a reflection: on the coming-of-age

I am well aware that I'm growing up in a time where the coming-of-age story is highly romanticized. There are children constantly indulging in their sadness, waiting for a time to right their wrongs and have their lives magically come together, like loose threads finally being tugged at.

It's not that easy.

I grew up guilty of the same feeling. In all honesty, I'm probably still guilty of it now. It's to the point where my sadness has become such a part of my daily life that I don't realize how intentional I'm making it. I realize that's a problem. Now onto fixing it?

The first semester of college has been interesting and highly convoluted. I feel like a jumbled scrunch of yarn, clawed and pulled apart by the claws of some neighboring feline. I guess everyone feels the same way. It's the rite-of-passage into adulthood, trying to transition into college and trying to find new legs to walk into a new life. It all feels incredibly cliche, the homesickness, the not letting go of the past, the struggling to find new friends and make new memories with people. It's all something that I feel like I would see in a really bad indie flick, but it seems to be happening all around me. Being back home for Thanksgiving break has an incredibly weird aura around it. When I first came back for Fall Break, I spent a good portion of the short-lived visit in a whirlpool of nostalgia. I sat in my room and felt like a stranger checked into a hotel room. My little carry-on suitcase was sitting on the overwhelmingly empty floor, and all I had on my bed was a lumpy pillow and a throw blanket.

Now that it's been a little longer, I sit in my room and still feel wistful about the past. I woke up this morning and looked around, and with the old soul I have, reflected. I could see my past self groveling over calculus homework and stress-crying about my grades on my giant mahogany desk. I saw my prepubescent self sitting in front of my mirror worried about my appearance way more than necessary. I saw myself sitting with my window open and thinking about the first boy I ever loved. There are many ghosts of former selves lurking around in my room, and it's a startling realization in that I enjoy their company. They're a constant reminder that I'm always growing, that I'm always aiming for something more.

I'm 18. I can't stop thinking about the future. For all my life, college was the next big step. I spent middle school, barely, and high school, very much so, working to make sure I got into a good college and working to make sure I would find myself in a place that I enjoyed. I finally made it, and I am proud of myself. But now, what's next? My career. My family.

Going into college, a lot of people told me that I would change my major. I didn't believe them. I was so firmly rooted into the concept of being an English major that I never could've imagined myself even doubting that path in life. Even though it's only been one semester of college, I'm starting to see the clarity in the structure of English classes, and I'm not sure if I enjoy them exactly. And college is all about self-discovery and doing things for yourself, right? After taking two linguistics courses, the idea is more and more alluring, and I'm probably going to pursue a linguistics double major with political science. Nothing is set is stone, but I finally feel like, after a very long and strenuous journey, I have the slightest sense of direction in life. However, this brings up the problematic question, "What can I do with a linguistics major?" To many people in my life, law school is the glaringly obvious answer. I can write, I can talk, and I argue. But what do I really know about law school? I have exposure from a very dramatized depiction on television and the warped generalizations that float through society. How do I figure out what it's like if I can't get a trial run? So maybe the job that I want and that I will thrive in hasn't been officially made yet. Maybe I'll find myself doing something completely different than I anticipated. Either way, I still have a lot of questions left, and it's definitely not as easy as before when my goal was college. College as a goal was easy, very strategic and very calculative: do well in classes, be well-rounded, dip your toes into your passions, and be a good person. Setting your sights on a future career path is much harder. There are so many other variables you need to take into consideration.

So my career seems like a dead end, and that means that I focus and channel all my energy into my future family. I was never the girl that dreamed of her wedding as a kid. I never even thought about where I wanted to get married or where I wanted to go on a honeymoon or any of the little intricacies about my future romances. To be quite frank, I thought it was naive and pointless. What good is a little girl's dreams going to do on the highly fluid future? Well, I'm not a little girl anymore, and all the hopeless romanticism I suppressed has come bursting out like fireworks. I don't want to sound silly, but I absolutely cannot wait to get married. I can't wait to know that I will have someone to come home to and someone that will be by my side no matter what. I can't wait to know that, even after the worst of days, I can come home and see the person who chooses to stay with me. I can't wait to have that stability and that kind of constant. I can't wait to live with the person I love and do silly things and goof off. Cliche, yes, but I know I'll be happy. I can't wait to go on vacations with my future husband and ironically say, "Honey, I'm home!" for the first couple of weeks (or months?) after we buy a house together. I think about it a lot, to be quite honest, but I think that's okay. I think it's okay to look forward to a great future when my present is so unstable and shaky. I think that's normal, and I'm not going to give myself any judgment for that.

I feel like I've achieved some kind of spiritual coming-of-age, where I've figured out the little secrets behind feelings. I always seem to know why I feel some way, and I always can find a source of my emotions. Not always, but enough times to where I feel rooted enough in my maturity. I tell myself that I'm different from other people, that the thoughts I have and the perspective I have on life is more, more meaningful and more insightful. I could be wrong, but I could very much be right. Either way, that is how I feel, and I know that I am valid in that. I feel wiser, and that's, ironically, probably a very dumb thing to think as a new 18-year-old, but I can't help to feel like I've finished my arduous adolescent journey, that I've overcome some horrible emotional adversity and am now in the process of achieving adulthood-nirvana. But my coming-of-age has not nearly ended. It's only begun. It's like I finished my practice run, and now everything is about to really count. And that's horribly intimidating, but also a bit exhilarating.

That's all, for now.

existential fulfillment

I believe in the importance of art. I believe that it is fundamental for growth, that it is an integral part of living a life filled with enrichment and beauty. Art is versatile, and art is expansive.

I personally appreciate the culture of an art museum. I can wander around the halls, staring at famous paintings and sculptures. I can stand in front of the famous pieces of Dali, Miro, Monet, and wonder what brilliance went through their minds for them to create something so beautiful. I can watch performance art pieces and contemplate, and I can try and find meaning in even the most obscure contemporary artwork. However, I know that only certain people genuinely enjoy the atmosphere of such an environment. There is a natural aesthetic, but no movement of the soul. For some, art creeps into the deepest wounds of the heart; it sulks in the nooks and crannies of your fingertips and sits quietly off the edge of your collarbones. For many others, framed landscapes and boxed ceramics hold no significance; there is no transcendence of mind, no tidal wave of emotion.

But art is everywhere. Art exists in every medium, in every century, in every home. There is art in the soundtrack to your favorite movie. The dramatic buildup of an action scene balances perfectly with the poignant instrumentals of heartbreak and woe. There is art in between the spilled ink of your favorite author, where you see how the sorrows and joys of their own lives blend and blur with the characters of a made-up world. There is art in the laughter of your loved ones, art in the complexity of the brain, art in space. To me, the best art is organic. There is a wondrous symphony in every blossoming flower and a harmonious solo performance in every leaf. The color of the plants wilt and transform the same way ballerinas dance across a stage; the rain hits the pavement the same way the rhythm of drums sync with your heartbeat. The sunshine shyly peaking through the tree branches on a sunny Sunday morning feels like the warmth of applause after a recital; the feeling of running your fingers through a creek feels like the initial stroke of paint on canvas. For centuries long, the world has been naturally churning out masterpieces worthy of praise and admiration, and every day, I become more and more convinced that magic exists.

Many people disregard art; the laser-focused generation of preplanned success has gradually declared art irrelevant and non-vital. I respectfully disagree. The education system values a STEM-oriented curriculum; students have all adopted the universal ideology that any career in the hard sciences and mathematics department lead to ensured job opportunities and a life of financial security. On the opposite side of an overly dichotomous spectrum, humanities and art are seen as pathways to unemployment and cardboard boxes. Sad to say, schools are beginning to cut funding on the Fine Arts department and beginning to funnel the money into stronger academic programs and athletics. Art is shrinking, evaporating into the sky, wisped away by the breezes of standardized tests and misconceptions. But, for one, the ill-advised attempt to remove 'art' from the focus of students will not work because art is a survivor; it will adapt to its surroundings as a way to thrive. It is sneaky, cunning, and the most clever person in the room. It will become a master of disguise, but slowly fall in love with its new identity. Art is not exclusive to history, to music, to pencil sketches and still life, for it embarks into the overwhelmingly unknown world of science. You don't have to be a romantic to find beauty in art. There is no prerequisite to be utterly in love with the universe; one does not have to look at the world through rose-colored glasses, for there is art in science and math, because the formulas and equations used to prove a hypothesis and validate a theory flow through the mind like Shakespeare; the sketches and schematics piled up are drafts of the final product. The ability to venture into the unknown and create something out of nothing remains awe-inspiring. But more importantly, such an ability leads one to become an artist. In my personal opinion, being a scientist, a mathematician, an engineer of any sort, doubles as artistry; whether you are building the newest innovative gadget or researching the latest scientific discovery, there is art in your actions. All you have to do is follow your passions. Every stroke of knowledge, every new thought, every philosophical musing, every doubt becomes a form of art, and to truly get rid of that within a generation is impossible. Secondly, art is a nutrient; it is necessary for growth and for quality of life. Fostering an appreciation for art, be it the limitless world of theoretical physics or the melancholic poeticism of Sylvia Plath, paves a lane of existential fulfillment.

Quite often, I have heard the phrase, "There are two types of people in this world." There are a multitude of ways to categorize, generalize, and identify the general masses; through one lens, you see two types of people: those that appreciate art, in whatever medium, and those that don't. I believe there is a significant difference in happiness. Quantifying happiness, success, or whatever broadly vague term of self-actualization, is difficult. There are various definitions for each phenomenon, but in the grand scheme of things, it is all individual, all unique. For each person, there is a different perspective and point of view. For some, money is the most important aspect of happiness; for others, love is almighty. Debates have sparked over just which is right, but despite whichever factor you hold wholly or majorly responsible for happiness, art should be a part of the picture. While I am young, and while I have been limited to my hometown suburbia, I have met enough people to see a difference. The absolute brilliant people that see art in the ordinary, that see art in the world and their passions, those people have color in their eyes. Their veins are constantly pumping with adrenaline, geared towards expanding their horizons and learning everything about anything. Their grip is a little tighter when you hold their hand; their hugs are a little longer when you reach in for a friendly embrace. Their tears are heavy with wonder, and their smiles are like little fireflies constantly twinkling. Their minds expand, and they learn how to question things. Those people who neglect the importance of art fall a little flat, as if they've got little leaks everywhere. They are the smudged lead marks on the margin of the paper, the broken umbrella left on the side of the road. Their greetings and their farewells are bland, and their actions are rote and mechanical; there is no spontaneity, no impulsiveness, no surprises.  However, art grows at an exponential rate. It radiates through the nets of boredom and  monotony. It embodies the vigor of a saltwater wave and the gentle shine of the morning sunrise. Art is always eager to enter into a home, and once it does, it becomes a permanent member of the household.

Art is about perspective. It's about interpretation and cultivates a life of open-mindedness. It rejects the notion of black-and-white and splatters a kaleidoscope of possibilities into your life. Art is about individuality. It's about delving into the deepest parts of yourself and floating amidst the chaos. It rejects the notion of conformity and values self-love. Art is about growth. It's about kindred spirits and intimate connections built on a foundation of curiosities and intellectual stimulation. It rejects the suppression of expression.

You don't have to praise the creation of art museums, and you don't have to regularly attend the local symphony, but you should intermix art into your life. Alter your mind if you do not see art all around you; take the ordinary parts of your day and dip them into the puddles of beauty. Weave the brilliance of art into your daily norms, and take some time to understand what you are doing. I promise there will be change. And while change is scary and daunting, it is just as necessary. Take some time and acknowledge your surroundings; the birds that wake you up in the morning are living, breathing things, and that is beautiful. They have their own lives, their own families, their own struggles. The stars that you ignore every night burn far away, raging with such powerful passion, born from the collapse of a gaseous nebula. They're beautiful, and all because they exist. The wind that tangles your hair and kisses your neck is the ever-changing tempo for the natural world; they sway the tree branches in front of your house from ballroom dancing to waltzes to tangos.

 Find art in everything. Find new art in old art. The world is in a perpetual state of change, a perpetual state of growth. You are a part of this world, which very well makes you art. Appreciate art, and appreciate yourself.

the bedtime story of galileo galilei

she was a wide-eyed wanderer
mapping out the constellations
in her classmates' freckles;
she found a galaxy in their faces
twirling with impression of the milky way
and sparkling with the illuminating glow
of far away planets

she saw exploration and discovery in their smiles
and imagined the magic of the moon landing
in the dimples dwindling down their cheeks
she felt the cheers of the world
roaring in her ears as mankind stepped down
and trekked around their grins,
voyaged into their hearts

but in her own reflection
she found vast emptiness and silence
and she soon began to believe
that she was nothing
but a mere collection of dust and debris
swirling effortlessly to the rhythm of her
heartbeat

every mirror and every photograph
showed barren cracks and moon rocks
sitting quietly across her forehead
and down the bridge of her nose;
nothing but the quiet exhales of her breath
puffed through her rough exterior

she felt the heavy weight of the asteroid belt
anchoring her down, ricocheting through her veins
but every time she lay herself down to sleep
her eyes squeezed together with the utmost delicacy
waiting patiently to enter a world of twinkling stardust
and lightning fast comets

her soul floated in the open sky for years
calculating the amount of time it would take
to slide down the rings of Saturn,
formulating a way to ski through the eye of Jupiter,
scheming and plotting how to avenge the tragedy
of Pluto

her thoughts jumped from crater to crater
and she danced in meteor showers for millenniums;
she held her breath as she crossed the stratosphere
and jumped from Venus to Mars
bright-eyed and red-faced
she realized that a universe exists within her;
a storm within the sky

the love story of ferdinand magellan

she was the ocean
with waves pounding upon the shore
swallowing grains of sand with every inhale
and spitting out tangled webs of seaweed
exhaling nothing but controlled chaos

he was not the swimmer
visiting for spring break with friends
wading in tidal pools of ecstasy,
but the voyager ready to map out
visions of their future

he felt her pounding against his skin
curving against his body
with the utmost delicacy
leaving him cloaked in a silky gossamer
dipped in droplets of desire

and when he made her laugh
ripples of sanguine sunshine
twinkled throughout the horizon
and when he made her cry
treacherous storm clouds melted
into lightning bolts of vigorous rage

but he did not escape
when she destroyed sandcastles
of creativity and innocence,
but ran his fingers through her hair
staining his fingertips with adoration

he spent nights leeched onto the buoy
subtly bouncing into her subconscious
until one day he poked too far
and she spit him up onto the shore
dehydrated and depleted

she felt broken and busted
jagged and jaded
because countries of pandemonium
planted their roots around her body
and continents of conflict grew in her mind

lost and dazed
her rage ignited whirlpools of fury
and tsunamis of confusion
because she no longer knew who she was
with parts of her here
and parts of her there

so he set out to touch every coastline
letting her know that her vibrancy
exists in every corner of the world
and he sailed to each port
navigating her pulsating veins
with the galaxies of stars
that reflected in her eyes

he discovered sorrowful aftermaths
of deserted shipwrecks and accidents
hidden deep in her heart
but also found glittering trinkets
locked in chests hidden under debris

he traced the spiraling coral
that hardened around her bones
but felt the soft sponges that
absorbed the agony of everyone
who baptized their souls
and cleansed themselves of sin

she somberly watched
bits of herself evaporate each day
climbing ethereal vines into the sky
but he always filled
the vast void in her languid core
with reminders of life

she was the natural palette of colors
that he used to paint pictures of
hope and rebirth

and

together 

they were art

4/12/2015
8:16 pm