There is a moment, I think, in every big decision when a person becomes suddenly, inexplicably, uncomfortably self-aware in the decision-making process. It’s a moment at which it seems a mirror had been held up to you and you can see what you look like for the first time — and there is a startling lack of recognition. “Is this me?” you think. “Am I really doing this?” Often the culmination of much anticipation, when the moment comes, it comes quietly and quickly, unobtrusively inserting itself into regular life like an innocuous nightfall. Yet when this moment comes, it changes things, and brings with it the sense of an ending.
It is this ending that preoccupies me tonight. I have developed a terrible habit of clinging to things, of making habits, of finding comfort in routine. Perhaps borne out of my discomfort with chaos, this tendency to hold fast to what is familiar offers me stability and a sense of purpose at times, but also robs me of my spontaneity and makes change difficult. So for me, this moment of self-awareness that comes with big decisions is accompanied by a small, yet vivid alarm.
It’s the same alarm that accompanied the decision to postpone my enrollment to graduate school (an accomplishment toward which I’ve worked for five years) and sojourn to Africa; the same alarm that came when I realized how much money I was spending on airfare for two months backpacking across Europe; the same alarm which followed my decision to quit my desk job. The alarm is hardly a resounding terror, but it is a nagging sense of “Am I really doing this?” that echoes throughout the quieter parts of me.
What I am coming to conclude tonight, however, is that this alarm is simply the herald of my continuous becoming. Change is uncomfortable and difficult for most (if not all) of us, but the willingness to change is an acceptance of growth. And in order to grow, I must accept the ending of the time which I have passed. It is a small, personal struggle, but a worthwhile one. So, in the spirit of offering unsolicited advice that is the apparent hallmark of people who really could probably use advice more than give it, I have some for you.
- Do not go gently. Or, to put it better, do not go blindly. Do not close your eyes to the struggles of your life, especially the intimate and exquisite struggles that happen between you and yourself. These are the moments of growth, and to make a conscious decision to let go of what has passed and look toward what is coming is, in my opinion, one of the most courageous things you can do for yourself.
- Forgive yourself. Becoming a person is the hardest thing you will ever do, and it takes your whole life. You will not — indeed, you cannot — do it without making mistakes, missteps, and generally making an ass of yourself. Forgive yourself for your inconsistencies, and keep walking.
- Have faith. Whether in yourself, a higher power, fate, or the creative agency of your own choices, you must anchor yourself to a conviction of trust. Spare yourself the self-doubt and hold your plans loosely.
- Love. I mean this in its multitudinous forms. Love yourself, love others, love life, love love. It is my firm belief that love binds us together; it is the loom of which Faulkner wrote in Absalom! Absalom! that ensures that it all must matter, that we are not futile, that life is not altogether meaningless. Love is the foundation of hope, and hope gives life its opportunity, its triumph, its light. Without love, we are nameless islands in a starless sky, consumed by solipsism, unaware even of the waves lapping at our shores. Wherever you find love, hold on to it, nurture it, and keep its light in you.
Whatever awaits me in Ghana may not be beautiful, and it may not be happy. But what it will offer me is a chance to continue growing, expanding in my becoming, learning the language of life and love. And, I suppose, as I slowly let go of what I’ve known these past few years, that is the most I can ask of my life.
