Morning Crises and other thoughts over coffee

 I’ve recently had an accident. Typical and Mundane; an accident nonetheless. 

Accidents are interesting even when they are Typical and Mundane. I fell off my bike. I did that when I was 5 as well. What is new about this accident is the way I approached recovery–that forced period of your life when everything is uprooted and you have no choice but to stare into the void and think “what the hell am I doing with myself?” 

Periods such as these I find to be incredibly formative. I have had a few. My first was tearing up my knee in soccer during my sophomore year of high school. With no health insurance and no plan of action to get back to the field, I was forced to reconsider my priorities. I realized, you cannot have your cake and eat it too. I stopped double dipping my athletic abilities and my natural tendencies in school. I took one direction and learned to run with it. I did the very best I possibly could. I learned that to do one thing at 100% is more efficacious than doing multiple things half-assed. 

In my third year of college, I herniated two discs in my back at a job I loved. This was a reckoning. I went from the best shape of my life to a shadow of what I once was and I truly never got to the same functionality as I was pre-injury. I took that next summer to hike, explore, and develop a sense of independence again. This was brutality. I found that the way I interact with my body should be focused more on preservation and movement rather than what it could look like if I stressed it enough. My bodybuilding days were over and I found that there is a special kind of knowledge in realizing that your body is capable of doing so much more for you than just looking pretty. A thought that has plagued my mind since I was 12. 

I sprained (yes, just a sprain) my ankle last October. It was the day I met my boyfriend, now my future husband (eventually). I was not particularly active at this point in my life. I accepted an office job that I felt too undervalued for the pay they gave me. I went to work the next Monday in red ballet flats and a wrap around my ankle. Literally hobbling in the office.  And I realized that I deserved more. I deserved more responsibility, I deserved an environment that educated. I deserved to know what the next few years of my life would look like if I stayed. Thus, I uprooted once more–I owe a lot to that ankle sprain. I began to use my brain again because of it. 

Clearly, I have a point to make. 

I am struggling with who I want to be. I read old essays and some of my blog posts (because I am conceited) and think “what could this be if it was cultivated?” And I feel a sense of remorse. True and Utter Remorse. 

We regret the things we do not do in this life. I will regret not doing better in college, but I will never regret at least attempting to go in to Professor Watkins’ office and crying after realizing my dreams were indeed pie in the sky. Because at least I did it. My identity will one day be wrapped up in a ball of things that I did and did not do. I will be known for preconceptions of myself and will eventually have no control over it. Will I be known as Attorney? Wife? Mother? Am I coping? 

I want to be known for the things that I love. I love my Tyler. I love being outside. I love reading and the written word. I love philosophy and the sacredness of those incredible thoughts on paper. I love the magic that comes with exploring. I love science and analysis. 

So, I am in a period of reckoning. I am not anything other than the things I love and the things that I value. As I sit here writing, reading, injured, and passing time, I wonder how to be better and how to seek Truth in a way that is fundamental to me. Do you call this an identity crisis or do you call this paralyzed by potential? Worse, do you call this cope?

When I say that I am “exploring my options” or that I am just “not convicted enough” does this translate to laziness or comfortability? How do you even know? Is there a sense of ego in the inability to admit that maybe the path well-traveled is actually the better path?

And then there is the melancholy of “what if?” The gutted and hallow feeling of picking just one fig off of a tree that represents being paralyzed by the potential of all “what ifs” that have ever crossed my mind. And yet, simultaneous to melancholy, there is a hope and beauty in knowing my tree is growing. And figs may go ripe and fall to the ground, becoming inedible in the process; but, there is something rewarding about being discerning. Having the ability to not make decisions just because the fig will go bad if I don’t eat it now. Is that enough of a reason to choose it? 

And so now I spend my days curious. I don’t always pick a fig, but when I do it is out of a lust for curiosity rather than necessity. I consider this a privilege. My identity may one day be all of the things I have and have not done, but it will similarly be defined by curiosity and desire. I do not believe this to be cope. At least not at this particular moment. But it is a very fine line. Not doing something because it is “too hard” is different from not doing something because there may in fact be better ways to spend your time. This is the trouble with curiosity. This is also the trouble with knowing yourself. 

These things I do consider to be a privilege. It is a privilege to have the opportunity to climb the fig tree rather than pick the closest available fruit. It is a privilege to sit on its branches rather than swing from them unsteadily and grasp out of fear. It is also a privilege to be injured in a way that forces me to think about these things. 

So what I leave you with, dear Audience, climb the tree. Pick a fruit. Not because you have to, but because you can. Fruit will go bad, some will never fully ripen. And that just has to be okay. But be curious enough to see what could happen. And maybe don’t let an injury force you into curiosity. Luckily, being curious is free.