october
on acting my age
I started this on paper on the train last week. I finished it on my laptop today. Please excuse my navel gazing — it was my birthday.
I turn 24 tomorrow. Recently, my life has changed a lot in ways that have nothing to do with the movement of Earth around the sun. Still, I consider my new year to start on October 21st. Special occasions have a way of freezing time, almost as if they have to compensate for the fact we won’t remember most days of our lives. By being so extraordinary, birthdays can help us remember something of the ordinary we might otherwise forget.
A year ago, I turned 23 at Blue Cliff Monastery in Pine Bush, New York. I went by myself over fall break. Obviously not a typical day in the life. Still, the fact I chose to spend my birthday in this way says something about the relative solitude — more serene than lonely — of that period. I didn’t tell anyone there it was my birthday. I spent most of the day meditating, either sitting in a lofty converted barn or walking slowly in the woods. At meals, I practised laying my fork down between each bite, taking time to chew my food. The following week, I hosted a belated celebration with the handful of friends I still had in New Haven. I served soup. We sat at the heavy wooden table in that beautiful apartment that never felt like home. Sharing cake and wine, we talked with our mouths full.
At the time, I had no idea what the future held. Sure, nobody ever does, but this birthday felt different. Never before had I known so little about what would come next. It was a question that got at me — where would I be on my next birthday? Probably not at a Buddist monastery, but then again, I couldn’t say for sure. I had no idea what city or country I’d be in, let alone what I’d be doing with my days. Chances were I’d be with people I hadn’t even met yet. The possibilities were exciting, of course, and terrifying, too. The ensuing months of uncertainty were fruitful in their own right. Still, I wish I could whisper across time to my newly 23-year-old self and tell her something of what the next year would bring. I think she'd be thrilled to know where she’d end up.
So where am I? At this very moment, on the Greater Anglia service to London Liverpool Street, departing from the quiet academic town I now call home. Cambridge is beautiful, a place made of stone buildings and green fields and chapels where every evening choirs sing the kind of music that just might make you believe in god. On my way to class, I go over a river and through a meadow dotted with free-roaming cows. On the walk, I’m usually thinking about what I’ve been reading or shaping sentences for an essay in my head. That’s really all I have to do this year: read, write, and think. Which leaves me with plenty of time to do everything else I like to do — swim, run, chat, be idle. I learn at least one new thing every day. I’ve befriended some kind and interesting folks — they seem to be everywhere here. Life isn’t perfect. (I’m starting to think it never is). But I’m happy to be 24. In fact, I’m happy to be, full stop.
When I think about what this stage of life means, I keep coming back to one moment in a field on a farm in Hampshire. It was September, the weekend of the autumn equinox. I was at a festival with a group of strangers and Liam, who I’d known for exactly a month. We pitched our tents in a circle and for the next three days did little except sit around or dance.
One night, during a lull, Liam and I found ourselves across the fire pit from the rest of his mates. They sat atop hay bales, lounging against one another, limbs intertwined. The fire pit was massive — at least 2 metres across. We couldn’t hear what they said. For a silent moment, we watched them smile and laugh, their faces softly lit by the low flames. They were beautiful. I said it was like a scene from a coming-of-age movie, regretting that a reference to mass media was the only way I could express the actual beauty before me. Liam shook his head. No, he said, if anything, it’d be a come-of-age movie. These were people who, in some fundamental way, had grown up. They knew who they were and something of their place in the world, at least enough to find themselves there, beaming and beautiful, surrounded by people they love. Happiness like that is no small thing.
When I think back to that weekend, as much as ever, I’m glad to feel my age. So much of what I experienced at the festival was novel. I heard unfamiliar music, ate unfamiliar British foods (cherry bakewells and Soreen). I was there with someone I’d really only just met. I had the sense I might be falling in love. Amidst all this newness, I was struck by the presence of well-known delights — dancing, card games, eggs cooked on a campfire stove. To me, this mix of old and new joy is about as good as life gets. And that’s kinda what it feels like to be 24. Life still crackles with the promise of surprise. Adventure is not only possible, but almost guaranteed. But I’ve also got the comfort of knowing a bit more about the world. And because of that, even in the midst of change, some things stay the same. I know I like to wake up early (even better if it’s outside). I know I like people who like to dance. I know how to be happy, how to be sad, how to take my time. I know, sort of, how to love. And I know myself, at least enough to say, with some confidence: here I am.
