Best Laid Plans, Gone Awry
“So grad school is kicking my butt — but in all the best possible ways. I feel myself stretching and growing, my edges pulling tight before they snap into a new shape, eyes wide and mind open. It’s one of the hardest, best things I’ve ever done. I’m loving it so freaking much.” — June 13th
My, what a difference a few months make.
I wanna get this right outta the way: I will not be returning to grad school.
“But why,” you ask.
Valid question. I’ll get to that in just a bit, but first —
Life has been life’ing on a scale like never before. In the last four months I have taken several trips out of town (for work and our yearly family beach stay), juggling all that goes with it like wrangling the dog-and-cats, keeping all lines of communication going with the fam, managing my health (mental and physical), working part time, trying to remember to eat and drink (hello ADHD!), somehow managing time here and there to knit and spin yarn, and (if my husband is lucky) the occasional hot meal at dinner time. We’ve also finished building and closing on our new house in the woods, along with a move from the old place to the new and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Somehow I got through all of it while wading through a sticky semester as a master’s level counseling student — with a 97.64 cumulative average, I’d like to add (because ego).
It’s been a lot by anyone’s standards, but toss in the fact that I am now suddenly caregiving my dying mother from 600 miles away while sifting through another heartbreaking loss, that of our sweet kitty Sir Prudence. Mix in bringing home my mom’s cat and the cliche-but-quite-life-disrupting identity crisis that goes hand-in-hand with sashaying firmly into the land of menopause, and … well ….
I’m just tired.
(so tired)
That's been my life in a nutshell since writing my last blog post. Micro-traumas have been constant and chronic, one catastrophe after another — research paper deadlines mingling with the literal dust of cardboard boxes and the ephemeral dust of sifting through packed remembrances , the breathless weight of all of it, everywhere and all at once, wave after relentless wave, pounding like the raging Atlantic over swirling sands.
Life is suddenly and inexplicably so twisted and complex. I’ve been nudged, shoved, and squeezed into places that I wasn’t sure I could fit into, or even belonged. Built and torn down again. And again.
In the middle of all of this life, as I set out toward a new professional journey with a mind to becoming a really incredible mental health counselor … I learned more about the profession and in doing so learned more about myself.
And I realized: I don’t want this.
What I want is to feel purpose and design a life of soul healing and personal growth. And while I love the idea of helping others do the same, I’ve come to acknowledge (and finally own) that I’ve been going about this “what do you wanna be when you grow up” thing in ways that were entirely misaligned with my truth. As much as I enjoyed the subject matter presented in my grad classes, I simply couldn’t fathom contorting myself (any longer than I already had in my short life!) into yet another version of someone I simply do not want to be.
After forcing me to the ground with its unyielding knee on my neck, reality has finally provided the catalyst I needed to gaze more intently and breathe much more deeply.
“So then what’s next? What’s the Big Plan?”
You know, for the literal first time in my life … I just don’t know. And rather than feeling lost, like I usually do when I have no idea what comes next, frantically clamoring to fill the void with something (anything!) to distract me, to feel purposeful, to claim value in this vast cosmos of existence, I am finally just … sitting with it. I am not pushing forward nor mindlessly plowing ahead. I have arrived at this place where the infinite mystery has collided with the finite reality of my existence.
Limits? Known and confessed.
Talents? Acknowledged and embraced.
Values? Finally discovered and leading the way.
This aging body and soul of mine have approximately 30-ish years remaining on this earth. I don’t plan to waste one second of it doing anything not meant for me.
So I’ve been reading a lot and have a book list longer than the distance around the sun. I’ve already begun a new reading log, and I’ve been diligently taking notes on 4×6 notecards — because one thing grad school reminded me of was my love of learning. So I am determined to pursue that …
And those 4×6 notecards? As a deconstructed-Christian-now-spiritually-curious-agnostic I also learned how very much I miss the connection I once felt to that which is bigger than me — connection to what, I’m not at all sure yet, but I’m thoroughly enjoying the journey of self- and Other-discovery. I’m determined to uncover what exactly it is I believe, not what has thus far been force-fed to or expected of me. I want my faith to be mine, on purpose and well-informed. So I’m brushing up on my knowledge of comparative religion and theological studies. (More to come in future blog posts, no doubt.)
A larger part of the sitting with it involbes my sitting with Little Lauren, traveling back in time to investigate what made her tick, before the world had its way with her sensitive soul …
I’m not at all certain which came first: an anime “The Little Mermaid” VHS my mom rented for me from The Video Store every other week, Seawees bath toys, or the discovery of Daryl Hannah in Splash — or maybe it all just coalesced one summer afternoon in 1984. However it happened, I became utterly obsessed with mermaids. Long before Disney had their way and prior to becoming a cultural mainstay, I had somehow landed in a fantastical water world that swallowed whole my thriving imagination.
I vividly remember the school library shelf, about halfway down on the far right, second from the bottom— the 398.2’s as I later learned to call them: the folklore and fairytale books. It was there, while all the other second graders were busy with the car and truck books (boys) or the Sweet Valley Twins section (girls), that I opened a linen-bound copy of Favorite Fairytales by Greg Hildebrandt —
and I discovered her
This image (right) is how I first met the melancholy mermaid who somehow captured the solitary longing of a 7 year old girl. This was the vision that was delicately etched along the inner boundary lines of my wee soul. She had no name, and I had no concept of “Ariel”. She was exquisite: floating hair, outstretched arms, a curved shimmering tail. And little me with an oversized book in my tiny hands, mind filled with an image of beauty and grace and sorrow which perfectly mirrored the weight of isolation that had already snaked its way around my tender bones. I felt such kinship to her. I couldn’t explain how exactly, but her story was somehow mine: the yearning search for belonging.
In our new house, I now have a home art studio, chock full of all manner of yarns, ribbons, fibers, buttons, fabrics, and assorted and sundry craft’alicious items. It is here I aim to reignite my spark and stoke the fires of joy. On one wall, I am culling together my personal gallery wall. I’ve got a collection of prints I’ve gathered through the years (many of them mermaids), a painting or two from artists and art teachers I’ve known and/or admired, maybe one of my own pieces, and definitely several of my daughters’ works etc.
Last night I purchased an old copy of Greg Hildebrandt’s Favorite Fairytales. I plan to keep it intact for my home library … minus one illustration opposite the title page: this illustration, carefully sliced out and framed for a prominent locale on said wall.
Reminding me of who I was and who I want to be.
