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I have frequently observed that human beings tend to think within two polarized spheres- hot or cold; light or dark; together or apart. We overlook the middle ground. We over look warm; we overlook dusk; we overlook connected.

Since we overlook this middle-ground, many people feel trapped in the unfortunate situation that if you’re not on my side, then you must be on the other. If you’re not right, then you must be wrong. If you’ve posted about the shootings, you’ve chosen a side. If you’ve posted about police officers, you’ve chosen a side. There are two mutually exclusive sides, one cannot exist within the realm of the other.

And from this line of thinking, I am reminded of another observed tendency of people- we can live as a pack of thieves, stealing ideas from each other. We rummage for answers through rubbish and buy into the idea that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. And when there are only two sides from which to steal, there often is no treasure.

At least to me, one truth remains- we cannot ignore these canaries in the coal mine. The Altons, the Philandos, the Brents, the Lornes- these canaries all carry the same prophetic warning. The world is speaking and the state of the Union is in focus. Tumultuous, explosive danger looms ahead. Do we stop? Do we turn around? Do we forge ahead?

I don’t have an answer. I’m not sure who does. I know it’s not a single answer. I know it’s not a simple answer. I know it will take time; I am sad to admit that I don’t think I will see the change in my lifetime. I know I hope I am wrong. I’m know I am willing to contribute and to try. I know I am confused and heartbroken and I am standing in the middle when society begs me to choose one of two sides. And I am holding firm to the idea that maybe there isn’t a here or there. Maybe we’re together. Maybe there isn’t a right or wrong. Maybe there is just a different. And maybe we can be different from the polarized thinking that plagues our society. And although it’s the notion of different that began shredding us apart, I also painfully hope that different can bring us together- a different way of thinking, a different course of actions, a different dialogue. I hope different be a catalyst for creating, impacting, and imparting a different future.  

Centering

I enjoy that events are so fluid within the shape of our lives. One minute, they are the center, consuming all but the edges, leaving little room for anything else. Eventually, they move to the margins, finding a spot and hugging the edge. The important becomes peripheral and a new tenant occupies the center.

I think back to college when going out to bars and getting drunk with friends on a Saturday night consumed my center, and now it sits in the margin, occasionally making an appearance. I think back to graduate school when grades consumed my center, and now that GPA is barely present within the margins, clinging to its last breaths. The power of their influence vanishes; sure, it nudges and it reasserts itself, but typically the influence stays within the parameters of the edge, unless we choose otherwise.

I’ve observed that often, without even the slightest hint of a challenge, we allow what belongs in the edge to influence the center, providing prime real estate to an undeserving tenant. It begs me wonder, who are we on the edges of ourselves that we allow to define the whole? How often do we betray our whole with the bladed sides of an edge?

I’m not sure if we betray ourselves often, but I’ve done it to myself and I have seen others do it to themselves too many times to consider it atypical.

The thing is, that edge sneaks up on you and it paints with a broad, bold stroke that covers all inconsistencies and convinces you of its validity. What should be marginal becomes dominant. When this occurs- when the edge cuts into the center and attempts to overthrow the rightful owner- suddenly there you are, being only one thing, only one-dimensional, having only one edge, one definition. This edge convinces us. We are only the GPA; we are only the drinking college student; we are only the Type A personality; we are only the affair; we are only the lie we told; we are only the funny girl; we are only the big nose that we hate; we are only the mistake we made.

It can be so difficult to see or be anything else because all you have is that single edge, and while it will sever anything which threatens its own existence, it will never sever itself. And so we struggle. We redistrict ourselves. We re-draw the parameters of our centers. We rebuild; we restructure; we re-evaluate; we redecorate. We figure out how to cut ourselves loose. We do one of the most difficult and scary tasks we will do as a human being- we take control of what seems uncontrollable. To take what you are convinced is your center, your core, the definition of yourself, and to challenge it…that is no small feat. I’ve challenged the cutting, defined edges of my center on more than one occasion. I’ve challenged myself through time, reflection, distance, discussion, acceptance, forgiveness, and a plethora of other tools. Sometimes, I succeed; my center cracks and a new occupant seeps into the space. Sometimes, I just barely dent the center’s periphery, and the challenge continues. Either way, I always come to the same conclusion- the fluidity between the center and the edge is a great asset and a sly enemy, as is with so many pairings in our lives. To understand this relationship is the first step to appreciating the balance between the two.  

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.