My brother couldn't wait to come home. He started talking about it in mid-October. First he missed the dog, then he missed sitting on the couch watching TV and playing video games. He missed space, he said, and alone-time. He loved school, but he missed home. He missed the way life was before college started.
And then he came home for Thanksgiving. I arrived in Philadelphia an hour after him, and by the time I stepped in the door, he looked as confused as dog did to see us both home at once. "It feels so weird," he said. "It's so quiet." Hours later, he admitted that he missed his friends at college.
What my brother was shocked at was not how different everything seemed, but rather how identical it felt. He had longed so much to return to the way he used to live in the house, and had forgotten that although it's still the same here, he was the one who changed while he was away. "It felt like I was never there," he kept saying about college. His friends at home were the same, they did the same things, they looked the same. They drink more now, and they're better at beer pong; but they make the same jokes and have the same relationships. They love each other the same way.
What's different are the things that are hidden: my brother went to school and started working out everyday, he's taking his school work seriously, he has all new friends. He feels different, I know he does. His friends do too. And yet they come home, and nothing has changed.
I'm three years ahead of my brother. Two nights ago, I went to a bar with a bunch of people from high school. We've changed more than my brother has. We're fatter or thinner, either more or less beautiful, we've traveled, we speak other languages, we hold ourselves differently and we're not as afraid of each other and ourselves as we used to be. And yet my friend laughed to me when I pointed out how different we all are now, "Yeah, but we all interact the same way. We all have the same roles in our group; we're all the same people," he said.
When I think about change, I think about time. I think about how we all move through our lives independently, growing and making choices. Each day in New York, I learn new things, I meet new people, I branch out more and more into the world and into myself. But somehow when we reconvene, we find ourselves unchanged. Home is no longer a haven that moves through life with us, but rather an island in the background that provides us shelter and comfort when we choose to take a break from the real world.
And then there are our friends: those people who will always engage with us the same way. There is that group that, no matter how old people get or what they do or see in life, will always have the same jokester, the same leader, the same type of predictable moments. I find that beautiful, and I find it comforting.
One of my other friends is moving to California when she graduates. Some people seemed angry or upset when they heard, but I told her merely how proud of her I am. And we agreed that our relationship will be the same as it has been in recent years: we will talk on the phone and through email, and we'll visit sometimes. We will never leave the others life, but we won't be in it everyday as we were in high school. Perhaps at this point we're so used to coming back to each other, we aren't afraid to be so far away anymore.
I don't have an answer here; I have no explanation about how to weigh an unchanging past with a nostalgic, yet rapidly growing present. I don't know how we can explore the world and always get back to that same tiny island. I don't know. But I find it beautiful. And I find it comforting to know that it even exists at all.
I've heard it said that writers are often scared of writing. That for writers, writing is like sky-diving or bungee jumping from a cliff. Writing, sitting before a blank screen, imagining your life's work pouring from your fingertips, can cause panic attacks and adrenaline rushes; paralysis from fear.
This is not true for me. I am not afraid to write.
I am afraid when I cannot write.
And I am afraid to not write.
I dreamed a lot last night.
I dreamed about Peer Health Exchange. I dreamed about journalism. I dreamed about everything that's been consuming me for the past three years. And even though I don't think I slept that well--because I was dreaming and if you wake up and remember your dreams, that means that you probably weren't sleeping so well--I woke up feeling rejuvenated. I woke up feeling truly awake. I woke up feeling good, and inspired, and like all I wanted to do was write and organize and...and drive on.
I turned 22 years old over night, exactly 9 hours ago. But maybe I just now woke up. Maybe 22 years after I was born, I truly awakened. Because for some reason today, because of my dreams, because of whatever it was, I feel like I can do anything. And for once, I don't feel paralyzed by that feeling. Maybe it's just a coincidence that this just so happened to me on my birthday; but I'm 22 years old and for the first birthday since I turned 18, I don't really feel so old. I don't feel old; I feel strong. Isn't that weird? I feel strong.
When I turned 11, I remember being in my den and Uncle Tom sitting on the couch and holding up all ten of his fingers and saying "Wow, I can't hold your age with just two hands, I need more fingers." I always remember that because I think that was the first time I really started to feel...age. And I started to understand that as each day went by, I was filling up more and more fingers. And those fingers, well those fingers symbolized less time that I had left.
Last night, at 12:00 when my frist called to say happy birthday, I told her that story, and I said "I'm 22, I'm
twice as old as I was that day when Uncle Tom held up his 10 fingers and said I had grown out of just two hands."
I'm twice as old as that. And if I'm lucky enough to live to 88, I'm 1/4 of the way there. My dad used to say that as you get older, the years feel faster because each year, or each finger, is a smaller percentage of your life; so that one year when you're 5 is 1/5 of your life, but a year when you're 22 is 1/22 of your life, and when your 88, it's 1/88 of your life.
And so each year is going faster I guess. For that reason, I thought I would wake up this morning feeling depressed, feeling like I didn't know what I was doing or where I was going. Feeling old, wrinkly maybe.
Instead I feel motivated. And this day will be shorter than yesterday, because it's a smaller percentage of my life. And this year will go faster than last year. But perhaps I'm running now. Perhaps I'm running because I realize that I'm running out of time, and that everyday is going to matter more and more.
So, through tomorrow, TimeSelect is free. For those who don't know, TimeSelect is the online, paid subscription to the NYTimes that gives access to things like the opinions page, archives and other good videos and blogs that people couldn't see otherwise. Anyway, I think because of the election, they made it free this week.
I beg you to go on there and check out Nick Kristof's stuff. He has lots of amazing video blogs about his trips in Darfur and other parts of Africa. In my opinion, he is basically the leading reporter in the US trying to bring the genocide in Darfur to the forefront of national issues and people's attention. I also think the New York Times has done a very exceptional job allowing him to do that and trying to generate as much attention to it as possible.
Anyway, if you read this today or tomorrow, I urge you to check it out. Go to www.nytimes.com, and then click the link at the top that says "Opinion."
