Forests of Mediocrity

Enough.

This word on its own seems to say that there is more than necessary. It can also mean not lacking. I guess those two meanings are not the same, but they belong to the same word.

It’s cold today. I don’t know if I’m cold or not, but the wind is blowing and the clouds are encroaching, and I’m buried under many blankets, so I suppose I am at least a bit cold. Cold can come from outside, but cold can also be from within. Today, I think I’m warm enough.

I wonder what it’s like to be a tree. Every day, whether there is much sun and warmth or much cold and wet, a tree can’t go anywhere. Do trees feel cold? I wouldn’t mind being like that; unable to feel cold. But if a tree couldn’t feel cold, can it feel the pleasantness of a trickle of sunshine? A drop of water? A touch of wind? Even if I could find a way to never feel cold again, I wouldn’t be able to live without the feel of the wind. The wind can hurt sometimes, but I know there will always be days ahead when the wind is not so cruel. Maybe I can survive this cold and wet and stormy knowing that eventually springtime will come, and I will once again have a day where I can simply lay in the wet grass and listen to the sun.

What does the sun even sound like, you ask? Literally, it’s sort of like an explosion going on forever somewhere off in space, but I’ve never been close enough to hear that aspect of it. By the time it gets here, that sound the sun makes is lost. There isn’t really a way I can describe how the sun sounds, but it’s sort of like a guitar playing a rapid sequence of chords. That’s why indoor concerts at night seem so out of place; guitars and sunshine resonate better than florescent lights and cement walls.

But is it enough? If I could only ever hear guitar at night indoors, would it be enough? Of course not; guitars are no substitute for sunshine.

Maybe enough is just an excuse for mediocrity. Let us pause and consider how many great things were allowed to remain unfinished because they were, “good enough” as they were.

(has a minute passed yet? No? Seriously, stop reading and think about how many things could have been better if we hadn’t stopped at “good enough”)

But somehow at the end of a long day when we’ve tried so hard to be perfect, but we can’t make it, good enough is a reassuring thought. Good enough isn’t an excuse to not try, but rather a fall back that says perfection isn’t always necessary. It is okay to not be perfect. It isn’t okay to not try to be better.

Sometimes life is crazy and stressful and cold! Sometimes we’ve had enough! That’s okay too. Quitting isn’t always failing. Not if you’re giving up something you can’t finish for something much better. You aren’t a tree, beloved; you can feel the cold.  

When the Sun Glares at the Moon

How does the sun rise so slowly?

It’s just on the other side of the horizon.

When it breaks that frontier, it’ll rise like nothing can ever stop it.

It’s the sun.

But until then, I wait, and the sunrise finds itself

Only very slowly.

Some movie somewhere once told me that sunrises are magical. The first sunrise of the year especially is supposed to be filled with supernatural promise. Easter also holds some sort of miracle in the light that comes up over the horizon. It doesn’t matter whether the sun comes up over the mountains, forests, fields, or city skylines. Somehow the magic that no matter how dark it was, eventually there will be light again is sweetly encouraging, even though sunlight is just long-distance solar radiation from a dying fire off in space very far away.

Maybe that’s why I prefer to talk to the moon.

It’s remarkable that we tend to sleep all night and thus attribute happy times to daylight. Obviously it’s more dangerous to run around at night, and we can’t see as much at night, so daylight would have advantages over the dark when it comes to making visual memories. Sunlight is warm. If warmth is happiness, then loneliness is cold.

The moon is cold, isn’t it? I’ve always thought it was beautiful, but it must also be cold. I don’t remember many nights waiting for the moonrise that were unreasonably hot. I guess there must have been some, but I don’t remember them. The moon rises much more gently than the sun.

I remember the neon orange moon in a rich purple sky. I remember a pale moon surrounded by glowing ribbons of cloud in turquoise and magenta. I remember a shy moon hiding in turbulent clouds, no doubt scattered by the dome lightning and the restless wind. I remember a silent moon gently kissing my eyes after peeking in my window, creeping across the floor and reaching down to my sleeping face. I remember a billion tiny moons twinkling back up from the thick layer of snow in January, so bright it was almost like daylight. I’ve seen the moon hide so well from the reflection of the sun that it snuffed right out and had to be born again as a new moon.

On those nights, when the moon is tucked into shadow and the stars glimmer not brightly enough, it somehow feels cold even if the sun left a ridiculous amount of heat radiation behind before it slipped beneath the other horizon. A lake of darkness creeps up slowly, thrashing against its banks, calling, beckoning. It repeats that the darkness might as well last forever, because 8 hours until sunrise is sometimes too long.

I don’t think it’s the hope of a sunrise that keeps us alive until morning. Life doesn’t seem quite so hard after dawn, but I don’t think it’s because of the sun.

Shizuku told Haru that when people are anxious, they crave physical touch. Sometimes they crave it so much that it hurts. There’s a deep empty cavity somewhere between the heart and the stomach. Human contact isn’t always physical though. Sometimes the sense that other people are awake is enough of a human touch to alleviate a bit of that emptiness. Sometimes the most intimate of physical contact isn’t enough to siphon off any of that anguish. Sometimes there is no acceptable way to escape from whatever it is that consumes us.

It’s no good asking the sun why it didn’t get here sooner.

It’s no good asking humans why they didn’t get here sooner.

The truth of it is, there’s a void that can only be made less bitter by human care. But don’t make them responsible for fixing your emptiness. You can’t handle your emptiness; neither can they. They have their own emptiness. But they can help.

Is there a solution to this even? Here I’ve spent over 600 words describing an awful empty feeling that you’ve most likely experienced or will experience or are experiencing, and there should follow some sort of hopeful sunshine-filled message that tells you that the sunrise is coming so don’t give up and all that.

I thought I had found one.

But the truth is, that day as the sun crested the horizon, blinding me as it glared across the lake, I realized that I could have lost. I could have just slipped beneath the cold waves, thrashing as my lungs protested, until my limbs succumbed to the cold and I couldn’t fight anymore. Suddenly all the cute hopeful messages in the world seemed like the tossed toilet paper when it rains after Halloween.

Dying wasn’t a beautiful thing. Neither was living. It just was.

But somehow the knowledge that I might have never seen it again made the world something more intense than my empty stomach could stand. Suddenly the world was full of unconsidered things. Suddenly I had all the time in the world to consider them, because all the expectations I’d been crushed under didn’t matter anymore. Suddenly I existed, and I could feel the sun.

So, I guess I lied. The sunrise does matter. It’s not exactly magical or anything, but somehow the words, “I’m waiting for the sunrise” remind me that I can’t stay cold, dark, and alone forever. So, you know, stop asking me why I spend all night rhythmically chanting under my breath. Honestly. 

The Best Day Ever

You know of course, that I've already written quite a bit on the topic of nothing. Nothing itself is very difficult to quantify because it is the absence of something. But it's a word we use a lot.

Today I am sitting in a classroom watching students create websites. In essence, I am doing nothing. I brought a book, but I left it in my car. Oops. I have nothing to do. I have no cell reception, and no one I want to talk to is available on chat. I didn't expect to be writing, especially since I have other more brilliant blog posts saved on my home computer just waiting for a Friday so I can publish them. But having already spent an hour coloring, I have nothing else to do but write.

I'm reminded of that one class I took 3 years ago in college. It was "Intro to Computer programming" which was the predecessor to "Intro to Web Design." I enjoyed the professor in that class. She was funny. I don't think I ever got less than 100% on any assignment in that class. The prof wrote to me, "Have you ever considered doing this as your major? There is a great need for female programmers." And, honestly, I would have loved to. It never quite worked out though. Maybe I should go back and try again. I should pay off my current school loans first though. Unfortunately, despite my apparent prowess in designing simple games in Visual Basic, nothing ever came of this.

I wonder what these high school students will do with the knowledge they've absorbed by taking part in these projects and lectures. I wonder how many of the girls will become the much needed female programmers my prof was talking about. I wonder how many of them will never use their computer knowledge and will instead go into a less technical job like childcare or substitute teaching. I appreciate the childcare industry, but I can't help wishing I'd found a way into something more respected. I wish I'd found myself in a place where I go to work every day feeling fulfilled instead of laying in bed til noon checking for job postings until I go to daycare and clean up the lunchroom for an hour every day.

I want to work, luv, but instead I do nothing.

Nothing nothing nothing! I'm tired of doing nothing! I've never meant to change the world or anything, but I hate doing nothing.

I don't want to do too much. In my experience, if I do too much, I find myself filled with anxiety because I have no time to plan and once I get overwhelmed by that, I shut down in what looks a lot like severe depression. Depression is not fun. Not that I care about having fun when I'm depressed, but those times when I'm not depressed are so abruptly contrasted with the times that I am that I wonder who I am at the end of the day. I'm not my anxiety and depression, but maybe there is nothing else?

They tell me I'm wonderful and cute and creative and sweet. They tell me I'm talented and reliable and special and lovable. They tell me I deserve better. They tell me to go for it and take that risk and never stop believing. They're silly, though. I'm only a person, after all. Finding Spirit Bear tells me that psychologists would have me control my grief and rage by letting it go and getting it out of my life, but as the wise old Indian tells the main character, grief and rage are a part of me, and I'll never know peace until I can accept them and learn to use them. Inside Out tells me that I need sadness so that I can experience happiness so much more acutely. But what else is there besides anxiety, depression, grief, rage, and sadness?

There are muffins.

Would you like a muffin? I made 8 dozen of them last weekend and have spent $15 sending them to random people on the internet. I like sending things in the mail. Too bad someone thinks my outgoing mailbox is a garbage can and makes it impossible to fit outgoing mail in the box due to an overflow of misplaced junk mail and hate notes from the postman. Or postal worker. I guess we've got to be gender neutral, although I'm guessing the postman is in fact a she. High school students would remind me that I shouldn't assume her gender.

The color test has just indicated to me that I am 90% female, so I suppose you can assume my gender. Don't assume anything else though. There's nothing.

Next is homeroom. This school calls it Extended Learning Time (ELT), which I personally find confusing, but then, having been homeschooled, I find most norms of public high school confusing. I'm a fun substitute teacher though. You should hire me.

Really, get me out of my living room. Because I have spent too many days interneting.

The Stars in your Eyelids

Someone once told me I had a universe inside of me.

The logic was simple: all one has to do is rub one’s eyes and, voila, a universe appears behind one’s eyelids.

I guess this is supposed to make me feel important.

Unfortunately, even if there is a universe inside of me, it doesn’t mean the inhabitants of the universe like me. They could be imaginary, which means they could feel toward me whatever I wanted them to, but getting involved in imaginary friendships is socially unacceptable in the public life of a 22 year old.

As Wait but Why pointed out concerning how to be insufferable on Facebook, most people have about 10 to 15 people who love them. Lucky ones perhaps push 30. By this, we’re talking seriously care about what you’re eating for lunch type people. Most of the universe doesn’t care that much about you.

It has been a longstanding opinion of mine that we can only have up to 5 favorite things. After that, any additional things either push away the ones we had previously loved, or the new things are themselves neglected. This works with children’s toys, as no matter how many toys a child has, they generally have 1-5 favorites, and they become frustrated when they want to have more favorites, but there isn’t enough room, so one gets forgotten. This works with pets. I lived on a farm with 200 goats. I liked them all, but there were 3 that were my favorites. I kept trying to add more to my favorites list, but all that happened is I replaced an old favorite for a new one.

It’s difficult to have more than 5 really good friends too. Not impossible, but one simply runs out of time to devote to more favorites than this. So one has many shallow friendships. That’s fine. It simply means that just because I’m on your Facebook friends list, doesn’t mean we talk much.

But then you post something like “I would stay up all night to talk a friend out of suicide.” Well, isn’t that a beautiful sentiment. It’s like saying, “I want you to interrupt my sleep so that I can work my magic and reassure you that you’re loved so you won’t want to leave this dirty world tonight.”

I’m not upset with you for posting this, but you do realize that if you had stayed up all night talking about homework, dating, family stuff, movies, or any of the mundane things that go on in life sometimes, maybe I wouldn’t be on the verge of believing that no one cares about my life? I’m not going to call you, mysterious Facebook poster, because if you didn’t care about my life before it mattered, then you don’t really believe that my life matters.

You see, when I’m about to commit suicide and I’m going through my phone wondering if I should call someone, the first person my cursor stops on is the one who went with me at midnight to get pizza for no reason. The next is the person who picked me up when the bus was late and it was raining. The next is the person who offered to buy me lunch for no reason. Finally, there’s the one who surprised me with a thinking of you card. You, Facebook poster, I consider briefly, but I doubt you’d want to be bothered at 3AM. You’ve never answered me when I’ve called at noon…

If you were living in my imaginary universe, I would put you on a planet with the people you actually stay up late chatting with, because they need you.

I would also get myself a full-time massage therapist who charges nothing, because, heck, this is my universe.

The Unquestioned Silent Observer

I lost my voice a few days ago. Three, as of today. If I hadn’t posted about it on Facebook, I’m sure no one would have noticed. I haven’t had a reason say much out loud these days. I don’t go out much.

I don’t want to demean anyone who doesn’t physically have a voice but wants one, but I have fallen in love with the silence this has afforded me.

I realized this when I woke up and tested out my voice to see if it had come back yet. I was not disappointed to hear just a breathy whisper. If it does come back (which is most likely will, as I only have a cold), I confess I’ll be disappointed. It’s not as though I’ve fallen in love with the pain of having a dry throat and raspy communication. I just love the fact that I don’t have to waste my words.

I’ve never been one to care for meaningless banter. I took a class on how to make other people feel comfortable by engaging in small talk. I didn’t do well. I just don’t care. I don’t care for impersonal things that fill the air with waves, but never make it to the heart.

I do not want the world to be filled with deep sounds all the time. I simply want the words that are spoken to be the ones that matter.

What would happen if I was never able to use my voice again?

I could never talk on the phone. I couldn’t be a teacher. No one would hear the delicate difference of my accent in comparison to that of another person’s. Words would be lost to me, and I would dwell in my comfortable world of hazy thought-pictures. I could never sing again, not deep from my diaphragm, nor through my nose, nor in pitches too high for the normal person to not be impressed by, not in harmony that may or may not match up with the current tune, nor in rhythmic chanting, nor in unison with a thousand voices of every pitch, nor in the breathless echo of a rocky river bed, nor in the silence of a dark-swollen forest, nor in the light of a hundred candles, nor in every language and tone, nor for Christmas carols, nor for birthday parties, nor for choir, nor for someone I love when we‘re alone. I would miss singing most.

I wouldn’t wonder why no one was listening, though. I’ve always chosen invisibility as my dream super power because if I were invisible, I would never have to wonder why no one noticed me. If I were invisible, I could spend time noticing other people without being caught staring awkwardly. People are fascinating, you know.

If I had no voice, I could be excused from having to introduce myself to people. I could avoid being pushed out to that place where I feel like I’m drowning. I could deny the necessity of awkward conversations. I could stay in my pleasant observation.

Neale Donald Walsch apparently once said that Life begins at the end of your Comfort Zone. Some people take great comfort in this, and use it as motivation to help them accomplish things they wanted to do, but were afraid of.

I can’t say I find similar utility in this quote. It’s not that I’m afraid of talking to people. I experience anxiety about it, yes. But I don’t think that I am afraid of them, just that I would rather not speak to them. I’d rather not spend that 10 minutes of awkward conversation, the meaningless reverberations of sound falling dead across my eardrums and slipping away to a promiseless, “well, talk to you later.”

People will tell me that I must try. That I must push myself to do things I might not be good at the first few times. That I must act like I care. That I must have friends, community, relationships, acquaintances, family, and love. I must try to speak, to let my voice be heard, to shout from the mountaintops because I think I’ve found what everyone should be looking for. Because I’m right?

What if I don’t think I’m right, but I have no words to describe why? What if there are no words? What if my whole life I’ve been expecting to find myself in society, culture, religion, relationships, ecosystems, academia, or some other institution? What if there are no words, though? What if there never were words to describe what I am or where I belong? What if all those words were meaningless?

With no physical voice, I am able to truly hear.

I don’t have to be successful. I don’t have to put myself out there. I don’t have to be aggressive. I don’t have to have high expectations. I don’t have to be what I have never been good at being. I can simply be the unquestioned silent observer.

Perhaps I’m being ungrateful. Perhaps I am expecting too much support from those around me. Perhaps I’m a burden and should just stay holed up in my anxiety-ridden blanket fort and never use my silent, but still discrete voice. It’s a lonely place, the world with no sound. People assume you have nothing to offer. People hope you’ll get better so you don’t slow down their conversations. People have to stop and stare at you to try to guess what you might mean because all you can manage is a whisper, a shadow of what you might have been able to say.

But just because I’m not what you’re looking for doesn’t mean I’m worthless.