Today was hard.
I woke up at 3am with this feeling of anxiety. It's been happening a lot recently, and I've been embracing it as a sort of early-morning reminder to keep breathing.
Sometimes, life seems to get way ahead of me. I forget to eat. I forget to breathe.
The best part of my day is spent conjuring up inspiration. Just taking a moment to imagine what the world could be like.
I maintained this practice of imagining possible futures when I was in high school. I did it so often, in fact, that it became really difficult for me to imagine anything further than 2 weeks in the future because I had opened the door of all possibilities. At any given moment, I could imagine at least 6 possible futures. What if... yes, but what if....
These days, I have to make space to imagine things. Inspiration has to be set as an intention every morning. I want to say the world is rougher than it was when I was in high school, but really I know that's not true.
The truth is, I am.
10 years ago I ran the Boston Marathon. I was coming off of 6 months of intense training, and 4 weeks of touring around Italy (my first of many European adventures). I was about to graduate, and completely unable to imagine anything about my future. Nothing was certain, but everything was happening. I felt like I was going over a waterfall-- I was completely out of control.
In addition to all the stress of being a high school senior, 26.2 miles is nothing to sneeze at either. They say some crazy things happen to your brain when your body is under that kind of stress. You might think that after a while the physical pain would pass, but it never really does. It just becomes less and less shocking. It was amidst this consistent discomfort that I had a really major breakthrough about the fragile nature of humanity.
Weird. I know. Let me explain:
I was about halfway through the race, when I suddenly started running toward (what I thought) was the nearest T station. Eventually, I coaxed back on course by my running buddy, who assured me that my parents would be waiting for me at the finish line in a few hours. I kept running on course, but I couldn't shake this feeling. The feeling that pulled me away from my path was the realization that life is beautiful and fragile and fleeting.
Life is Beautiful. Fragile. Fleeting.
This was no passing thought. It completely overwhelmed me. It consumed me. I realized that I only had a few years to be alive, and yet it could so easily be wasted with illusions of "doing something more important."
(What if.... What if... )
Finishing that race, 6th form formal, graduation, college, graduation, grad school, job... it all flashed before my eyes in a dull blur. I wanted no part in these "important things." Every single moment is an eternity, filled with possibility. Why was I wasting my time running a race?
What if... what if life is actually something other than all these things?
I finished the race. The pain stopped. I lost all my toenails (ew). But that desire to veer off the path completely remained. It's still here.
When bad things happen, it seems like all the suffering of the world is pouring down on us. Pain is scary. It's incredibly sad. It is also really important to explore. Today, a bomb went off at a wedding in Afghanistan. A car bomb exploded in Baghdad. LAPD probably shot someone a few miles from here. And yes, bombs went off in downtown Boston, in the very same area where my family stood waiting for me to cross the finish line 10 years ago.
I'm writing this post as a reminder of the importance of pain, fear and discomfort. It shocks us into examining what is truly important. It forces us awake, shakes us into looking at what we actually are, and what we actually could become. From this space of fear and discomfort, we can examine our possible futures. What path are we on? What world are we living in? What kind of world could we live in?
What if?
This is a challenge to see the world as it is. It is a challenge to see the world as it could be.
Imagine with me, for a moment.
And then let's get to work.
Showing posts with label young adulthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label young adulthood. Show all posts
Monday, April 15, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
The time I was stuck on the 405 and thought about the future
Los Angeles is a city of extremes. Even after being here for half a year, there are times when I'm still blown away by its duplicity-- the rich hiding away in their mansions, and everyone else below them, struggling to either get there or at least just survive; the striking natural beauty of the mountains and the ocean, brushing up against the cold cement industrialization.
I was stuck in traffic on the 405, on my way to a school in the Valley, when I decided to take a moment and look around out my window. These mountains that look like perfect cardboard cut-outs, stuck to the horizon and looming over the foothills of lush green, all juxtaposed against the immense, sprawling concrete of this place-- they all serve as a constant and beautiful reminder that humans are just a blip on the radar. Someday our structures will all be underwater, or underground. And who knows where we'll be.
I had a conversation with a friend of mine a few days ago about this idea people have of "saving the earth". The truth is-- and I know this sounds odd coming from an environmental activist like myself-- I actually don't think the earth needs saving.
This is what concerns me most about the group I like to call the Leave it Alone Skeptic. They're the ones who almost sound like environmentalists-- They know something's up, they may even admit that humans are causing it. But any action we take as a population is too risky and ultimately pointless because the earth can heal itself.
It seems like we somewhat agree. The primary difference is that I believe that while the earth will continue to adapt, new species will evolve and all the old patterns and species will fade away, and I don't view humans to be above this at all. When I tell students that over the next century we're predicting 20-50% of species to be headed toward extinction, I'm not excluding humans from that statistic. As much as we want to convince ourselves that we are the master manipulators of science, biology and even evolution, the fact remains that we are still animals, dependent on the earth's conditions to remain constant.
I was stuck in traffic on the 405, on my way to a school in the Valley, when I decided to take a moment and look around out my window. These mountains that look like perfect cardboard cut-outs, stuck to the horizon and looming over the foothills of lush green, all juxtaposed against the immense, sprawling concrete of this place-- they all serve as a constant and beautiful reminder that humans are just a blip on the radar. Someday our structures will all be underwater, or underground. And who knows where we'll be.
I had a conversation with a friend of mine a few days ago about this idea people have of "saving the earth". The truth is-- and I know this sounds odd coming from an environmental activist like myself-- I actually don't think the earth needs saving.
This is what concerns me most about the group I like to call the Leave it Alone Skeptic. They're the ones who almost sound like environmentalists-- They know something's up, they may even admit that humans are causing it. But any action we take as a population is too risky and ultimately pointless because the earth can heal itself.
It seems like we somewhat agree. The primary difference is that I believe that while the earth will continue to adapt, new species will evolve and all the old patterns and species will fade away, and I don't view humans to be above this at all. When I tell students that over the next century we're predicting 20-50% of species to be headed toward extinction, I'm not excluding humans from that statistic. As much as we want to convince ourselves that we are the master manipulators of science, biology and even evolution, the fact remains that we are still animals, dependent on the earth's conditions to remain constant.
Friday, January 25, 2013
The time I woke up at 5:30 and drove for 2 hours to the high desert for coffee
OK. It wasn't just for coffee.
But that certainly sounds better than "I drove 2 hours to the high desert to give an assembly on climate change."
But, in typical Jess fashion, I researched a local coffeeshop before I left LA, and drove through the rain, up the mountain to this tiny little coffeeshop with blue couches and surprisingly delicious coffee, arriving 3 hours before my appointed time.
The drive to the high desert is striking. I've seen it in broad daylight, with clear skies and high winds. But this morning, I drove through a rain storm. There is only one road that goes through the mountains, and it's framed by foothills that rise out of nowhere, creating drastic valleys and canyons of light pink rock. The fog was heavy, and while the mountains loomed not far at all on the horizon, they were hidden through the thick shroud until I drove around a corner or down into a canyon and suddenly they would appear, massive and grey and endless. They seemed to be visual echoes of one another, dark blue, then paler and paler in the distance, until you only see a faded outline, thousands of feet in the sky.
For some reason, the scenery reminded me of the small village I visited outside of Naples 5 years ago, around this time. Perhaps it was the drama of the foothills. I spent the majority of my drive reflecting on the courage that was elicited while traveling alone for so long. It's interesting, the layers of ourselves that come out unexpectedly-- rising so quietly that you don't even realize who you're becoming until you're already there, or maybe (in my case) you're already past it, and you look back and realize how brave you actually were. I'm not sure if that makes any sense.
Back at the coffeeshop, I overhear a conversation between three mothers, talking about their children going off to college. One of them tells a story about creating a fake instagram account, posing as a hot blonde from San Diego, to keep tabs on her son while he's away. Genius. and Hilarious. I'm so glad these things didn't exist while I was in school. Kids beware.
Across from me sits a young man, and he's twirling his pen like I used to imagine all my favorite writers would before writing a novel or a poem. I wonder what it must be like, growing up in a town like this. It reminds me a lot of where I grew up, actually, except maybe more depressed. It could just be the rain though. And the lack of trees.
(UPDATE: He was writing a poem.)
But that certainly sounds better than "I drove 2 hours to the high desert to give an assembly on climate change."
But, in typical Jess fashion, I researched a local coffeeshop before I left LA, and drove through the rain, up the mountain to this tiny little coffeeshop with blue couches and surprisingly delicious coffee, arriving 3 hours before my appointed time.
The drive to the high desert is striking. I've seen it in broad daylight, with clear skies and high winds. But this morning, I drove through a rain storm. There is only one road that goes through the mountains, and it's framed by foothills that rise out of nowhere, creating drastic valleys and canyons of light pink rock. The fog was heavy, and while the mountains loomed not far at all on the horizon, they were hidden through the thick shroud until I drove around a corner or down into a canyon and suddenly they would appear, massive and grey and endless. They seemed to be visual echoes of one another, dark blue, then paler and paler in the distance, until you only see a faded outline, thousands of feet in the sky.
For some reason, the scenery reminded me of the small village I visited outside of Naples 5 years ago, around this time. Perhaps it was the drama of the foothills. I spent the majority of my drive reflecting on the courage that was elicited while traveling alone for so long. It's interesting, the layers of ourselves that come out unexpectedly-- rising so quietly that you don't even realize who you're becoming until you're already there, or maybe (in my case) you're already past it, and you look back and realize how brave you actually were. I'm not sure if that makes any sense.
Back at the coffeeshop, I overhear a conversation between three mothers, talking about their children going off to college. One of them tells a story about creating a fake instagram account, posing as a hot blonde from San Diego, to keep tabs on her son while he's away. Genius. and Hilarious. I'm so glad these things didn't exist while I was in school. Kids beware.
Across from me sits a young man, and he's twirling his pen like I used to imagine all my favorite writers would before writing a novel or a poem. I wonder what it must be like, growing up in a town like this. It reminds me a lot of where I grew up, actually, except maybe more depressed. It could just be the rain though. And the lack of trees.
(UPDATE: He was writing a poem.)
Friday, January 18, 2013
That time I moved across the country just because I needed a change of scene...
There is no easy way to begin this. So I’ll just dive in.
I’ve stifled my narrative voice for some time now… most of
my mid-twenties. I’ve kept it on a shelf, next to books on narrative, hoping I could
make myself into an analyst as opposed to some sort of key actor.
But lets not fool ourselves. Life is too short to be
constantly analyzing in the third person.
I have decided to begin for three main reasons:
- Life is more fun when in story form. Particularly adventure story. And while it’s true that I don’t live the most glamorous captivating life, being able to reflect on the mundane realities seems more fun than just turning on Netflix, making popcorn and passing out.
- My post-adolescent whiny phase is over. (I hope.) I left a lot of that in the nations capital, along with the 24th, 25th, and 26th years of my life. While I have intentions to visit the district again, I have no intention of revisiting that angsty area of my life. So if I begin to brood, I give you, dear reader, full permission to yell “snap out of it!” at the screen. And hope I hear you.
- This is the most important reason. I have a terrible memory, and know that there will come a day when I will want to look back and remember what life was like at age 27, unmarried, vegan, hopelessly idealistic, completely broke, in Los Angeles.
So let’s begin with that.
I decided to move
across the country almost exactly 6 months ago. In the span of 2 weeks, I packed up all of my stuff that I could fit into a car, gave away everything else, and drove across the country to a city I've only seen in movies. No I don't want to be an actor/model/musician/famous. I left the District of Columbia and headed to Los Angeles for.... a non-profit job.
Oh hello, Irony.
I’ve been wondering for quite
sometime now when LA will begin to feel like home. I have an urge to buy paintings, bright woven rugs, plants and lamps... pretty much anything I can think of to make it feel more cozy. But buying things isn't really going to help and I know it.
This aside, I am happy. I’m happier here than
I’ve been in a long time, anyway. The sun is always shining, 50 degrees F is "freezing" and I live a mile from the ocean. I get paid to inspire young people to become environmental leaders. 16-year old me would be so proud. It's not perfect-- some day, I'll shoot for something that maybe allows me to eat more than beans and rice-- but it's great for now. I feel like I have a purpose, and that I'm actually working on something that makes a tangible positive impact in the world. That's all I think anyone in my generation can really hope for.
I'm off to make those lentils and rice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)