You're Never Done, and That's Okay

Here I am, back in my fluffy, blue/white/gray comforter, the year of college and pretend adulthood melting away to reveal that I am still, in fact, a child. I'm thinking about the possible summer jobs I could end up with in the next week or two, and mentally ranking them from "Sure why not" to "never in a million years." I'm preparing to go downstairs and shop for used cars with my dad. I'm imagining my goals for the 3 years of college I have left, and even the weird, foggy possibilities of what might happen after that, and trying unsuccessfully to connect myself with the term "career." And I was listening to Amy Poehler's book on Audible, as my cat snored at my feet in a fluffy ball, and she helped me realize something I should have figured out years ago:

The thing you do is not the thing you are.

You can spend a lifetime (or in my case, a couple school years) struggling, slaving, and reaching for the thing you think you want (two years ago, it was a transcript good enough to merit any school I wanted, including Ivy League, and simultaneous stardom on a high school level; now, it's probably stardom on a collegiate level, including but not limited to: being on the improv troupe and therefore included in the coolest friend group of all time, lead roles in all the shows, the perfectly effortless style, and mild celebrity because of my glowing personality), and two things will happen. 1) you will never actually get there, or have a mountaintop "I made it!" moment, and 2) even if you do, it won't be enough.

And Amy was right. I thought about graduation, and finishing AP tests, and all the times people asked me if I felt accomplished or proud or satisfied that I had "finished." But I didn't, because I think I always knew I was never really finished. You are never actually done. The "end product" will never satisfy you, because it's not the end.

But here is the thing I was missing. You don't have to care about the results of what you do, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't care about the doing of it. There is a difference between valuing how good you are at something and valuing how good the rest of the world thinks you are at it. It's the border between apathy and ambivalence, between careless and carefree. 
This is what I missed for so long. All my efforts meant nothing to me if the Great and Powerful College Board didn't look at me and say "Wow! What an amazing student and person! You are truly one of a kind. Any school would be lucky to have you." But I couldn't stop caring altogether, because then I would be a bad student. I was trapped in a horrible system that I'd constructed myself.

I want college to be different. This week during my end-of-year interview with the theater department, one of the professors told me to "embrace instability." To ignore my ingrained instincts and ability to do a Very Good Job and do what I think is expected of me, and instead not be afraid to ruffle a few feathers if it means finding something new and inspiring about myself.

I say that like I'm going to do it. I might not. But I'm going to try.

Thanks Amy. (Is it okay if I call you that?)

May's Euphoric Flowers

Every spring, I question if fall really is my favorite season. Especially here. After the dreary, heavy, endless New England winter that exhausted even my love of the crisp cold, there's something about the world regaining it's color that is nothing short of magical. It's as if I'd forgotten what certain colors looked like, and all of a sudden seeing gold and cream and magenta and emerald painting the trees gets my head spinning and my eyes popping out of my head with glee.

Even the tiniest taste of warmth is intoxicating. The northern chill still hangs in the air in the form of a sudden breeze or in dim patches of shade, but there are patches of sunlight where even the slightest shadow of cold is banished, and there's nothing but beautiful warmth. My skin is a sponge, soaking up every bit of it that my being can hold.

Soon I will be in bright, humid Virginia where the heat will hang around me like a blanket and lull me into constant drowsiness, but right now it is a gentle pair of arms, lifting me out of my winter slumber, shaking my shoulders and nudging my walk into a skip everywhere I go. It's wondrous.