My last final was finished. I walked across the forsaken campus towards the cafeteria. The good old man, who has served as meal-swiper for as long as anyone can remember, smiled and wished me a Merry Christmas.
Christmas. My mind jolted upright. Christmas!?!? Was it really Christmas already? I felt like my life had flown by. Wasn't it only two weeks ago that I had gotten off for Thanksgiving? The day didn't feel real either. The omelet line was only three persons long and there was no people in salad. The green leafy spinach mix, broccholi, and tomato were chopped, and taken to the chefs. I watched them throw in onions, peppers, mushrooms, and a tbsp of chopped italian sausage - an indulgence for me. The pan streamed, the eggs cooked. The chefs chatted amongst themselves and small talked with the students. Flip. Feta was sprinkled, and I took the prize towards the table. Somehow, as I picked at the pile of food on my plate, it reminded me of my life: one, big, giant, confusing, edible blob of something.
What does that have to do with anything?
Only four months ago, I started pursuing (finally) an undergraduate degree on the Hill. I was certain, after much uncertainty, that this was what I wanted to do. I had a direct, a major, and though I knew what to expect out of life. I was going to get a 4.0, graduate in Exercise Science, happily marry, and raise a family while also having a successful career. Plus dancing everywhere. I was going to go to Hillsdale, get perfect grades, make all the friendships, do all the stuffs, and be one awesome, incredible, brilliant, outgoing, stunning, successful woman.
SMASH. CRASH. BURN.
My first test score from my Chem exam showed me a nice big C on it. My Athletic Training prof told the class "You might as well quit now if you don't love sports". I was failing my literature quizzes. And I was pretty sure my history professor hated me after I had shown up 40 minutes late to the first class period. I stopped caring about dresses and skirts about day two. I didn't have time to throw makeup on in the morning. I was too busy to be involved in clubs or activities. And everyone seemed to have their lives all figured out and put together while I was barely hanging on. Everything I had planned seemed impossible, and the imaginary life I had built for me was crashing down around me.
So there was I was, a person with many different interests, no talents academically, and four years to figure out what in the world I was doing with my life. A jack of all trades, a master of none. And I wasn't even a jack of all trades; I wasn't even a jack of any trade. It's almost as if someone picked a bunch of random things off a list, like history, philosophy, dance, microbiology, exercise, psychology, and art, and threw them all together into a blog called me without the blessing of being naturally gifted or specially trained.
Seeing the omelet now? Big, eggy, messy blob of stuff?
As I examined my life trying to figure out what in the world I am going to do with it, I realized there was nothing I was particularly and exceptionally good, let alone something I was good at and was passionate about. I knew I couldn't survive math or physics. Chemistry, during to much struggling and misery, was out. Exercise Science due to lack of interest in those classes as well as the four semesters of chemistry required was ought. Biology was eh. History, classics, literature, while all interesting, did not seem appealing as a major. There wasn't a dance program, and I wasn't good enough to get if they did have one. A language or music major just made me cringe at the thought of speaking or playing in front of someone. Theatre was appealing on some level, but I am just not that person; I'm too shy. And what in the world would I do with a theatre major? Psychology was what interested me the most, but as far as career options went, everything would require a M.A. or PhD. Plus I'd want to do clinical, not research, and I would just become more depressed as an individual instead of making others less depressed. That left me with Art. While I have always thought of my sister as the artistic and talented one, I did enjoy the little I do. My art classes while in the city of the Canadian north were some of my favorite classes; I have an entire box of old sketches, and old paintings are everywhere. I miss my lovely crazy-in-the-best way painting/art middle school and high school teacher.
The idea of an art major makes sense me to me. It makes philosophy and dance and psychology and theatre and history all make sense together. It makes a mess of everything look like something. It makes sense of all the hours I spent wandering through art and craft fairs, the times I stole into the college's studio to just be next to paints and easels, and my fascination with movies, children's literature, and people's faces.
While I am not be very good or know exactly what I'm going to do with it, I'm going to give it a shot. I enjoy it, and that's enough for me. I don't need to be perfect at something, and while I may be one mess of an omelet, I'm me. And that's ok.
Omelets still taste good even if they're a mix of everything.
So here I am now, without that perfect 4.0, without being an active part of one club, without any set major, without any solid plans, single and without a real job. And I realize that's ok. It's ok to not have life figured out. It's ok to just live, to focus on now, to take one day at a time, to not know, to not obsess, to not have it all together.
Besides, who really does?
I've been so focused on what I have to do, what I want in the future, that I've missed the little moments which we call the now. Life is beautiful and good now. Life is now. Does that mean I shouldn't plan? No, but goodness knows I already do that anyway. Does that mean I shouldn't worry? No, but not to the extend I do. I'm always realizing this, always coming to this conclusion: live in the now, remember the past, and keep in mind the future.
(Someday I'll write up my philosophical/scientific explanation of past, present, and future..... but today is not that day.)
So the point: live life, and it's ok to be an omelet.
Christmas. My mind jolted upright. Christmas!?!? Was it really Christmas already? I felt like my life had flown by. Wasn't it only two weeks ago that I had gotten off for Thanksgiving? The day didn't feel real either. The omelet line was only three persons long and there was no people in salad. The green leafy spinach mix, broccholi, and tomato were chopped, and taken to the chefs. I watched them throw in onions, peppers, mushrooms, and a tbsp of chopped italian sausage - an indulgence for me. The pan streamed, the eggs cooked. The chefs chatted amongst themselves and small talked with the students. Flip. Feta was sprinkled, and I took the prize towards the table. Somehow, as I picked at the pile of food on my plate, it reminded me of my life: one, big, giant, confusing, edible blob of something.
What does that have to do with anything?
Only four months ago, I started pursuing (finally) an undergraduate degree on the Hill. I was certain, after much uncertainty, that this was what I wanted to do. I had a direct, a major, and though I knew what to expect out of life. I was going to get a 4.0, graduate in Exercise Science, happily marry, and raise a family while also having a successful career. Plus dancing everywhere. I was going to go to Hillsdale, get perfect grades, make all the friendships, do all the stuffs, and be one awesome, incredible, brilliant, outgoing, stunning, successful woman.
SMASH. CRASH. BURN.
My first test score from my Chem exam showed me a nice big C on it. My Athletic Training prof told the class "You might as well quit now if you don't love sports". I was failing my literature quizzes. And I was pretty sure my history professor hated me after I had shown up 40 minutes late to the first class period. I stopped caring about dresses and skirts about day two. I didn't have time to throw makeup on in the morning. I was too busy to be involved in clubs or activities. And everyone seemed to have their lives all figured out and put together while I was barely hanging on. Everything I had planned seemed impossible, and the imaginary life I had built for me was crashing down around me.
So there was I was, a person with many different interests, no talents academically, and four years to figure out what in the world I was doing with my life. A jack of all trades, a master of none. And I wasn't even a jack of all trades; I wasn't even a jack of any trade. It's almost as if someone picked a bunch of random things off a list, like history, philosophy, dance, microbiology, exercise, psychology, and art, and threw them all together into a blog called me without the blessing of being naturally gifted or specially trained.
Seeing the omelet now? Big, eggy, messy blob of stuff?
As I examined my life trying to figure out what in the world I am going to do with it, I realized there was nothing I was particularly and exceptionally good, let alone something I was good at and was passionate about. I knew I couldn't survive math or physics. Chemistry, during to much struggling and misery, was out. Exercise Science due to lack of interest in those classes as well as the four semesters of chemistry required was ought. Biology was eh. History, classics, literature, while all interesting, did not seem appealing as a major. There wasn't a dance program, and I wasn't good enough to get if they did have one. A language or music major just made me cringe at the thought of speaking or playing in front of someone. Theatre was appealing on some level, but I am just not that person; I'm too shy. And what in the world would I do with a theatre major? Psychology was what interested me the most, but as far as career options went, everything would require a M.A. or PhD. Plus I'd want to do clinical, not research, and I would just become more depressed as an individual instead of making others less depressed. That left me with Art. While I have always thought of my sister as the artistic and talented one, I did enjoy the little I do. My art classes while in the city of the Canadian north were some of my favorite classes; I have an entire box of old sketches, and old paintings are everywhere. I miss my lovely crazy-in-the-best way painting/art middle school and high school teacher.
The idea of an art major makes sense me to me. It makes philosophy and dance and psychology and theatre and history all make sense together. It makes a mess of everything look like something. It makes sense of all the hours I spent wandering through art and craft fairs, the times I stole into the college's studio to just be next to paints and easels, and my fascination with movies, children's literature, and people's faces.
While I am not be very good or know exactly what I'm going to do with it, I'm going to give it a shot. I enjoy it, and that's enough for me. I don't need to be perfect at something, and while I may be one mess of an omelet, I'm me. And that's ok.
Omelets still taste good even if they're a mix of everything.
So here I am now, without that perfect 4.0, without being an active part of one club, without any set major, without any solid plans, single and without a real job. And I realize that's ok. It's ok to not have life figured out. It's ok to just live, to focus on now, to take one day at a time, to not know, to not obsess, to not have it all together.
Besides, who really does?
I've been so focused on what I have to do, what I want in the future, that I've missed the little moments which we call the now. Life is beautiful and good now. Life is now. Does that mean I shouldn't plan? No, but goodness knows I already do that anyway. Does that mean I shouldn't worry? No, but not to the extend I do. I'm always realizing this, always coming to this conclusion: live in the now, remember the past, and keep in mind the future.
(Someday I'll write up my philosophical/scientific explanation of past, present, and future..... but today is not that day.)
So the point: live life, and it's ok to be an omelet.
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