When living on a small college campus, one must acquire the skill of the nod and walk-by. This is how we as young adults maintain the perfect shallow relationship. You must never exceed the boundaries of a person of little acquaintance by stopping and striking up actual conversation. No, instead distance and brevity are to be valued and awkwardness and unease avoided above all else.
First of all, and most important, there is the issue of distance. Once you are aware of the oncoming near-stranger, you must immediately occupy yourself with studying intently every lizard to skitter across your way, the sorry state of your broken and jagged fingernail that has been snagging your shirt all day, or your phone and the message of great emergency which must be sent out post-haste. Most important to remember at this time is that there is a large chance that your co-agent in this mission has mostly likely spied you as well and you are therefore forbidden to look up until the precise moment. The precise moment can be defined as the point at which you are both able to say upwards of seven words without having to slow or speed up your speech. This usually comes to about twelve feet or three sidewalk squares.
It is at this point that you can look up and give a pleasantly surprised smile as if to say, “Oh, I hadn’t seen you there!” By all means, if you have not yet reached the point at which you can comfortably converse without receiving the blank “Are you talking to me or a bluetooth?” stare, disregard this next set of instructions. If you have achieved this level two standing, you know that you have many greeting options at your disposal, but for the sake of this educational piece we shall focus on the two most commonly used on the typical college campus. The first of these is the simple, “Hey, how are you?” Replies are limited to the quick “I’m good, what about you?” or a comment on how little sleep you got the night before studying for so-and-so’s class. The second option is the edgy, “Hey, what’s up?” The inquirer is not looking for a play-by-play of your day; remember this. Rather, an uncomplicated “Not much” will do fine. While there are occasions where a more in-depth answer would be just as easily accepted, there are no sure-fire indications of this and a misreading can lead into an awkward “Oh. Well, good luck with that.” There are also occasional deviants to this loosely laid outline, and these include compliments on appearance and questions about a mutual class or friend. In this case, you must either begin speaking before the prescribed distance mentioned above or stop at the point of meeting to finish the conversation before continuing onward to your destination.
You must also realize that not everyone has been as well trained as you and so may spill out a story about their personal life. Take note that this sudden insight into their life is not permission for you to make comments containing your actual opinion; they want only for you to smile knowingly and offer empathy or laughter, whichever is called for. Additionally, bear in mind that you also have potential as a muddle maker. Yesterday, I made the gravest of walk-by missteps—I looked up too soon. Salutations were exchanged with the usual quickness and suddenly my acquaintance and I were left with five feet left to traverse in order to be past one another. Finally, after the longest of six-second spaces, I turned off the path and up the steps to my building. It was then and there that I resolved that everyone ought to be instructed on the proper etiquette in this situation that we find ourselves in multiple times each day.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Marble
In a dark, recessed attic corner, I'm sitting on unfinished planks. My mind is reliving 1993. When I moved into this house, number 14 on Virginia Street, I shuttled our box, with its pictures of us, poems by me, and funny gifts from you up the two levels of steps and into the crook of the wall. I pushed the thoughts away. Over the years the box was slowly buried by cookbooks, photo albums, and novels.
Yet today, looking for an extension cord to light my family's Christmas tree, I thrust my hand into this box, hoping for the coarse feel of bound and ridged wire. Instead my hand grazed a small circular object, and curious, I closed my hand, lifting it out. Air freshener. Colorado Cherry in a can. The past rushed over me; slapping my face fast and hard. You were in that box, my piece of your broken heart. I don't blame it all on myself. I know that it was your dad too that piled the fuel and struck the match. One at a time, we sabotaged you and your pursuit of love.
Still, I will never forget sitting in the bed of the Chevy, telling you I was finished. You emptied your face and drove away; I heard the song-- the one you play every time you lose a marble, every time you are left alone. I rode home in Allison's car with the windows open and my tearstained face in the wind. There I sang too, and wished for my tactless words to never have reached the air (I am sorry). Impulsively seventeen. Scared and running away.
Looking down at the can, I remember riding around in the black truck, windows rolled down and cherry-scented air blowing our hair. I think of all your silly nicknames for me and that one I had for you. Hey Hunkaburninlove. We had a song that made no real sense as to why it was ours, and a number and a symbol (It didn't matter what they were because everything I saw made me think of you. Texas, the color red, lemonade, even myself in the mirror- you thought I was perfect- you were always on my mind).
All those things stayed the same for months or maybe years after I broke your adoring heart. But the worst thing of all is that I still can't explain myself, even after all this time. What possible explanation did I concoct for running scared? When I finally grew up I realized that no one is perfect; then I knew you were so close.
Yet today, looking for an extension cord to light my family's Christmas tree, I thrust my hand into this box, hoping for the coarse feel of bound and ridged wire. Instead my hand grazed a small circular object, and curious, I closed my hand, lifting it out. Air freshener. Colorado Cherry in a can. The past rushed over me; slapping my face fast and hard. You were in that box, my piece of your broken heart. I don't blame it all on myself. I know that it was your dad too that piled the fuel and struck the match. One at a time, we sabotaged you and your pursuit of love.
Still, I will never forget sitting in the bed of the Chevy, telling you I was finished. You emptied your face and drove away; I heard the song-- the one you play every time you lose a marble, every time you are left alone. I rode home in Allison's car with the windows open and my tearstained face in the wind. There I sang too, and wished for my tactless words to never have reached the air (I am sorry). Impulsively seventeen. Scared and running away.
Looking down at the can, I remember riding around in the black truck, windows rolled down and cherry-scented air blowing our hair. I think of all your silly nicknames for me and that one I had for you. Hey Hunkaburninlove. We had a song that made no real sense as to why it was ours, and a number and a symbol (It didn't matter what they were because everything I saw made me think of you. Texas, the color red, lemonade, even myself in the mirror- you thought I was perfect- you were always on my mind).
All those things stayed the same for months or maybe years after I broke your adoring heart. But the worst thing of all is that I still can't explain myself, even after all this time. What possible explanation did I concoct for running scared? When I finally grew up I realized that no one is perfect; then I knew you were so close.
Distraction
Sitting on the floor, in what I like to call my corner of Barnes & Nobles, I'm enjoying the quiet that comes from reading Frost and a little Mary Oliver. They often choose small elements of nature for subjects, and so I should not be surprised at myself when I look up and out the window at the clouds.
Today is special because they have this intriguing three-dimensional look. They appear to me to have weight and mass, as if I could grasp them, stand atop their hills. I begin to laugh at myself when I realize that they remind me of the "Land Before Time" series that I watched when I was little, living in Maryland. They give off the same fantastical, far-away vibe, but make me feel as though they were a destination I could reach by lengthy journey. I close my eyes and see myself standing along the top of the great waterfall that first drew my eyes in the clouds. I watch as I let my body tip slowly forward and into the air, my arms straight out and my hair rippling out behind me.
I blink my eyes open and again towards the clouds, only to see the dimension of depth is leaving and nearly gone, and the layers are disintegrating into one another. The tufts that were once piled atop each other forming mountains teeming with drop-offs and falls are separating into nondescript, graying lines that sluggishly cross the coral-streaked sky.
Today is special because they have this intriguing three-dimensional look. They appear to me to have weight and mass, as if I could grasp them, stand atop their hills. I begin to laugh at myself when I realize that they remind me of the "Land Before Time" series that I watched when I was little, living in Maryland. They give off the same fantastical, far-away vibe, but make me feel as though they were a destination I could reach by lengthy journey. I close my eyes and see myself standing along the top of the great waterfall that first drew my eyes in the clouds. I watch as I let my body tip slowly forward and into the air, my arms straight out and my hair rippling out behind me.
I blink my eyes open and again towards the clouds, only to see the dimension of depth is leaving and nearly gone, and the layers are disintegrating into one another. The tufts that were once piled atop each other forming mountains teeming with drop-offs and falls are separating into nondescript, graying lines that sluggishly cross the coral-streaked sky.
During Biology
If boredom were a class...
Then I'd get an A.
As shocked as I am
to be saying a sentence
such as this one,
this class is the rarity
that I'd rather fail.
Every weekday morning,
after a dismal reading
of Goethe's Faust,
I fervently pray,
to whom it may concern,
please deliver me
from such awful tedium.
In foolish past times,
I found it amusing
that my boredom
should lead to embroidery,
and classical reading.
Oh, the folly of pastimes.
A silly thing, truth.
Truth would say
that I've plenty to do
and that downtime
really ought to be valued.
Yes, downtime I treasure;
boredom I give to Goodwill.
Then I'd get an A.
As shocked as I am
to be saying a sentence
such as this one,
this class is the rarity
that I'd rather fail.
Every weekday morning,
after a dismal reading
of Goethe's Faust,
I fervently pray,
to whom it may concern,
please deliver me
from such awful tedium.
In foolish past times,
I found it amusing
that my boredom
should lead to embroidery,
and classical reading.
Oh, the folly of pastimes.
A silly thing, truth.
Truth would say
that I've plenty to do
and that downtime
really ought to be valued.
Yes, downtime I treasure;
boredom I give to Goodwill.
Observing the Doe
Yesterday I wandered off into the woods
of Delaware, behind my grandfather's house.
I tiptoed about conspicuously,
finally stopping in a clearing that caught my eye.
It was circle-like and so filled with light that
I wondered if radiance shone from the ground up.
And as I walked its radius to the center,
I felt as though I tred a hallowed ground.
Reverently I crossed and ensconced myself
in the tall grasses where the sunlight fell down
around the leaves above, painting shadows.
Only a moment...then quick, brave, a doe
darted out, highstepping and classy she was.
With practiced grace, she folded her legs
beneath her and curtsied down to the grass,
the sun, as king, accepting her with warmth.
I watched her, fascinated by the amber frock,
open at the chest, with the creamy blouse
that spilled out in frills. Her legs were so thin
and delicate, down to the dainty heels.
A drowsy peace again overtook the dell.
Had she even seen me? Or had I hidden myself
with seconds to spare? I refused to move
and she lay, alert, in her stolen sanctuary.
of Delaware, behind my grandfather's house.
I tiptoed about conspicuously,
finally stopping in a clearing that caught my eye.
It was circle-like and so filled with light that
I wondered if radiance shone from the ground up.
And as I walked its radius to the center,
I felt as though I tred a hallowed ground.
Reverently I crossed and ensconced myself
in the tall grasses where the sunlight fell down
around the leaves above, painting shadows.
Only a moment...then quick, brave, a doe
darted out, highstepping and classy she was.
With practiced grace, she folded her legs
beneath her and curtsied down to the grass,
the sun, as king, accepting her with warmth.
I watched her, fascinated by the amber frock,
open at the chest, with the creamy blouse
that spilled out in frills. Her legs were so thin
and delicate, down to the dainty heels.
A drowsy peace again overtook the dell.
Had she even seen me? Or had I hidden myself
with seconds to spare? I refused to move
and she lay, alert, in her stolen sanctuary.
Between Classes
I strolled straight out the door,
my mind mulling over my next activity.
Yet, when I stepped from under the overhang,
the sun confronted me, heating my dark curls
and forcing reevaluation of my plans.
I pondered my way to the weathered, gray table.
It is small and square, its bolts rusted red,
and the inbetweeness of its slats choked with moss.
My nose is filled with the smell of freshly shorn grass.
There is an amber wasp navigating the clover,
and the ants are scrambling into each other
as they each carry their own grain of sand
to fortify and secure before the storm.
The clouds too are present in this piece of peace.
But they are so far to the east now
and over me is only see-through blue
with the sun cockeyed in Joshua's sky.
My thoughts are disrupted by the monarch
that is flitting lightly over my shoulder
and around behind me as if inviting me to twirl.
Life, demanding and scheduled, is pulling me harshly
with a gravity I created and now despise.
Goodbye Day, I must return to the fluorescents.
my mind mulling over my next activity.
Yet, when I stepped from under the overhang,
the sun confronted me, heating my dark curls
and forcing reevaluation of my plans.
I pondered my way to the weathered, gray table.
It is small and square, its bolts rusted red,
and the inbetweeness of its slats choked with moss.
My nose is filled with the smell of freshly shorn grass.
There is an amber wasp navigating the clover,
and the ants are scrambling into each other
as they each carry their own grain of sand
to fortify and secure before the storm.
The clouds too are present in this piece of peace.
But they are so far to the east now
and over me is only see-through blue
with the sun cockeyed in Joshua's sky.
My thoughts are disrupted by the monarch
that is flitting lightly over my shoulder
and around behind me as if inviting me to twirl.
Life, demanding and scheduled, is pulling me harshly
with a gravity I created and now despise.
Goodbye Day, I must return to the fluorescents.
Pretend Ease
Andy, when are you going to tell me
what you think about when you drive
with that unfocused gaze that blurs
the three upcoming traffic lights
into the spotted rows of Twister plastic?
Do you entertain wistful designs,
or watch helicopter thoughts collide?
Do you enjoy the silence, or do you
hold your body rigidly still to make me think
that we aren't in a timid awkward moment.
If you asked, I'd tell you what I think.
I wonder if you'd judge it vain that I wish
for all your dreams, both day and night,
to boast a character named Sarah, and
that she makes you move and reach for me.
what you think about when you drive
with that unfocused gaze that blurs
the three upcoming traffic lights
into the spotted rows of Twister plastic?
Do you entertain wistful designs,
or watch helicopter thoughts collide?
Do you enjoy the silence, or do you
hold your body rigidly still to make me think
that we aren't in a timid awkward moment.
If you asked, I'd tell you what I think.
I wonder if you'd judge it vain that I wish
for all your dreams, both day and night,
to boast a character named Sarah, and
that she makes you move and reach for me.
The Disarming
(After Barbey's "Looking For My Doll")
Drip. There it is again.
Seeping up through the floorboards,
and trickling around knots in the walls,
Lost is here.
His spinnerets shoot sticky strands
and his eight legs twirl me round.
I am caught. Where are my wits?
I should squirm, strain the threads,
but Lost also affects passivity.
Sleep.
I am a little girl again,
staring with my neck falling backwards
at piles and stacks of haphazard steps.
Lost has taken my doll and hidden her.
He made me count to ten
and with squinty-closed eyes
I watched him ascend. Up, up,
so fast I could never catch him
even if I could regain my ambition.
Drip. There it is again.
Seeping up through the floorboards,
and trickling around knots in the walls,
Lost is here.
His spinnerets shoot sticky strands
and his eight legs twirl me round.
I am caught. Where are my wits?
I should squirm, strain the threads,
but Lost also affects passivity.
Sleep.
I am a little girl again,
staring with my neck falling backwards
at piles and stacks of haphazard steps.
Lost has taken my doll and hidden her.
He made me count to ten
and with squinty-closed eyes
I watched him ascend. Up, up,
so fast I could never catch him
even if I could regain my ambition.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Who Is That in There?!
As I sat in the little square with netted walls and floor of primary colored balls, I pressed my fingertips against my temples and tried to take deep breaths. “David, please come on, baby. It’s time to open your presents.” He stood and instead, dived again into the sea of plastic. I’d been trying to persuade him out of there for the past eight minutes, during which time everyone else had gathered around the table in the back. What is it about the games at Chuck E. Cheese? Are they really that enthralling that even the allure of presents is not enough?
Every year, my family carts gifts and balloons to Chuck E.’s for my brother, David’s, birthday party. We march single file through the stamping station and receive a picture of the grinning rat’s head, visible only in black-light, on each of our wrists. Here is my question, why the black-light? The only place you can even see your proof of purchase is at the door under that one lamp. Why not use a regular, black or even red, ink stamp? This bothers me.
We continue on towards the back where a table is set up with plates, kiddie cups, and goodie bags. Since one of David’s friends couldn’t make it at the last second, I’ll be the one sitting on the kids’ end with a set of miniature everything. After the tokens are handed out, everyone scampers away to the games, and I am right with them. My favorite game there is called Pirate’s Cove. You use the wheel to steer your ship and pick up treasure along the way. I monopolize the game, putting in token after token. If some persistent kid keeps standing there, I graciously allow him a turn, and then stand over him until he finishes so he knows who is next.
You can get thirty tickets, if you’re lucky, playing Pirate’s Cove. Thirty tickets used to be a lot at Chuck E.’s but now your hard work is rewarded with a mauve eraser the size of a corn kernel. The only prizes that have not changed are the Chinese finger traps; I am convinced they will always cost fifty tickets. They are magical with the spell that encompasses everything in Chuck E. Cheese- no matter how many times over the years you stick your pointer fingers in each side, you still wind up surprised that you cannot get them out.
This spell looks rather powerful when you think through the reality of the great things at Chuck E.’s. Can you imagine what someone from another culture would think, to see us doing the motions to the YMCA song with four mechanical characters that come to life every fifteen minutes? The curtains roll back and they move forward, choppily waving, as they would be whether or not we were sitting there. Seven minutes later, they are back behind the drapes, and we sit back down to our pizza that tasted like it was from Ping’s Pizzeria in the shady part of Chinatown. What was Chuck E. thinking? Everyone knows not to order anything but Chinese from a Chinese restaurant. Anything else and you are just asking for constipation.
Because it is my brother’s party, meaning because we paid an unwarranted amount extra, the “real” Chuck E. makes an appearance. After singing to my brother, the rat forces the YMCA song again. Midway, he sidesteps over to me, takes my hand, and starts dancing with me. Everything was fine and dandy until whoever was wearing that head made it kiss me. He tried to pull that bashful look on like the walk-around characters at Six Flags do, but he was still holding on to me. I make a move to go back to my pizza but apparently we are still dancing. He dips me and kisses me again. At this point, all I want is to know who is in this head! Finally it is over. The rest of my visit is overshadowed by my intent peering at all the employees; I am looking for Mr. Gettin’ Fresh.
We go back to the games a while longer, only to be told that now we are ready for presents. I do not know why it is that we were not ready less than ten minutes ago when everyone was already gathered. I also do not understand what it is that my mom and god-mother have done to be “ready” for presents. I stand there picturing the two of them climbing down into bunkers. “All right!” they scream, “Bring on the barrage!” It is at this point that I am sitting in the ball pit, futilely trying to persuade him back to the table. Of course, the most unfortunate of these situations is the child who refuses to leave the overhead tunnels. Every time I go, I see embarrassed, frustrated parents standing with their necks craned back, trying to talk some sense into their stubborn child through the dirty plastic. The little devil just shakes his head, laughs and disappears into the maze again.
I have finally convinced David back to the presents. We sing, eat the cake, and eventually pack up the kit and caboodle. The motorized characters slide out and start to sing as I look around again at the potential Chuck E. head wearers, and I find no solace. On our way out, we walk beneath that black-light and admire our shiny, periwinkle stamps one last time. What am I saying? We will be back next year, and the year after that, and the year after that.
Every year, my family carts gifts and balloons to Chuck E.’s for my brother, David’s, birthday party. We march single file through the stamping station and receive a picture of the grinning rat’s head, visible only in black-light, on each of our wrists. Here is my question, why the black-light? The only place you can even see your proof of purchase is at the door under that one lamp. Why not use a regular, black or even red, ink stamp? This bothers me.
We continue on towards the back where a table is set up with plates, kiddie cups, and goodie bags. Since one of David’s friends couldn’t make it at the last second, I’ll be the one sitting on the kids’ end with a set of miniature everything. After the tokens are handed out, everyone scampers away to the games, and I am right with them. My favorite game there is called Pirate’s Cove. You use the wheel to steer your ship and pick up treasure along the way. I monopolize the game, putting in token after token. If some persistent kid keeps standing there, I graciously allow him a turn, and then stand over him until he finishes so he knows who is next.
You can get thirty tickets, if you’re lucky, playing Pirate’s Cove. Thirty tickets used to be a lot at Chuck E.’s but now your hard work is rewarded with a mauve eraser the size of a corn kernel. The only prizes that have not changed are the Chinese finger traps; I am convinced they will always cost fifty tickets. They are magical with the spell that encompasses everything in Chuck E. Cheese- no matter how many times over the years you stick your pointer fingers in each side, you still wind up surprised that you cannot get them out.
This spell looks rather powerful when you think through the reality of the great things at Chuck E.’s. Can you imagine what someone from another culture would think, to see us doing the motions to the YMCA song with four mechanical characters that come to life every fifteen minutes? The curtains roll back and they move forward, choppily waving, as they would be whether or not we were sitting there. Seven minutes later, they are back behind the drapes, and we sit back down to our pizza that tasted like it was from Ping’s Pizzeria in the shady part of Chinatown. What was Chuck E. thinking? Everyone knows not to order anything but Chinese from a Chinese restaurant. Anything else and you are just asking for constipation.
Because it is my brother’s party, meaning because we paid an unwarranted amount extra, the “real” Chuck E. makes an appearance. After singing to my brother, the rat forces the YMCA song again. Midway, he sidesteps over to me, takes my hand, and starts dancing with me. Everything was fine and dandy until whoever was wearing that head made it kiss me. He tried to pull that bashful look on like the walk-around characters at Six Flags do, but he was still holding on to me. I make a move to go back to my pizza but apparently we are still dancing. He dips me and kisses me again. At this point, all I want is to know who is in this head! Finally it is over. The rest of my visit is overshadowed by my intent peering at all the employees; I am looking for Mr. Gettin’ Fresh.
We go back to the games a while longer, only to be told that now we are ready for presents. I do not know why it is that we were not ready less than ten minutes ago when everyone was already gathered. I also do not understand what it is that my mom and god-mother have done to be “ready” for presents. I stand there picturing the two of them climbing down into bunkers. “All right!” they scream, “Bring on the barrage!” It is at this point that I am sitting in the ball pit, futilely trying to persuade him back to the table. Of course, the most unfortunate of these situations is the child who refuses to leave the overhead tunnels. Every time I go, I see embarrassed, frustrated parents standing with their necks craned back, trying to talk some sense into their stubborn child through the dirty plastic. The little devil just shakes his head, laughs and disappears into the maze again.
I have finally convinced David back to the presents. We sing, eat the cake, and eventually pack up the kit and caboodle. The motorized characters slide out and start to sing as I look around again at the potential Chuck E. head wearers, and I find no solace. On our way out, we walk beneath that black-light and admire our shiny, periwinkle stamps one last time. What am I saying? We will be back next year, and the year after that, and the year after that.
Death, a Little Love, and Plans
And it came to me then, that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time,
as I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409.
And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself that I’d already taken too much today,
as each descending peak on the LCD took you a little farther away from me.
Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines,
in a place where we only say goodbye,
it stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds.
I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to never have lain beside at all.
And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground, as the TV entertained itself.
‘Cause there’s no comfort in the waiting room,
just nervous pacers bracing for bad news.
Then the nurse comes ‘round and everyone lifts their heads.
I’m thinking of what Sarah said- that ‘love is watching someone die.’
So who’s going to watch you die (Gibbard and Harmer)?
Who will watch you die? Who will sit in a wooden chair pressed against your bedside, soothing you, though they themselves feel their hearts rip another inch with each ragged breath you pull? Who will stay with you, in that chair, even after your heart stops? If love is watching someone die, then who loves you? Are you sure? Do you love them? These are the questions that fill my head each time I hear this song. The lyrics hypnotize me; I sit spellbound, unable to think of anything else. You may think it a bit dramatic, but I wake up some days with those last two lines already pushing their way through the morning fog in my mind, leaving behind a dewy layer of “what-ifs.”
What if tomorrow you decide to get that checkup you have been long overdue for, and the doctor notices an irregularity? “Just a few simple tests” he would say. Then the next week he would call you in to give you the results, which you would think a little odd (why can he not just tell you over the phone?). Then, standing in his office, he would soberly explain the details of the fatal disease he found coursing through your body. Who would allow themselves, knowing this, to begin to or continue to love you if they knew you would be gone in one year, eight months, or six weeks? How much are you worth to people? By agreeing to such a commitment, to love you, a person would be consciously paving the road of their lives ahead for pain, an intriguing thought all on its own. This would require selflessness, bravery, and vulnerability because it would be signing oneself up to watch you deteriorate. I might mention that these three requirements are all ingredients of love. Were it not for compassion, we, as human beings with some animalistic tendencies, would run away from situations such as the one I have laid out here. However, as we do have this compassionate, caring aspect of our make-up, we see that it leads us to an unattractive choice. Our first option is to turn our back and detach ourselves from you, yet because we are sympathetic, we realize that in doing so we leave you to go through the greatest and last ordeal of your life alone. Therefore, in the end we still feel pain, in the form of regret or guilt, though it may be delayed. Our only alternative is to determine to support you, and by doing so, we willingly open ourselves up to the eventuality of the throbbing pain of loss. There is no win in this scenario.
We are an assuming people. I say this because we presuppose that plans are ours to make or break, and because we ignore the reality of unexpected or early death- both the possibility of our own and of others’. Everyone plans, whether they consider themselves to be a by-the-book scheduler or whether they see themselves as living in the spur of the moment. I include myself in this blanket statement. Yesterday I bought a large whiteboard to hang in my room. On it, I have sectioned off areas for each day of the week and filled them with everything I could think of. I have entries in my planner and alarms set on my phone to help me remember all of my obligations. This is planning on a lower scale; in the same fashion, we also plan out our lives. We lay out our careers like we do clothes on our beds when we are looking for the right outfit. We dream of going to other countries and make lists of the things we want to accomplish before we die. What I want to know is if this is a bad thing. After all, what are we, as students, business people, and households without our plans? The disheartening answer is unorganized, boring, and unproductive. On the other hand, what would we do if the aforementioned visit to the doctor occurred? We would be left with a most tragic and disappointing circumstance- a life’s worth of plans and no time in which to complete them.
From a lighter perspective, consider how less stressful our lives would be if we simply lightened our load a little. Our society encourages us to schedule every moment and a scrawled-through planner with plenty of eraser marks is well looked upon. Visualize your life as a piece of notebook paper. Chances are that you have chosen college-ruled so that you have more lines with which you can cram more activities in, and that every millimeter of the page is covered with scribbles. What if we lived leaving the margins blank? Think of not only how much more relaxed we would be, but also of the opportunities it would afford us. By living in this manner, we leave space for the unexpected, time to help others, and time to rejuvenate ourselves.
I do not intend to come across as morbid or expecting to die any day; I merely believe that we when we think about death, we can use it as a catalyst to spark other topics, such as who loves us and who we love, the extent to which we plan out our lives, and the realization that we are given no guarantee on life tomorrow.
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