Strong at the broken places.
That’s what we all hope to be... and I think I am. But these big things that tear down our walls and build them back up again, don’t come around too often. What I wonder about more is whether I’m strong in all the little nooks and crannies of my soul- the chronically tested, water-tortured places in me that, rather than breaking, simply ache.
To get in good physical shape, you have to wake up sore every day until, one day, you wake up feeling great. No pain. Your bone marrow feels strong and clean. I sort of remember feeling that fit, and I would like to again one day. But these days, I’m more inclined to everyday opportunities to use my muscles, like insisting on carrying my own heavy bags even when my very helpful little brother offers to take them. I believe this keeps me strong. It had better, because I'm certainly not out running marathons.
When it comes to emotions, I tend to be a sprinter. Now and then, I launch excitedly into one thing, or free myself from another. When this happens, I do things like stay up late cleaning out my refrigerator. Then things settle and I feel rested, then restless. I begin searching for a new emotional project. I remember when I opened my first acceptance letter to medical school, then the second. Oh, to be wanted! Subsequent rejections couldn't even begin to dampen my high spirits. What did, though? Time. Just as time sculpts grief into nostalgia, exhilaration is replaced with… anticlimax. A month or so later, it has begun to settle in. I got into medical school. That means I'm actually going to medical school. The anxiety I associate with this is my biggest problem. How frustrating is that?
Last week, to get away from this pesky malaise I've been feeling about actually achieving what I set out to do, I baked banana bread and went on a blind date. Those were a great two hours, eating that banana bread. For a weekend getaway, I drove down to San Francisco, a drive I could do with my eyes closed- I breeze by Melita’s Restaurant, an hour and a half down and 5 and a half to go. I cross Grass Lake and sneak past round old Dorris standing guard at the border. This time, instead of frustratedly flipping through the radio for seven hours, I played a mental montage of as many moments as I could remember. I smiled to myself as lost snapshots came back to me- embarrassing, peaceful, lustful, proud, and all of the above.
This weekend was too short, but it was worth twice the drive. I lounged about with my sister and her six adopted children (the four-legged kind) and enjoyed being a witness to the richness of her life. I had tea with my grandma and saw a few close friends, including the high school English teacher who first got me believing I had something to say.
If someone asks me on my final day what the happiest moments of my life were, it won’t be getting into medical school. It’ll be the way my grandma pronounces asparagus (ASPARA-GRISS) and sandwich (SANG-WICH), and how we can still dance a box-step in our socks in her living room like we did when I four years old. It’s the Sundays I can’t begin to count, when we’ve gone to the Goodwill to get her senior discount. It’s watching my sister’s boyfriend give his hands to her as earmuffs during our cold walk around Lake Merritt.
To be honest, I am looking forward to the next big thing, whether that’s medical school or something else between now and then. But whatever that big thing is, the meaning of it will only become clear against this big backdrop of little things. Sure, they can hurt us, or just bore us. But maybe those little aches and pains are simply there to remind us that we are. I don’t need to be strong in each of these places; I am strong because of them.