(from weheartit.com)
It's senior year, now: the last Thanksgiving break of my college career. It's been a crazy semester-- crazy, but happy. Still, the thought of going home for these few bleak November days was the light at the end of the tunnel. As soon as I stepped off of the train and into the car that would take me westward, I breathed a sigh of relief. I could relax. I was going home.
Home! What a magical place. Flannel sheets to sleep on, a fat cat to snuggle with, incredible food to eat, wonderful people to talk to. It is so nice to be able to come back to a place from which I've been absent for six months and to still be completely myself, completely comfortable. It is also nice to be able to catch up with friends that I haven't really talked to for that long, either. Those are the best kinds of friendships, I think. Each person is so driven, doing his or her own thing, and when we do get together it's a genuine interest in what goes on in the others' minds. That constant contact is not a necessary thing, because we are secure enough to realize that these people always have our back, regardless. It's beautiful.
Last night I met with two of these inspiring, beautiful people. We sat around my kitchen island, drinking Little Penguin and snacking on pumpkin bread. We just talked, and talked and talked, for nearly four hours. I remember, when I was little, looking at the adults around me and thinking to myself, "Man. They talk so much! How boring. When I'm grown up I'm still going to play with my stuffed animals and be imaginative and fun."
Jokes on me. I can't even remember the names of my stuffed animals. At my old house, my bed was cut into the wall; it was a nest in which I surrounded myself with a community of animals. And that's really what they (we?) were-- every night, I would tell them all about my day, about my hopes and dreams. They were all arranged in a specific order, and I went down the line and slept with a different animal each night. There was a bear named Mayor, his wife Nicola. A blue monkey named Swinger, who was married to a dolphin, whose name I cannot remember. I cannot remember the other animals. These animals used to be such a part of my daily life, and now I have forgotten almost everything.
"Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting," writes J.M Barrie in Peter Pan. Also known as the boy who refused to grow up. Going away means forgetting. Growing up means going away, and thus, forgetting. It's scary.
Talking with these two was reassuring, though, and inspiring. One of them has already made the transition from college life to, well, "real" life. She's moved away (far away!) from home. She has a job, working 50+ hours a week. She is living in a real house, with real people, dating real men, doing real things. By "real," I mean there is no protection, no shield to hide behind. College is definitely a sort of shield: Oh it's okay, I don't have to be responsible yet, I'm in college. Et cetera. You know how it goes. But she did it. She did it; it was hard, but she's surviving. The other one is graduating in just a few short weeks. Full of anxiety, but also full of determination to make something of herself. It was so interesting to listen to them talk about their decision-making processes and the thoughts going through their head, the emotions they experienced (or are experiencing) during the closing of another chapter. It made me feel more mentally prepared for my own chapter closing coming up in a few short months.
Growing up is funny. Life is funny.
And I am ready to turn the page.
(Sorry that was hopelessly cliché. I'm a bit rusty.)
