A couple of months back, I had a bad
day—a bad week. A bad couple of weeks, really. Obligations stacked, responsibilities
weighed, the future loomed. It rained more than it snowed, and I worked twice
as much as I slept. But that one day
in particular, it was a plateau day. I had hit rock bottom the previous week,
and had since rebounded to a more or less stable place of mindless apathy. I
had successfully convinced myself that I only had to do—to show up, make the
motions, not fuck up—and eventually it, whatever “it” was, would be over.
I came home that night, sixteen hours
after I had left, to a package sitting on my bed. It was a fairly large box,
12x12x18 I might guess. It was light, but something shifted inside of it.
Scrawled across the top was my best friend’s unmistakable chicken scratch and a
stamp saying that the delivery had been delayed due to an incorrect area code.
I fumbled for my knife to open it,
and under the flaps of slightly soggy cardboard, was a gigantic replica of a
strawberry milk syrup bottle covered in stickers of our favorite gear brands
and pictures of us on various mountains. Across the cap was a large slit that
characterized the loud piece of plastic as a piggybank. Below it was a card
that read,
“I got this
sufficiently silly piggybank (someone at one point paid $15.00 for this) as a
token of my devotion to the project.
I have covered it in things that represent things you love and have made it so
ludicrously heinous that you can’t help but notice it every morning (and
hopefully smile a little bit). I have started you off with the change from my
wallet and expect it only to grow by the time I come home. ADD for every day
you might feel like shit/giving up/moving to the Arctic. BUT also add on the
good days as an incentive to keep them coming."
. . .
The
Project, to which she referred,
stemmed out of years of dreaming and a Saturday morning cup of tea. I was
sitting in the living room of my not-quite-homey apartment looking at the
photos my friends in Argentina were posting of their summer adventures. I was
experiencing such an intensely visceral, curl-your-toes-in-your-slippers sense of
longing, but a happy, optimistic longing, that I had to tell someone. So I
called up Becca, not really knowing what I wanted to say. When she answered the
phone, I blurted something along the lines of “Boo, I just, I just need to go
back. I want you to come with me. There is just so much there that you need to
know. Promise me someday?”
She responded, a smile in her voice,
“Of course. Write up a contract. Send it my way. We’ll go”
The contract I sent her later that
day read:
As dictated on January 26, 2013,
At the Speeder and Earl’s café on Pine
Street
Burlington, Vermont
I, __________________________________,
do hereby enter into a soul-binding contract to accompany my dearly cherished
friend, _______________________________, on an adventure of epic and
unforgettable proportions in Patagonia.
We will embark on this journey with
eager hearts and open hands in the intention of seeking out beauty, joy,
challenge, exhaustion, happy accidents, friends new and old, questionable
choices, blisters, sunburns, glacial streams, rough trail, wonder, gratitude,
alpaca sweaters, Fernet Branca, sunrises, sunsets, long views, short sleeps,
and all of the other things we cannot even begin to imagine.
Though the exact dates and locations of
this journey have yet to be confirmed, I promise to fulfill this agreement to
the best of my abilities. Someday. No matter what. Even if I’m really, really,
REALLY old. Or broke. Or sad. Or happy. I will take the time out of my crazy,
busy, messy, beautiful life and spend a moment with myself and my friend and
the universe.
________________________________________________________
Signature Date
They copy she sent back was
embellished with mountains and a few additions to the list of must-do’s.
. . .
Flash forward a few weeks, to me
sitting on my unmade bed, 3 liter piggybank in hand, a softball-sized lump in
my throat. It takes a certain kind of person to keep surprising you, even after seventeen years of the most intimate friendship. It takes a certain kind of friend to give
you the exact thing you didn’t know you needed.
I needed an escape, yes, but I also
needed a reason to stay put. I needed a reason to slog through the bureaucracy
and the bullshit. I needed a reminder that it will all be over, sooner rather
than later, and that the only way to get through it is presence—appreciating
the moments for what they are, moments, and letting them go, good and bad, with
the drop of a coin. I needed to be aware that every day here is an investment
in a future that, while I cannot yet imagine it, is very real, and deserves my
best. But perhaps most of all, I needed to find my joie de vivre.
What tends to happen while living in
Vermont is that I have a habit of taking on too much. In theory, I take on all
of these things because I love them. It probably also has something to do with
my type A personality, inability to say no, and the slight high I get off of
sleep deprivation, but that’s another blog entry. The point is, I take
classes, do research, row, volunteer, and take part in cultural exchanges
because they are things that I love, and supposedly bring me joy. The problem
is that all too often, I lose sight of that, and the activity or responsibility
becomes and end in and of itself. I do school because I do school. I row because I
row. I do research because I have to do research.
Because that’s what I’m supposed to
do. Because it would be unfair and unethical to quit. Because my resume isn’t
sufficiently plushed out…
But
what about the joy?
A few weeks ago we got an unexpected
Tuesday night dump. Without thinking, I posted on a friend’s facebook picture
of the snow, “who wants to play hookie tomorrow?” Another friend responded
with, “I will! Imma call you!”
 |
| Hookie Lunch |
The next day around 1pm, after a morning
row and Spanish class, I found myself carving turns in untracked powder,
smiling so much my teeth were cold. My legs were pretty toasted from 1000m
pieces and moving fresh snow, but the joy was warm and exhilarating and
immediate. Urgent even. I realized, for the gazillionth time, that the
mountains are were I am happiest. It is the place where I feel most myself,
most like the person I want to be.
The person I want to be is happy. The
person I want to be is engaged. The person I want to be says yes, without
hesitation. The person I want to be is fueled by passion and joy, not guilt or
duty. The person I want to be is always seeking, not something else, but
something more.
by—dinners with friends, sunset
hikes, a god nap, a quiet moment alone.
And so, for every good day, I put a
few coins in the bank, and also for every day that isn’t so good. I like to think that joy is the sort of
investment that compounds its own interest.
