How to Fill Up

I have started examining the relationships in my life and the complexities, the differences, the similarities, the overlaps, the distances, and the utter awe of them. There are corkscrew curls, linear paths, and hairpin turns creating carefully crossed angles a web of connected communities which humans so badly desire and need.

The relationship-web which scares me the most is the one which I tend to weave myself, and it is the labyrinth of my relationship with my insecurities. It’s where the spirals become dizzying, the lines are deceitful, and the angles suddenly sharp. It’s where my insecurities are throwing only shadows but I am catching punches:

I’m not smart enough, so I’d better decorate myself with degrees and accolades, success and high grades. I’m not funny enough, so I’d better blanket that behind a barrage of jokes and an abundance of broad smiles. I’m lazy, so I’d better paint the portrait of constant work and a fully penciled-in schedule.

And so these decorations, these barrages, these portraits- they all act as Matryoshka dolls, as shells safekeeping the empty, dark shadows of an insecurity. They also carry an unforgiving weight and an unfortunate fate. Their very existence to hide my shadow-insecurities creates the opposing effect; the livelihood of the insecurity is brought into the light and quickly identified by the very shell which encompasses it.

Perhaps this is a truth for all of us. We present our Matryoska dolls to each other, hoping no one will sense the hallowness residing within. We can package our insecurities so well that others have no idea that the gift we provide is nothing but a falsified representation of what seems to be. 

Here’s the thing about those dolls, though. We coat the outside with those accolades, those smiles, and those penciled-in schedules. We spread a veneer so thick that we consider the insecurities hidden, and to the outside world, they may seem nonexistent. The veneer brings comfort. The veneer brings courage. It coats the vulnerability. We trick our self into thinking the veneer is strong and shatterproof, showing not a single chink and conceding to not a single crack.  We bravely and foolishly play cards that our hands do not hold; it’s that veneer that convinces us. We don’t see the chinks, don’t acknowledge the cracks, and we ignore the small starts of detrimental endings.

But maybe when that veneer cracks and peels away, and maybe when the shell which attempts to disguise our insecurity is without the protection of falsehood, the Matryoshka doll starts to crack and chink and chip and peel. And through these small starts, there are inspirational beginnings. We begin to fill the shell and eliminate the hollow.   

The filling up part is difficult; those hollow insides resist. It is by far easier to put more veneer on the cracks and chinks, to work from the outside rather than from the inside. And confronting shadows of insecurities can mean admitting that what once stood so permanently is in fact an illusion. Suddenly, the solidified definition of what ‘was’ evaporates, and we are left empty-handed and blindsided. We must admit that we have fooled ourselves for years. But, oh! We relied so heavily on those doll shells, and their shelter was vast and comforting, always inviting. Now, if we are confronting our insecurities, what will be our cover? How will we prove we are smart enough without the degrees and letters behind our names? How will we know we are funny enough without the confirming laughter of others? How will we know we are busy enough without a day which provides too few minutes? How will we know we are enough? When confronted with these heavy questions, we must fill ourselves. We must fill ourselves with just being enough.

Silence is Golden

I think we often re-introduce our self to ourselves, sometimes fully aware, other times gleefully ignorant of our own presence within. We don’t hear the ‘hellos’ of an inner strength; we are surprised when we remind our self with a tap on the shoulder, whispering, “You can do this!”, and too often we quickly grab the hand and invite in the part of us that breeds doubt.

I started nurturing these thoughts of ‘missed meetings with myself’ at some point in the recent past. I'm not sure when it started, or how, or under what pretense, but I realized that (overall) I’ve really enjoyed getting to know myself for the past year. Meeting and inviting in these new guests wasn’t always easy or enjoyable, and providing the right space and harmonious tension for re-introductions to occur was- at first- difficult to create and sustain.

 

Where I have found these spaces and this tension is in the silent spaces between my thoughts. We all have these silent spaces, and they are easily overlooked, ignored, and often a forgotten place to explore. What I’ve realized is that in these silent spaces between our thoughts, there are parts of our life quietly waiting to arrive. Those parts that are waiting so quietly, so patiently? When invited to arrive, to show up, to perform- they do not fail.

Silence can quickly be pushed out by other noises competing for our attention. The background noises that are normally denied our attention, suddenly see their opportunity for recognition, seize it like Cesar. Although these noises typically know their place in the background, they are well-trained to dominate the forefront when the leading noises are sent offstage. We often train silence to be a feeble understudy, labeled as useless and unnecessary in the acts that construct the plays of our lives. For me, I re-introduced myself to my inner stage mom, and silence was quickly directed as the lead for the spaces between my thoughts.

Within this casting, silence can become its own noise; deafening and reverberating like an airplane. Oddly, this silence can consume our ear space most loudly, and it can consume our ear space with such density that nothing more can get in. It acts as an innkeeper, and often doesn’t leave any rooms as vacanct. Luckily, silence can eventually simmer and actually silence itself. It can switch roles and become an embrace, a welcoming touch, a presence. The silent spaces in-between, in fact, can become the part that silences our self. The in-between spaces become small opportunities. This is where the present stops, the future stands tall, and where we are free to explore our inner “me’s.”  

Within my own silent spaces, I encountered tangled webs; seemingly endless free falls; and cold, unforgiving rock hard bottoms. In a space of silence without borders, boundaries, or bylaws, it can be easy to get lost. Getting lost within yourself when you are your own guide is one of the most terrifying types of lost that exists. When you finally coordinate where you are, it can be easy to deny an embrace from the silence between your thoughts; it can be easy to run from it; it can be easy to get scared, to panic, to sit in an emotional state of harm rather than helpfulness.

For me, these spaces of silence are a vacuum void of color, saturated by a deafening black. When there isn’t any light being shed on anything, though, everything becomes a possibility. This, in fact, may be the beauty of a complete, silent darkness- a space of endless possibilities.

So that little silent space between thoughts- so tiny, yet so encompassing of endless possibilities, that small vacuum that we so often and so easily overlook- I encourage everyone to embrace it. The silence offers a sweetness that goes unparalleled and unrivaled by other aspects of life. Once discovered, it cannot be savored enough.

When Temporary Permanently Expires

As I was preparing to uproot myself and move away, I realized how much the act of moving brings time and its temporary-ness to the forefront of life. Suddenly, weeks are fleeing and leaving behind only days, and eventually the days hand out numbered minutes until none remain and it becomes “time.”

Perhaps this is life, though- a series of moments that are innately temporary but which we are so keenly deluded by their perceived permanence and longevity.

As much as I know that something is temporary, I always still grant it permission to carve out a permanent space in my mind and my heart. It deeply roots itself in my memory and becomes tangled in the roads and highways of my emotions.

I think back to an event which I always knew would be temporary- graduate school at UIC.

I knew that when I began UIC it was a temporary two years. I was on borrowed time and residing in rented spaces. But nonetheless, it became my home. It carved its nooks and settled inside of me so comfortably that attempting to resist it would have been criminal.

There were people there, and places there, and small, tucked-away spaces there…oh, Dr. Suess and the places you’ll go! I considered these things- these people and places and small, tucked-away spaces- mine; I owned them. The Damen and Schiller bus stop was my stop. Locker 152 at the West Campus Gym was my locker. The seat in the front row, slightly to the left in SPH 132 was my seat. In reality, these were shared spaces; others’ ownership overlapped with mine. Someone else is currently waiting at the Damen and Schiller bus stop, enjoying the view of the park and the smell of Stan’s Donuts. Another is using locker 152, playing a combined game of Tetris and Jenga, manipulating and balancing a pair of gym shoes, a lunch, and a school bag inside of a tiny locker. The left-center seat in SPH 132 knows countless notes, naps, and worried frowns of those who have sat there.  So these places may not be mine, but my memory of them is.

Maybe- just maybe- there’s a small, little piece that is mine. Maybe it’s just in my mind, maybe just in my heart, but most likely in both. It was mine for those ten minutes every morning, for the hour and a half every other weekday, and for the 50 minutes every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. I will probably never return to the stop, refill the locker, or settle into that desk again. Others will leave too, their temporary time permanently expired. Those places, though? They are what remains and so will the ownership in our head and our hearts. And that’s life- our time is temporary, but our ownership of the memories- the people and the places, the sometimes small, tucked away spaces- those are permanent.

And so it became “time” on a rainy July morning. My permanent home slipped between my fingers allowing space and open hands for a new residence- Houston. In that time, Texas has passed out its days to me, a number of nights, and some ticked away minutes. I am aware, just as I was at UIC, that parts here are temporary, but for now I’m making the wise mistake of letting them settle in my bones as if they are everlasting. That is, afterall, the beauty of the temporary- it is we who control its permanence.

Gramily (Grad Family)

When I think of graduate school, I always think of my life map. I must confess that I often laugh at my life map- mainly because I don’t think it is a typical one. If you gave a three-year-old a map and box of crayons and let him go to town- that’s what my life map would look like. A few crazy turns, lots of loops, plenty of crossover, and loads of overlap. Nonetheless, I am proud of my life map. It’s covered with a variety of lines, all different shades and shapes. I’ve never been afraid to take a sharp right, follow the hairpin turn, or go down the road less traveled (which, by the way, is the road I’ve paved myself). And when I look at my life map, I always see friends drawn in the various pathways and intersections.

These lines remind me of what I’ve been told throughout my life- if you can count the number of true friends one more than one hand, you’re either really lucky or really stupid. I’m really lucky.

I’ve gained knowledge through lectures, articles, discussions, videos, and conferences throughout grad school and I can tell you, the most solidified realization has been that your cohort becomes a family you didn’t choose but, rather, is linked forever to your life through fate.

Few people will understand the difficult T.A., the late night study session coupled with an early morning class, the unmanageable amount of work, and the disappointment in what sometimes just is.

Fewer people will understand the excitement of securing an internship, the inspiration of a thoughtful lecture, the triumph of a final presentation, or the hours in a coffee shop broken by the smiles and chatter of friends.

These people? They will go to Hell and back with you and will do it with smiles, laughs, and the windows down the entire time. These are your graduate school friends. The ones who- when you are so tightly wrapped in the possibility of a perceived personal failure- can unwind you. The ones who understand that your lows are temporary and your highs are solidly representative of whom you truly are. The ones who will always tell you it will work out and who are always right.

I think that we often associate a thick black line with something negative, something finished, something forever removed. But thick black lines aren’t always ugly. On my life map, they are the ones that connect us; the ones that can’t be erased, covered up, or broken; the roads that bind us to each other for life. So, as I navigate graduate school, the three-year-old in charge of my life map has a thick black crayon and is scribbling away…and never has that thick black line looked so good.

Our Past

Life changes and what was once your constant suddenly becomes your past.  After this shift- whether occurring quickly or slowly-  we’re often left standing by ourselves with the sudden realization that the little things from that aspect of our life no longer require daily upkeeping.  Rather they demand to be put away and thought of again only every once-in-a-while...to be a memory of “what was” and no longer a part of “what is.”

With these shifts into ‘what was,’ the past often becomes categorized.  We take from the  fond category to plaster a smile onto our faces; the nostalgic category to warm a cold heart any time; the happy category to push a hidden laugh from our soul. I am always amazed at the powerful influence of a memory- of our past.  

For the past few months, I’ve been stuck in the betrayal memory category.  There’s not much good about the betrayal category- often the smallest of memories located there are the heaviest we carry.  This weight often greatly affects us and obviously tacks on so many other price tags. We are left feeling alone, with no where to go, waiting around for change.  Its grips are tight and rob us of not only our present, but also our future.  What a terrible trade-off: one bad memory in exchange for the many presently being made and those to be acquired later.  

We wait for change to occur in the betrayal category because we feel like the victim. We feel helpless- whether betrayed by someone else or by ourselves.  When you’re there, you are tricked into believing that time alone will clear up this memory.  “Just wait.  It will pass.  Things will change.  You won’t feel betrayed anymore.”  Hours slip into days, days into weeks, weeks into months..and yet you’re still sitting down with betrayal right by your side...waiting...counting on time, for betrayal needs time as much as you do.  The longer you believe in it, the longer betrayal has you for company.

The great thing about time, though?  It really does work.  You gain knowledge.  You gain perspective.  You gain the desire to place that memory into a new category- the broadest category- the category of “just the past.” It may be remembered, it may be forgotten, but one thing is for certain- it is no longer a memory that you choose to hold close to your heart.  When it’s no longer close to your heart, you have the ability to take a few wobbly steps away from it, towards the present.  The steps turn in a walk and eventually a run until you can look back and realize that it wasn’t the devil on your back that entire time, it was just your past holding your back.  It wasn’t all of the heavy things you thought it was- it just was. 

I can’t tell you the memory I decided to re-categorize; it wouldn’t be classy.  But I can tell you this- the day I picked it up and said, “You are no longer welcome here” was the day life became living again. The removal of betrayal and the return of hope allows so much to occur.  Hope is the lightest thing we will ever carry.  It doesn’t make us delusional or ignorant.  It doesn’t make us blindly optimistic.  It makes us trust the unknown that is life.  It makes us believe that because of where we are today, we can handle what will come tomorrow.  It makes us human.