When people ask me how my semester has been, there is one phrase that jumps out almost immediately: a semester of crises. From a family death to an old friend’s suicide to a month of pneumonia to supporting friends through their own crises to family conflict to the most demanding reading list I’ve ever had as a university student, the list is ongoing and overwhelming. My friend Andrea has a habit of asking me questions I don't anticipate, and she asked me a few weeks ago what I felt like I had learned/God has been teaching me through this semester of crisis. So, here goes…
When I moved back to Canada, I struggled with a strained, awkward relationship with all my extended family. After years of not knowing what it meant to be a part of this family and now feeling like a stranger, I was uncertain of how to proceed and more often than not, avoided contact with them. So, what I’ve learned is that sometimes being family means nothing more than showing up. Overcoming my anxiety about strained relationships and showing up, enduring the awkwardness. My grandmother had been quite ill for months before she passed away a couple weeks ago. I visited her at the end of the summer, when we thought she didn’t have much longer. It was brutal, as she grew emotional at the thought of not seeing my dad/her son one last time (my parents were flying out the following morning). I was inadequate, unqualified in that moment, but I could hang onto her hand, share a smile with her one final time, and let her hug me as long as she needed to.
I also learned about grief this semester. The Rosslyn community, of which I was a part for 5 years, was brought to its knees by the loss of one of its young and beloved previous students. My friends, my classmates, my teachers and I all knew him by name or by personal friendship, and we mourned. Across the globe, in the midst of separate lives and separate worlds. We grappled with the impossible questions of life and its ugly hurts. Later, I lost my grandmother, and attended my first funeral. I was reminded on that day of the flatbed trucks that used to drive by our house in Mozambique, crammed full of mourners, singing to remember their friends and loved ones. We are more structured in our grief, here in the West. We gather in a church, place the family at the front, surrounded by other mourners. I found myself crying that day out of a deeper well of sadness than I had felt in the days after her passing. Crying in front of strangers, crying for memories and loss of physical presence, and crying for who the hell knows what, in the end. I kind of wish we could have filled the streets of Truro with that overflowing well of grief. I was uncomfortable with others’ grief, even with my own, but realized that these deep, dark things need to be expressed.
I learned about my limits. Pneumonia has a way of teaching that lesson pretty well. Turns out, I didn’t learn the lesson well enough. A ear/throat infection and cold later, I’m still terrible at prioritizing my own self-care over other concerns/responsibilities. Oh well, I’ll go get my flu shot and work on that one.
Speaking of which, I learned about priorities. Always prioritize the things that make you feel alive. I flew to Dubai the last week of October to visit my parents in their new home. After a week of jet lag, I ended my stay with a violent throat/ear infection, but I would take the sleepless nights and sickness over not travelling, any day. Keep in mind that I had basically 24 hour access to cuddles with my two beautiful golden retrievers, I’m a creature of travel and adventure. You buy me a plane ticket; you invite me to come visit? I’m on that plane. On a Tuesday night, we took a taxi down to the marina, and I pulled the classic rom-com heroine in New York move, sticking my head out of the taxi window to stare up at the skyscrapers. On Thursday, I watched this insane, extravagant fountain show set to Thriller by Michael Jackson, reflecting off the gravity-defying magnificence of the Burj Khalifa. It was a fairy tale, and I was in love. With the city, its elegant eye for design and sparkle. It was a delight to see my parents so happy and settled in the shadow of this crazy city, finding a vocation and job that match their abilities and gifts. It is, of course, no secret that I’m so proud of all they have done and continue to do, and they continually inspire me with their passion and humour. Worth the infection? Every painful swallow, in fact. I’m excited to make many more visits, and find my place in this new home of theirs. I’m excited to see and do more things in this city that set my imagination on fire.
Speaking of passion (high fives for on point segues), I am learning to not shy away from mine. For the last year and a half, I’ve been co-hosting a radio show with my friend Zach in which we explore topics of personal interest, but of global/local relevance. I initially let my cohost do the ranting and raving, but so far this year I have made impassioned statements on global citizenship, oppressive and unhelpful societal practices regarding women (i.e. beauty pageants), "terrorism” rhetoric in Western media, and most recently, made strong statements re: the use of military drones (shoutout to the American government, I’m harmless I promise, just opinionated). Overburdened by the events of the Ferguson grand jury trial, I completely re-vamped a chapel service I led earlier this semester. Apathy, disinterest or perennial optimism is the disease of the generation of youth of which I am a part, and sometimes, you get sucked into the mentality. But, the world is broken, friends. And we can play no part in making it less broken until we get angry and passionate about it. I am not a loud, or eloquent social activist or advocate, but I want to learn to care deeply about the fates of my brothers and sisters around the world and I refuse to be silent about my concern.
But passion and activism bring me to a consideration of how to channel this energy into a productive and useful career or vocation. So, what did I decide about my future this year? Well, in the midst of my many personal crises, I concocted a ten year plan for my life… She says with a giant smirk on her face. I live in an alternate universe to those with ten year plans. It’s called the universe of the “I think I have this next month/week/day figured out” people. This semester, I realized what I don’t want to do. I’m too young, too free spirited, to do what is convenient and sensible right away. I’m sure I’ll eventually get there. But, maybe I’ll go learn a second language first, or be a professional world wanderer, or do a Masters in literature or move in with my best friend, Beka, and be the coolest best friends to ever co-habitate. Lord knows, really. All that I require for my future at this point is: A. A place that is warmer than Canada and B. Proximity to old, historic libraries that I can get lost in and spend hours reading undisturbed. I’ll fill in the details as I go. My pragmatic friends and family members are shaking their heads as I wax eloquently of my ideals of post-undergraduate life. We’ll see. It’ll be an adventure!
In the midst of crisis, though, you must dance. And so, I bring you the paragraph where I tell you about Taylor Swift and her relevance to my life. My iTunes Library indicates that I have listened to Shake It Off 69 times since I downloaded it… While it’s a catchy pop tune, it’s actually pretty sage advice from America’s awkward, multi-billionaire sweetheart. People will always be petty. They will always draw conclusions about you and your words/actions that do not actually reflect your heart or intentions. You can’t let the illegitimate children get you down (as my friend Rihanna says, loosely paraphrased for my more sensitive readers). People will drag you down for perverse, selfish reasons. Shake it off. Keep moving. Keep loving. Keep making intelligent, compassionate choices. And let the haters hate.
At the end of September, in the midst of one of these crises, I went to a Deep Roots concert and fell in love with the magic of the festival and its featured artists, but I was profoundly moved by a story and song that Rose Cousins shared. She reflected on an experience at some sort of musician gathering and the feeling of community that is inspired by a group of professional nomads. So, she ultimately wrote a song about these people, called Stray Birds (at a play count of 38 in my library, which is impressive considering I bought her EP at the end of September). There’s something about the tradition and stagnancy of this part of the world that makes my wandering feet feel like a bit of a flight risk. People don’t get my comfort with constantly moving between places and worlds. But, much like my passion, I'm learning not to apologize for this part of who I am. My tribe, my people, are out there, living in Portugal, in Kenya, in Texas, in Virginia, in Georgia, in Illinois, or on adventures in far flung regions of the world.
“to the road I’m bound
to the road I’m bound
but love will travel all around
of nothing are we ever sure
cause you and I are stray birds
may my heart be forever stirred
and music be the holy word
and you and I be stray birds”
The Road goes ever on and on, my friends. In seasons of crisis, in season of joy, it goes on. And whither then? I cannot say.
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