few provisions for evolution. So how do you make sense of your own continuity of experience? How do you pass fair judgement on the people in your life? What do you place your faith in? I have no idea, but I think it's all worth a thought or two.
A few weeks ago, a good friend of mine recommended that I read Milan Kundera's short novel Identity. In it, Kundera tells the story of Jean-Marc, a young Frenchman who becomes consumed by the fear that time will change his lover Chantal into a woman he no longer recognizes. And why shouldn't he? In a world where such change often happens imperceptibly, is it even reasonable to believe that two people can spend 10 or 20 or 50 years together without growing apart or eventually encountering some kind of insurmountable obstacle?
In one of my college courses, we conducted the following thought experiment: a ship goes off on a long voyage. While at sea, boards crack, pipes break, and one by one each component is replaced with a new part. When the ship finally returns, every piece of it is brand new. So is it still the same ship? What if, instead of discarding the old parts, each was gradually assembled into a second ship? Both ships return to port - now, which is the one that left? Personally, I'm inclined to assign identity based on some form of continuous memory; that is, the ship with all the new parts is the one that originally left.
But what about in criminal cases? Yesterday, the New York Times published an interesting article arguing in favor of lessening the punishments for juvenile murderers. The author cites factors such as peer pressure, impulsivity and immaturity as reasons to prohibit severe sentences in juveniles. When it comes to accountability, identity becomes a sticky issue. Releasing a 25-year old murderer is still releasing a murderer, even if he was only 14 when he committed the crime. But at the same time, so much of our growth as human beings occurs during our adolescent years. Is it fair, then, to lock him up for the rest of his life based on a crime he committed when he was barely old enough to know what it meant? I don't think so.
Then again, where do you draw the line? If a young girl kills someone the day before her 15th birthday, should her sentence be any more lenient than that of the young man who commits murder the day after his? What about a 17 year old vs. an 18 year old? I suspect that it's less about age than maturity in these cases, but it is extremely difficult to quantify maturity and even moreso to diagram the grand ways in which an individual has changed since the fateful day that shaped the rest of his or her life.
The famed Greek philosopher Heraclitus once claimed, "change is the only constant"; still, it would seem that our society makes very few provisions for evolution. So how do you make sense of your own continuity of experience? How do you pass fair judgement on the people in your life? What do you place your faith in? I have no idea, but I think it's all worth a thought or two.
Monday, April 4, 2011
sea level
I drove to the beach in an effort to find some clarity. The chilly salt air stung, and I retreated as far as I could into my winter coat, a lone huddled mass on the long stretch of concrete. As I bundled up against the cold and spitting rain, I watched the ocean. The same old waves crested and fell again and again, one after the other, displaying at once their strength and transience. The water haphazardly lapped at the grimy and windwhipped rocks below my dangling feet. Beneath the threatening sky and relentless wind, the ocean seemed tired. I felt I could relate.
Ten months ago, I moved to Colorado with grand aspirations. I was going to start over. I was going to figure out who I was. I was going to prove to myself that I still had the social stamina and emotional wherewithall to confront a set of completely alien surroundings and transform them into a place that I could call home. But I didn't count on longing for the ocean. I didn't count on desperately missing my friends and family. And I certainly didn't count on my career sending me right back the way I came. So I decided to pack everything up, drive 3000 miles across the country and dump myself right back into a life that less than a year ago, I left behind for some very good reasons.
Surprisingly enough, not much has changed for me in Rhode Island. Despite filling my time almost to excess, I've been feeling insecure and anxious and alone. I've been questioning whether I actually accomplished any of the goals I had for myself in Colorado. I've been blaming myself inside and out for choices and judgements that are out of my control, and I've found myself wrung out, exhausted, and feeling hauntingly close to the way I did a year ago. Bla bla bla.
And you know, for a while there I thought that I messed up. I thought that it meant I didn't trust myself any more than I did last May. I thought it meant that all the time I spent out west was a complete wash. But I was wrong. The fact is, I did change. I stopped being the person I thought everyone wanted me to be, and I embraced the qualities that make me who I really am. In fact, I think I'm confused and hurt and overwhelmed precisely because I've learned to be true to myself. I think more than is necessary, and I'm openhearted to a fault. For me, there are only two choices: I throw myself 100% into something, or I don't do it. That goes for my career aspirations, my personal relationships, and everything else. Call it what you will, but it's the most authentic way I know how to live.
The fact of the matter is, I know who I want to be. And even if I don't act like that person every minute of every day, even if I make a misstep here and there, it doesn't mean that I've failed. It just means that I'm not dead yet. I'm growing. I'm moving forward. And regardless of everything I'm feeling in this moment, that is something to be proud of.
Ten months ago, I moved to Colorado with grand aspirations. I was going to start over. I was going to figure out who I was. I was going to prove to myself that I still had the social stamina and emotional wherewithall to confront a set of completely alien surroundings and transform them into a place that I could call home. But I didn't count on longing for the ocean. I didn't count on desperately missing my friends and family. And I certainly didn't count on my career sending me right back the way I came. So I decided to pack everything up, drive 3000 miles across the country and dump myself right back into a life that less than a year ago, I left behind for some very good reasons.
Surprisingly enough, not much has changed for me in Rhode Island. Despite filling my time almost to excess, I've been feeling insecure and anxious and alone. I've been questioning whether I actually accomplished any of the goals I had for myself in Colorado. I've been blaming myself inside and out for choices and judgements that are out of my control, and I've found myself wrung out, exhausted, and feeling hauntingly close to the way I did a year ago. Bla bla bla.
And you know, for a while there I thought that I messed up. I thought that it meant I didn't trust myself any more than I did last May. I thought it meant that all the time I spent out west was a complete wash. But I was wrong. The fact is, I did change. I stopped being the person I thought everyone wanted me to be, and I embraced the qualities that make me who I really am. In fact, I think I'm confused and hurt and overwhelmed precisely because I've learned to be true to myself. I think more than is necessary, and I'm openhearted to a fault. For me, there are only two choices: I throw myself 100% into something, or I don't do it. That goes for my career aspirations, my personal relationships, and everything else. Call it what you will, but it's the most authentic way I know how to live.
The fact of the matter is, I know who I want to be. And even if I don't act like that person every minute of every day, even if I make a misstep here and there, it doesn't mean that I've failed. It just means that I'm not dead yet. I'm growing. I'm moving forward. And regardless of everything I'm feeling in this moment, that is something to be proud of.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Vanessa, a history.
Write a narrative about your life. This should include information about your accomplishments, family, educational experience, and outside activities. Be creative rather than philosophic. Remember that you are writing for a reader who knows nothing about you or your background. (1,000 words maximum)
Let’s build a time machine. We’re going to go back twenty-three years, to a muggy Memorial Day weekend in 1987. I wasted no time being born; I was out like a shot, ready to explore the world, and I have been growing, impatiently, ever since.
My parents divorced when I was very young. I grew up living with my mother, who steadfastly supported my every step and instilled in me a love of learning and a passion for creativity. As a kid, I sang, I danced, I drew and painted. I wrote plays, short stories and comic strips. I completed my homework diligently and requested extra credit assignments with the kind of enthusiasm that one could only expect from a little girl with stringy hair and enormous coke-bottle glasses. Yes, I was a nerd. I can’t remember whether I knew it at the time, but if I did, I showed no signs of caring. While my best friend decided to ration her time between playing with me and wooing the popular kids, I spent my recess hours creating the perfect scrapbook page on which to display my winning ribbon from the 5th grade science fair.
I have always been a good student, but eventually my love of school gave way to a love of theatre. For eight years, I spent my summers rehearsing for musical theatre productions. Once I reached high school, I spent the academic year in much the same fashion. I played ensemble parts, supporting characters and leading roles. I embodied the dark, moody spirit of the true Grimm fairytales as Little Red in Into the Woods. I portrayed an impassioned young woman with fiercely loyal gang aspirations as Anybodys in West Side Story and a poor Jewish bride fighting archaic traditions and the rising tide of prejudice as Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof. I understudied the gregarious Reno Sweeny in Anything Goes and, in an unexpected turn of events, deftly took to the stage on the night of our very last rehearsal. I managed to perfect the precarious act of balancing my theatrical endeavors with my studies and graduated fifth in my class with a degree from the prestigious International Baccalaureate program in hand.
A few short months later, I was off to the big city. After years of excelling in my English classes and harboring a deep-set love of writing, I had decided that a career in broadcast journalism would be perfect for me. I excitedly began my studies at Emerson College, and was promptly dismayed to discover that I had seriously underestimated my love of the sciences. No more amino acids or cellular pathways or vascular systems? No more valence electrons or resonance structures or hydrogen bonds? No more magnetic fields or gravitational interactions or protons? I could have cried.
Instead, I transferred to Wheaton College and took up a major in Physics and Astronomy and a minor in Biology. I thought that would fix matters. And it did, for a time. I found my creative niche in The Blend, Wheaton’s only co-ed a capella group. I joined the Physics Club and played an active part in fundraising and event planning. I delved deeper into the physical sciences than I ever thought possible. I spent a semester studying biology in Australia and returned older, wiser and more sunburnt. During my senior year, I made the trek to Rhode Island twice a week to attend an EMT certification class in an effort to get a better sense of how science is practically applied. I graduated Magna Cum Laude, with a job offer from an ambulance company in my hometown. I was ecstatic. I had everything figured out.
Of course, life is never quite that easy. There was something amiss in my plan and, deep down, I knew it. While working as an EMT, I spent my downtime reading articles about health and astrophysics in newspapers, blogs, magazines, and anything else I could get my hands on. I missed the classroom desperately, but after spending a college summer in academia, I knew that research wasn’t for me. There was simply too much interesting science to learn about. On a whim, I decided to move halfway across the country to Colorado to gain some perspective.
A few weeks after my big move, I had an epiphany. I had just returned from a long hike. I hadn’t quite adjusted to the high altitude, and the blazing summer sun and ever-present haze of black flies had made my climb all the more challenging. Exhausted, I sat down at my computer and began surfing my usual haunts. As I scrolled along, silently cursing the scientific illiteracy of so many journalists, it suddenly occurred to me that I could do a much better job. I could easily explain the mechanics of a black hole or the physiology of the human heart to the general public. In fact, I had been doing it for years. At Emerson, I had detailed the physics of time travel to a classroom full of actors and poets. At Wheaton, I had elaborated on the emergency treatment of eviscerated tissues to a table full of music students and social scientists. I get laypeople excited about science; that’s my thing.
These days I run Cosmodynamics, a science blog that has received hits from every corner of the globe. By day, I pay the bills. By night, I read and learn, edit and educate. It’s a great life. Even now, lightyears away from the geeky little girl I once was, I still wouldn’t have it any other way. In the end, some things just don’t change.
***
TL;DR version: Dear Boston University, Please accept me. Love, Vanessa
Let’s build a time machine. We’re going to go back twenty-three years, to a muggy Memorial Day weekend in 1987. I wasted no time being born; I was out like a shot, ready to explore the world, and I have been growing, impatiently, ever since.
My parents divorced when I was very young. I grew up living with my mother, who steadfastly supported my every step and instilled in me a love of learning and a passion for creativity. As a kid, I sang, I danced, I drew and painted. I wrote plays, short stories and comic strips. I completed my homework diligently and requested extra credit assignments with the kind of enthusiasm that one could only expect from a little girl with stringy hair and enormous coke-bottle glasses. Yes, I was a nerd. I can’t remember whether I knew it at the time, but if I did, I showed no signs of caring. While my best friend decided to ration her time between playing with me and wooing the popular kids, I spent my recess hours creating the perfect scrapbook page on which to display my winning ribbon from the 5th grade science fair.
I have always been a good student, but eventually my love of school gave way to a love of theatre. For eight years, I spent my summers rehearsing for musical theatre productions. Once I reached high school, I spent the academic year in much the same fashion. I played ensemble parts, supporting characters and leading roles. I embodied the dark, moody spirit of the true Grimm fairytales as Little Red in Into the Woods. I portrayed an impassioned young woman with fiercely loyal gang aspirations as Anybodys in West Side Story and a poor Jewish bride fighting archaic traditions and the rising tide of prejudice as Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof. I understudied the gregarious Reno Sweeny in Anything Goes and, in an unexpected turn of events, deftly took to the stage on the night of our very last rehearsal. I managed to perfect the precarious act of balancing my theatrical endeavors with my studies and graduated fifth in my class with a degree from the prestigious International Baccalaureate program in hand.
A few short months later, I was off to the big city. After years of excelling in my English classes and harboring a deep-set love of writing, I had decided that a career in broadcast journalism would be perfect for me. I excitedly began my studies at Emerson College, and was promptly dismayed to discover that I had seriously underestimated my love of the sciences. No more amino acids or cellular pathways or vascular systems? No more valence electrons or resonance structures or hydrogen bonds? No more magnetic fields or gravitational interactions or protons? I could have cried.
Instead, I transferred to Wheaton College and took up a major in Physics and Astronomy and a minor in Biology. I thought that would fix matters. And it did, for a time. I found my creative niche in The Blend, Wheaton’s only co-ed a capella group. I joined the Physics Club and played an active part in fundraising and event planning. I delved deeper into the physical sciences than I ever thought possible. I spent a semester studying biology in Australia and returned older, wiser and more sunburnt. During my senior year, I made the trek to Rhode Island twice a week to attend an EMT certification class in an effort to get a better sense of how science is practically applied. I graduated Magna Cum Laude, with a job offer from an ambulance company in my hometown. I was ecstatic. I had everything figured out.
Of course, life is never quite that easy. There was something amiss in my plan and, deep down, I knew it. While working as an EMT, I spent my downtime reading articles about health and astrophysics in newspapers, blogs, magazines, and anything else I could get my hands on. I missed the classroom desperately, but after spending a college summer in academia, I knew that research wasn’t for me. There was simply too much interesting science to learn about. On a whim, I decided to move halfway across the country to Colorado to gain some perspective.
A few weeks after my big move, I had an epiphany. I had just returned from a long hike. I hadn’t quite adjusted to the high altitude, and the blazing summer sun and ever-present haze of black flies had made my climb all the more challenging. Exhausted, I sat down at my computer and began surfing my usual haunts. As I scrolled along, silently cursing the scientific illiteracy of so many journalists, it suddenly occurred to me that I could do a much better job. I could easily explain the mechanics of a black hole or the physiology of the human heart to the general public. In fact, I had been doing it for years. At Emerson, I had detailed the physics of time travel to a classroom full of actors and poets. At Wheaton, I had elaborated on the emergency treatment of eviscerated tissues to a table full of music students and social scientists. I get laypeople excited about science; that’s my thing.
These days I run Cosmodynamics, a science blog that has received hits from every corner of the globe. By day, I pay the bills. By night, I read and learn, edit and educate. It’s a great life. Even now, lightyears away from the geeky little girl I once was, I still wouldn’t have it any other way. In the end, some things just don’t change.
***
TL;DR version: Dear Boston University, Please accept me. Love, Vanessa
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
But I've begun to trust the view here.
I've had a great couple of weeks. A little over a week ago, Liz and I went to see the Weepies in concert. It was quite possibly the best concert I've ever been to. Arguably even better than Gaga, but then again, that would be like comparing apples with oranges. Outrageous sparkly oranges with claws. A few days later I had a day off from work and decided to take a drive, just me and the D50. I didn't end up taking all that many pictures. Instead, I drove around the mountains for about six hours, just taking it all in. I ended up in Nederland at a cozy back-country bar, hanging out with Liz and Paul and considering the merits of my life here. Two days later, I was potentially offered a promotion at work. There is a very good chance that if I want it, the job is mine.
Add that to the mix, and it's obvious that I've been having a lot of feelings lately. For those of you who know me well, you know that I hate feelings. I've always been resistant to change, and I think that is half the battle in the decision I'm trying to make here. Staying here much longer is going to change me - in fact, it already has - and that's scary. But when I compare my life now to the way it could have been had I stayed in Rhode Island, or the way it could be if I moved back to Boston, I realize that this may be exactly what I want, but never believed or expected. Being so far away from 90% of the people I know is very hard. Being in a place where I can't seem to do what I ultimately want to do in terms of a career is hard. Letting go of my past and my concrete expectations for my future is hard. It's always hard, and it always will be hard, wherever I am. I'm going to see how I feel when I'm in New Haven this weekend, but right now I'm feeling like I might want to stay after all, at least until May. I have a place to live here, and a pretty good job where I'm making enough money to survive and a potential promotion in the near future, all of which is more than I could say for a life I might create back east. Yes, I may end up leaving in a few months, but I don't necessarily have to worry about that now. I can quit making things so hard for myself. Yes, I'm tired of getting up and moving all the time, but I'm even more tired of not allowing myself to be happy.
In fact, I'm going to try something novel. I'm going to try to stop planning my life out, resisting every change that comes my way. I'm at a point in my life where it's becoming less necessary anyway. I'm going to let myself be "here" right now, wherever "here" might be, rather than worrying about being somewhere else. I might change my mind this weekend, or next week, or next month or next year, but right now all I have to do is ride my bike home, enjoy the sun on my back and the crisp mountain air on my face, take a deep breath, and relax. It's so simple, and I'm very silly not to recognize that.
Add that to the mix, and it's obvious that I've been having a lot of feelings lately. For those of you who know me well, you know that I hate feelings. I've always been resistant to change, and I think that is half the battle in the decision I'm trying to make here. Staying here much longer is going to change me - in fact, it already has - and that's scary. But when I compare my life now to the way it could have been had I stayed in Rhode Island, or the way it could be if I moved back to Boston, I realize that this may be exactly what I want, but never believed or expected. Being so far away from 90% of the people I know is very hard. Being in a place where I can't seem to do what I ultimately want to do in terms of a career is hard. Letting go of my past and my concrete expectations for my future is hard. It's always hard, and it always will be hard, wherever I am. I'm going to see how I feel when I'm in New Haven this weekend, but right now I'm feeling like I might want to stay after all, at least until May. I have a place to live here, and a pretty good job where I'm making enough money to survive and a potential promotion in the near future, all of which is more than I could say for a life I might create back east. Yes, I may end up leaving in a few months, but I don't necessarily have to worry about that now. I can quit making things so hard for myself. Yes, I'm tired of getting up and moving all the time, but I'm even more tired of not allowing myself to be happy.
In fact, I'm going to try something novel. I'm going to try to stop planning my life out, resisting every change that comes my way. I'm at a point in my life where it's becoming less necessary anyway. I'm going to let myself be "here" right now, wherever "here" might be, rather than worrying about being somewhere else. I might change my mind this weekend, or next week, or next month or next year, but right now all I have to do is ride my bike home, enjoy the sun on my back and the crisp mountain air on my face, take a deep breath, and relax. It's so simple, and I'm very silly not to recognize that.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
They've got the urge for going, and they've got the wings so they can go.
I've been awake since about 3:30 listening to the wind howling outside. I've never heard anything like it. I guess winter is just about here. And its arrival has me thinking about where I need to be.
When I decided to move here a year and a half ago, it was because I thought I might want to be a physician assistant. I figured I would establish residency here, take some classes, and eventually apply to grad school down at CU's medical campus in Denver. That plan persisted until the beginning of this year, when I realized that it might not be the path I want to pursue after all. I was no longer sure that moving halfway across the country was such a good idea. I did it anyway. Fast forward a few months, and my goals have changed completely. Does that necessarily change things? No. But let me rephrase - knowing me, does that change things? Yes. Possibly.
I'll cut to the chase. If I'm going to be successful in science journalism, I'm going to need to be on the east coast for much of the foreseeable future. Until I establish myself in the field, I'm going to be tied to one of a handful of locales that actually offer jobs. That means Boston. That means leaving here. If not sooner, then later. Should that matter? No, not really. But at this point, I've been "leaving" every few months for the last five years. I'm tired of it and I'm ready to settle somewhere.
Here's the problem: I love it here. I'm getting comfortable. Colorado is really beginning to feel more like home. If moving back east is really in my future... well, I know myself and that is a recipe for disaster. I'm better off getting out now, while it won't hurt so much. I can't do what I did in Rhode Island again. I can't uproot myself once I've settled in. So as I see it, I have three options:
1. Suck it up. Enjoy the time I have left here, and leave knowing that I made the most of it. It's probably the most sensible option, but it wouldn't happen without a huge amount of heartache down the road and I just don't think I want to put myself through that again.
2. Move back east after Christmas. Live and work in Boston, try to find some sort of writing internship and hope for the best when I hear back from MIT and BU in April. Allow myself to settle down for once without any plan to get up and leave.
3. Let myself get comfortable here with no plan to leave. That probably means letting go of the science writing thing and reverting back to my original goal. Deal with the consolation prize of living in a beautiful, amazing place, oust my inner New Englander and let Colorado take over.
I'm going to be at Yale for the National Association of Science Writers' conference from November 5-8. I'm hoping that I'll come back from that weekend with some clarity. Until then, I'm working on not being so clueless.
When I decided to move here a year and a half ago, it was because I thought I might want to be a physician assistant. I figured I would establish residency here, take some classes, and eventually apply to grad school down at CU's medical campus in Denver. That plan persisted until the beginning of this year, when I realized that it might not be the path I want to pursue after all. I was no longer sure that moving halfway across the country was such a good idea. I did it anyway. Fast forward a few months, and my goals have changed completely. Does that necessarily change things? No. But let me rephrase - knowing me, does that change things? Yes. Possibly.
I'll cut to the chase. If I'm going to be successful in science journalism, I'm going to need to be on the east coast for much of the foreseeable future. Until I establish myself in the field, I'm going to be tied to one of a handful of locales that actually offer jobs. That means Boston. That means leaving here. If not sooner, then later. Should that matter? No, not really. But at this point, I've been "leaving" every few months for the last five years. I'm tired of it and I'm ready to settle somewhere.
Here's the problem: I love it here. I'm getting comfortable. Colorado is really beginning to feel more like home. If moving back east is really in my future... well, I know myself and that is a recipe for disaster. I'm better off getting out now, while it won't hurt so much. I can't do what I did in Rhode Island again. I can't uproot myself once I've settled in. So as I see it, I have three options:
1. Suck it up. Enjoy the time I have left here, and leave knowing that I made the most of it. It's probably the most sensible option, but it wouldn't happen without a huge amount of heartache down the road and I just don't think I want to put myself through that again.
2. Move back east after Christmas. Live and work in Boston, try to find some sort of writing internship and hope for the best when I hear back from MIT and BU in April. Allow myself to settle down for once without any plan to get up and leave.
3. Let myself get comfortable here with no plan to leave. That probably means letting go of the science writing thing and reverting back to my original goal. Deal with the consolation prize of living in a beautiful, amazing place, oust my inner New Englander and let Colorado take over.
I'm going to be at Yale for the National Association of Science Writers' conference from November 5-8. I'm hoping that I'll come back from that weekend with some clarity. Until then, I'm working on not being so clueless.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
on melody and memory.
This morning, Pandora decided to play me a song that I hadn't heard in quite a while, a song that was part of a CD that I happened to purchase during a whiny and particularly crap period of my life. At the time I felt like hell, and while I wouldn't consider this album to be "emo" by any standards, I found it inspiring. I mean, whatever. We all have our moments, right?
The odd thing about this experience, though, was that the song made me smile. Not because I'm a different person now, or because I'm happier today than I was back then, or because it was one of my favorite songs at the time, regardless of ambient circumstance. No, this particular song made me smile precisely because it put me right back in that place. It was a romantic walk back through a bitterness that I can only now fully appreciate. Don't get me wrong - my smile had absolutely nothing to do with what I learned from my mistakes, or the clarity with which I can now reflect on the situation. It was simple, sweet nostalgia for my own overwhelming (and probably overblown) angst.
This has happened to me more times than I can count; a piece of music rolls through me, leaving swells of adversity in its wake, inevitably culminating in a kind of tragic happiness. And it got me thinking about the power of memory. I can only assume that my own troublesome feelings about the past lose their potency as a kind of self-preservation. So that the narrative remains fact, but the feelings become more like fiction, vague flashes of moments that I can rewrite and fill in on a whim.
Does this happen to anyone else? Maybe not. Is any of this rational? Maybe not. Maybe I'm a control freak who desperately needs to be in charge of her own history. Or maybe I'm just obsessed with the fullness of feeling. Either way, it's a response I wouldn't give up for the world.
The odd thing about this experience, though, was that the song made me smile. Not because I'm a different person now, or because I'm happier today than I was back then, or because it was one of my favorite songs at the time, regardless of ambient circumstance. No, this particular song made me smile precisely because it put me right back in that place. It was a romantic walk back through a bitterness that I can only now fully appreciate. Don't get me wrong - my smile had absolutely nothing to do with what I learned from my mistakes, or the clarity with which I can now reflect on the situation. It was simple, sweet nostalgia for my own overwhelming (and probably overblown) angst.
This has happened to me more times than I can count; a piece of music rolls through me, leaving swells of adversity in its wake, inevitably culminating in a kind of tragic happiness. And it got me thinking about the power of memory. I can only assume that my own troublesome feelings about the past lose their potency as a kind of self-preservation. So that the narrative remains fact, but the feelings become more like fiction, vague flashes of moments that I can rewrite and fill in on a whim.
Does this happen to anyone else? Maybe not. Is any of this rational? Maybe not. Maybe I'm a control freak who desperately needs to be in charge of her own history. Or maybe I'm just obsessed with the fullness of feeling. Either way, it's a response I wouldn't give up for the world.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Three months.
What a fantastic couple of weeks. To start with, Sheida arrived two weeks ago. Some highlights from the five days that followed: spending hours upon hours perusing books downtown, running at the reservoir, belly dancing, racing tricycles around one of Boulder's best dive bars, hiking in the mountains around Mitchell Lake up in Ward, building an evening campfire in Nederland, staring up at millions of stars and having deep conversations about our futures, seeing Hubble at the IMAX in Denver, surprise salsa dancing, filming yet another original movie (which can be viewed here, for the curious), tooling around Pearl Street, and of course, eating lots and lots of delicious food.
After she left, I had about a day and a half to breathe. Then my dad arrived. Drove up to Ward again, this time to hike the Isabelle Glacier trail around Long Lake. Incredible. He was nice enough to have my ailing car repaired, so we spent one day exploring Pearl Street and the rest of downtown on foot, poking in and out of shops, bookstores, the beautiful library, and of course, restaurants. We visited the Museum of Science in Denver, saw Hubble (yes, again) and a planetarium show, and drove up to Nederland to watch the spectacularly clear Perseid meteor shower. Another day, we went hiking at Chatauqua Park and stumbled upon one of the most incredible natural phenomena I've ever seen: the Royal Arch. It's an enormous stone archway that frames an amazing panorama of Boulder, the Flatirons, and the rest of the Front Range. The trail made for a fairly taxing hike, but in the end, it was so worth it. Spending so much time with my dad was certainly something new, but it was really great to reconnect. I know he wasn't thrilled about returning to Rhode Island. Both he and Sheida seemed to really love it here. But... let's be honest, it's hard not to.
(here's why.)
Now I have a couple of weeks to regroup and relax before my next series of visitors arrive. I really love having people come out here, but it will be nice to have some time to process everything that has been going on. Apparently life doesn't stop while you're busy entertaining other people... who knew? I'm currently in the midst of starting my applications for grad school. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm incredibly excited, but I'm also a bit overwhelmed too. Not that it's a bad "overwhelmed". In fact, it's the same kind of "overwhelmed" I felt last spring when everything suddenly aligned to push me out here. I'm not terribly high on the idea of having to move back east, but I finally feel like I'm on the right path. Honestly, that's worth all the flat topography in the world. What's funny is that professional contacts have kind of just been falling into my lap lately. It will never stop amusing me, how things just seem to work out sometimes.
After she left, I had about a day and a half to breathe. Then my dad arrived. Drove up to Ward again, this time to hike the Isabelle Glacier trail around Long Lake. Incredible. He was nice enough to have my ailing car repaired, so we spent one day exploring Pearl Street and the rest of downtown on foot, poking in and out of shops, bookstores, the beautiful library, and of course, restaurants. We visited the Museum of Science in Denver, saw Hubble (yes, again) and a planetarium show, and drove up to Nederland to watch the spectacularly clear Perseid meteor shower. Another day, we went hiking at Chatauqua Park and stumbled upon one of the most incredible natural phenomena I've ever seen: the Royal Arch. It's an enormous stone archway that frames an amazing panorama of Boulder, the Flatirons, and the rest of the Front Range. The trail made for a fairly taxing hike, but in the end, it was so worth it. Spending so much time with my dad was certainly something new, but it was really great to reconnect. I know he wasn't thrilled about returning to Rhode Island. Both he and Sheida seemed to really love it here. But... let's be honest, it's hard not to.
(here's why.)
Now I have a couple of weeks to regroup and relax before my next series of visitors arrive. I really love having people come out here, but it will be nice to have some time to process everything that has been going on. Apparently life doesn't stop while you're busy entertaining other people... who knew? I'm currently in the midst of starting my applications for grad school. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm incredibly excited, but I'm also a bit overwhelmed too. Not that it's a bad "overwhelmed". In fact, it's the same kind of "overwhelmed" I felt last spring when everything suddenly aligned to push me out here. I'm not terribly high on the idea of having to move back east, but I finally feel like I'm on the right path. Honestly, that's worth all the flat topography in the world. What's funny is that professional contacts have kind of just been falling into my lap lately. It will never stop amusing me, how things just seem to work out sometimes.
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