There comes a point in every trip that I dislike. Everything is packed. My apartment is neat and clean. I’ve triple-checked dates and times and given copies of my itinerary to people who would track me down should I disappear. I, the uber-planner, am ready to leave, but it’s not time to leave yet. The window of un-usable time leaves me antsy: too much time to stand there; too little time to start something. I’m stuck in the in-between.
On regular days, I encounter this too much time/not enough time conundrum occasionally, but it’s easier to manage that time disparity on a normal day when I don’t have to leave my apartment in pristine vacation condition. My recent vacation brought me once again to this in-between. My trip hadn’t started yet, but it controlled all my decisions for days. In the grocery store, I planned carefully all my meals so there’d be no leftovers (the trip I forgot to throw away the leftover kimchi left an indelible mark in my pre-trip fridge-cleaning process). I moved laundry day later in the week so that the right clothes would be ready for both pre-packing and packing. Even when I took out the trash changed. I carefully considered automatic, mundane tasks for a week. Even though my active decision-making was finished once I reached the in-between, I still judged my options against the trip. Did I want to read? Sure, but my trip book was packed and starting a new book just to leave it behind was not fair to either me or the book. And besides, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on reading; there was too little time to get lost in a book. Did I want to work on a craft project? Of course, but I had just forcefully convinced all my yarn to coexist peacefully in one drawer. I was pretty sure that if I pulled one skein out, they all would burst out in a cotton/acrylic explosion. As I waited in the in-between of my vacation, I appreciated these musings, especially as this vacation coincided with Holy Week. Every day I am caught in the in-between—already saved, not yet home—living in this present world, remembering that I’m not of this world. That reality is easy to remember for the big meaningful tasks of the day. But those mundane ones, well, I barely notice them. One of the mercies of daily life is routine, the automation of the mind which spares us the mental labor of concentrating on every task. I’m not suggesting that I should second-guess every step of my chores or that I should decide whether—in light of eternity—to switch laundry detergents. What comes to mind is what Thornton Wilder’s Our Town highlights: our mental absence during routine, our forgetfulness that life is comprised of a string of mostly insignificant moments. Yet, even as I teach Our Town to yet another group of young adults who don’t appreciate the play’s mundanity, I think Wilder addressed only half of the picture. He shows that the insignificant moments are life here and now, and that the sweetness of those moments is more than we can handle noticing all the time. And certainly, Wilder is correct. It is nice to savor the sweet mundanity of smiling across the room at a friend I don’t get to see every day or be pleasantly overwhelmed by the swelling of the chorus in Handel’s “Worthy is the Lamb.” But the joys awaiting us are also far greater than we can imagine here in the in-between.
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I started growing up this week. Just like that. After years of thinking that I was an adult because I paid my own bills, took my car to the mechanic when it was sick—er, broken, and made my own holiday meals, I crossed a threshold into maturity that I didn’t even know was there.
I am an honest person, but I struggle telling the truth. Perhaps that sounds like an oxymoron. But I view it more as a paradox. The words I speak are true, so I am honest. But there are many words I do not speak. I can be completely honest chatting with friends while never admitting the hidden fear that I think I’m not welcome. I am completely honest when I end a long-distance phone call with “I miss you” without adding the secret desire that I want to come for a visit. And I can have a truthful conversation about my latest news without admitting that I was hurt by a thoughtless comment. These hidden fears and secret desires have colored all but my closest relationships. I’ve held them inside. After all, I can’t be rejected if I never ask. Part of me fears direct questions because I will answer them honestly. And part of me longs for someone to ask them, to open the door let those hidden fears escape. Yet, I’ve developed skill in answering questions without answer questions, which means these insecurities continue to fester. Some questions I would rather avoid. My mom has a talent in asking about the very things I don’t want her to worry about. This week I am going on vacation; I coached myself to volunteer the information that while on vacation I would see a guy that I was Talking to. But I got as far as announcing my upcoming trip before Mom asked where I was staying. Yep, a direct question. I froze and said the truth, “A hostel.” Thirty minutes later, while we were still discussing the hostel, I decided not to volunteer information about the guy. That would probably spark an even longer worry for Mom, and I felt nervous enough about the visit without borrowing her worries, too. If our Talking becomes anything more, I can volunteer the information then. So, that was a lot of rambling to get around to my step into growing up this week. I actually acknowledged a desire to visit some people (without getting an invitation from them) that would inconvenience them. I put the idea out there with no strings attached, no ridiculous idealized expectations. Just the truth: I miss you and want to see you. And my happiness and security in the relationship does not matter on whether or not they accept the idea. I know they love me, and I also know that they are human and life is crazy. They can say, “No, that won’t work,” and I’m okay with that. I think taking my car to the mechanic when it’s sick is easier than this part of adulthood. But I’m already thirty. If I just started growing up this week, I’ve got a lot of ground to make up. |
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