Self
10 Oct
She throws her recently purchased chamomile tea against the cement wall. The cup smashes and hot water sprays in all directions. And she is frightened. Even though the cup is paper and the water isn’t too hot.
Because she is frightened of herself. Not the cup or the water. And her knees weaken. And start to give way. But she grabs for the wall. And holds herself steady. Because she’s on a public street. And somebody might point or laugh. Or worse.
She regains enough strength to get back to her office. Which she shares with one other person. But it’s Saturday and he’s not there. He likely won’t be there. So she shuts the door and locks it from the inside. And turns on the air conditioning. And hears a motor begin to hum. And slumps to the floor.
*****
She wasn’t sure that she wanted to be a mathematician. So after graduating college, she took a research assistant position at the top math department in the world. And loved her work. And decided to apply for Ph.D. math programs.
And life was good until about six weeks ago. When she realized that she’d wasted two years of her life. Because what she really wants to be is an archaeologist.
She swears it has nothing to do with her new boyfriend. Who happens to be an archeology graduate student. It’s a feeling that, she says, has always been there. And though I don’t remember once hearing her speak about archeology, she says that it has always been on her lips and her mind.
The problem is that she isn’t qualified to apply to any archeology graduate program. Because she hasn’t taken the required classes. And she doesn’t have the required work experience. And though she’d now be accepted into the best Ph.D. math programs, it will take years for her to build a compelling resume for any archeology graduate school. And she isn’t getting any younger!
She gets up off the floor, sits at her computer, and writes an email to me with the subject heading: CRISIS.
*****
I meet her in a coffee shop. And listen. And tell her that she needs to listen to herself. Not the self that is enthralled with the new boyfriend. Not the self that is scared about making a commitment to a four-year graduate program. But the self that is unaffected. And she asks how to find that self.
And I want to give her good advice. The kind that provides real direction and can enable real answers. But I am silent. And she waits. Wonders. Taps her feet. And I want to tell her to meditate. Or run. Or pray. Or drink lots of alcohol. Or have lots of sex. I want to say something profound.
Anything.
But I stay silent. Because I know that our journeys, like the answers we give to tough questions, are uniquely ours. And that my advice is just mine. And that what she needs is something that’s hers.
Just hers.