On continuity

and shedding our selves

Far too often lately I have found myself feeling quite robotic, as if I’m switched to auto-pilot. I hear “an object in motion stays in motion” bouncing around in my head and I know I resonate with this but I am a human being and I need to rest. I don’t afford myself enough time to reflect. But today I felt called to write. So I’d like to say that I am thinking of the concept of continuity. Continuity as it affects our lives. How it can show that we are growing. Cycling forward. How it validates the reality that we are ever-changing. Learning all the time, we are in a constant state of shift, beautifully adapting to what is around us.

I sometimes struggle to recognize that stagnancy is actually pretty impossible. In every moment, some of my cells multiply and some of them die, and therefore, biologically, even, I am moving forward. As we continue, we evolve. Whether or not we choose to welcome it, to greet it with an open heart… is a different story altogether. We can choose to stay open (or closed) to the growing morphing ever-changing layers of who we are. We can choose to greet those new pieces with deep breaths, compassion, and a lack of judgement. To let them spiral through, to run their course, to let our new selves shed skin along our hallways, to leave socks strewn about. We take what suits us, and leave the rest.

The moon during my walk to class, 11:40 AM

As such, I’d like to share some things that I am evolving toward, cycling through, continuing to do and feel and think and be:

I continue to find myself reorienting toward connection and community but I struggle to push myself into activities. I am living this fierce duality, stuck between desiring stillness and rest and craving connection. I haven’t yet figured out how to allow this duality to exist within me, to use it in practice, to implement it. That said, for professional and personal reasons, I’ve been considering the fragmentation of relationship, of self, and of community, a lot lately. More on this in a future letter.

I continue to feel giddy when I do well on a quiz, or find myself calmer after completing my math homework. None of the people closest to me understand much chemistry, so explaining the excitement I get from understanding molar mass calculations seems futile. Nevertheless, I continue to revel in the pride I feel for succeeding in my studies despite the frustration I face when I’m not perfect at something the first time I try it.

I continue to lean into realizations about my current capacities. I try my best to be realistic about what I can handle, and when. More often than not I get it wrong. I continue to crave rest. I work too hard, and for too long. I do not allow myself sufficient, quality time to refuel. I continue to work toward getting it right the next time.

I continue to lament over the State of Things. The horrific death and destruction both here at home in the midst of hurricanes and floods, and abroad stemming from centuries-old conflicts that are wiping out bloodlines while I eat dinner. As we get closer to that Tuesday in November, my body is alight. I can feel the tension in the air. I dodge the phone calls, the text messages. My campus is buzzing with organizers. I continue to pray that the lesser of the evils will prevail. I continue to pray that the powers that be see reason. See humanity. See the way forward.

I continue to let love in. I continue to allow myself to get swept up. I continue to cry when it hurts. “It” being anything, really. Crying at school, crying at baseball practice, crying in the shower. Life is overwhelming and I’ve been practicing allowance: I don’t need to feel guilty for admitting my truths. And at the same time, life is beautiful. When I wake up to the sun jeweling the amber sycamore leaves that are turning so quickly outside my window, you best believe I contemplate bursting into tears. How could anyone not be dazzled?

I continue to circle the drain of my dreams. This isn’t a negative analogy, just the first one I thought of. I feel deeply about the field I want to move into. The path to get there is curvy and full of potholes. I struggle to access information from a patient source. I struggle to have my calls answered. I continue to inch forward, slowly. Slowly. I know what my dreams look like. What they feel like. I don’t know the path forward, and it may take me a little longer than I’d like, but if anybody with the will can get from Point A to Point B, it’s me.

I continue to wonder what love will look like when I find it again. To sit tight anyway, validated by the fact that platonic love is beautiful too. To be reassured by this. I am in no hurry, but I have love poems I would like to write. I think I may write a book soon, too. For now I continue to let it live up in the air, swimming around me.

I continue to question: who fights for the sea? Who vocalizes for the trees? Who has their shoes off and their socks off and is digging around in the dirt? Who is listening to what the Earth has to say about all this?

Sun setting at baseball practice, 6:40 PM

As I wade around in my life, I would like to admit that I don’t know what I am doing. That I am young, that I am still trying to figure it all out. That I face every day with a disability that people cannot see, and yet I continue to do my best anyway. And I love to be alive, I really do. There is so much (more) to see and to do, there are so many people to love. I don’t even know how to contain it all. I will continue to work to gather it up. To cherish it while I can. To connect with warmth. To correct, lovingly. To sing. To sigh. To breathe. To fly.

And I wish this for you, too.