Ah. It's THAT time of year again. I've finally left the teenage years behind, and entered the twenties. Scary. And exciting. And somehow, aggravatingly, exactly the same. Last November I took an opportunity to reflect on what my years had made of me, and where I was going next. Allow me to do so again.
A year ago this time is when I started writing this blog, and it was something different then it is now. It was an outlet for my frustrations, a confidant when I was alone for the first time, swept up in campus life; and above all, I suppose it was a physical necessity. I NEEDED to write. To express what I can't in the spoken word. I am hopelessly awkward in person, tripping over my words and embarrassing myself to that degree that the generous call "cute" and the more realist call "dorky." But give me a keyboard (I type faster than I write with pen) and some time and I will churn out something closer to my real voice. The one I'm too quiet to use in the classrooms.
In a lot of ways this blog is still that megaphone for thought, but it doesn't come as easily as it used to. Now it has weight. What I write here helps to correct my language, improve whatever skill I have so that when I stand in cap and gown and wave good-bye to Caldwell, I'll know where the hell to go next. I finally narrowed down my majors from fifteen to two: English and Psychology. Somehow I had the idea that choosing a major gave one a sense of security, a handhold to grasp when someone stops you on the street and says "well...what next?" To any of you college Freshmen, this concept is WRONG. Choosing a major is just one step on the staircase to graduation. And it ain't small. We're talking the grand slopes of Mount Niesen. We're talking the bleachers the track coach made you run fifty times over at practice. Every decision you make in the next four years will open up a host of other staircases, until you arrive at who you are, and what you're meant to be.
Last week in my Lit class we read a poem that summed it better than I could: "On a huge hill, cragged, and steep, Truth stands, and he that will reach her, about must, and about must go; and what the hill's suddenness resists, win so." After reading it I thought seriously about what careers I wanted to look into, and mused to myself "gosh I guess editing would be ok." After talking with a professor and a career counselor, my options had multiplied into the hundreds. What kind of editing? Technical? Literary? Research? Did I want to volunteer as a peer editor? School newspaper? Online magazine? What internships could I find? Who should I start getting to know?
Head spinning, I then veered to the other vague career path, and after the first ten minutes of conversation with my psych professor I realized I'd stepped on another mine of possibilities. Counseling or social work? Working with kids or adults? How many extra years of college did I want? Could I handle the emotional stresses? What training could I get to help people? (And, most frightening for me,) how would I handle it if I failed?
If it's possible, I feel MORE lost now than I did in my Freshmen year. Sure, I've learned how to live on my own, how to balance my homework load with life, how to speak with more confidence to a classroom of strangers. I know not to grocery shop when hungry, and not to cram ten minutes before the test. I've settled into a kind of niche with people I feel comfortable with, and look forward each week to the two places I can be me: my music classes and food bank. But when I'm not delivering food to families or practicing my saxophone or singing, who am I? What will I be remembered for?
While I usually avoid her music like the plague, Mily Cyrus did make one good song. My favorite goes:
"Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb"
I've chosen a lot of Everests to climb this year, from the wonderful guy I am dating, to friendships I have lost, to my relationship with my parents, and being less afraid to try new things. I learn something new every minute, every day. But wisdom doesn't always equal character, and as the one grows and grows I come to question the other with greater intensity. I still feel selfish, silly, and ungrateful...but...I'm still climbing. Hand over hand, inch by inch.
And take it from someone who fell and fell hard last year, climbing feels GOOD.
