As soon as this arrived, my mind built it all up into a mountain: the gear I needed to get, the amount of money I’d need to spend, the things I had to get done in the next seven days. It felt as though I were leaving the next day, even though I had a full week of unscheduled time to get everything done. Bit by bit, the world conspired to get me here with ease.
It all began with the backpack. I searched Craigslist for large backpacking backpacks and found two that fit the bill. One was listed for $75 and was green, the other was $90 and beautifully blue. They were both good brands and hadn’t been used very much. I sent an email to both, explaining that I’d just been accepted to work on the conservation corps and needed a backpack in the coming days.
The woman selling the blue backpack was free to meet on Friday morning, but the woman selling the green backpack ended up being free to meet Thursday evening. Not only was she available earlier, but she suggested meeting at the public library in my town, meaning she would drive in from out of town. To boot, she texted on Thursday to say the pack also came with a rain cover and 2.5 L water bladder, which she hadn’t mentioned in the Craigslist post. As this information trickled in, my desire for the blue pack faded. I biked to an ATM to get cash, certain I’d be making several Craigslist purchases in the next few days—this green backpack being the first.
We met at 6 in the library parking lot. I had brought some full water bottles, books, and my yoga mat along so that I could try on the backpack with some weight in it, as recommended by my friend Emily.
I put in the assorted items and tried on the backpack, not a clue as to the correct way to size it. It seemed to fit just fine, the rain cover and water bladder were awesome extras, and I was anxious to check off the first item of my mountainous to-do list. “I think this’ll work well, I’ll take it!” I said.
The woman replied, “Great, because I’m giving it to you.”
I opened the car door, pulled out my wallet, and began to count out the twenties I’d gotten earlier in the day. “Twenty, forty—
“No, I mean it,” she interrupted, “I’m giving it to you. It’s a gift.”
I froze.
“Noooooooo” I said, my tone dropping in confused disbelief.
“I insist,” she said.
Was this really happening? My emotions were swelling
“Thank you,” I mustered.
As the words left my mouth I could feel their gross inadequacy. I took a step towards the woman and gave her a hug, doing what felt right in the moment.
“Have fun on your adventure,” she said as she headed back to her car, leaving me in awe at the Craigslist kindness I’d just been gifted.
—
The following day I emailed a Craigslist seller because I was interested in his North Face sleeping bag (15 degrees). A brand new one would have cost $270, but he was selling his for $130. Once again, I briefly explained why I needed the sleeping bag. He replied to my first inquiry saying that he’s actually from Arizona!
We met the next day at a public high school and ended up knocking $10 off his asking price. Then, he gave me recommendations of where to visit and explore while I’m based in Flagstaff.
—
After buying the sleeping bag I drove to Farm and Fleet to see what they had available. It was a disappointing visit which didn’t help my to-do list, but Gander Mountain was on my way home so I decided to swing by, as this was their big store closing sale. I missed the turn, though, which meant I was even closer to my route home. It was getting later in the afternoon and I needed to be home within 45 minutes, so I considered going straight there. For some reason, though, I exited the highway, got back on, drove back, and made the turn.
Upon walking in I saw that the store was already 3/4 empty and was only continuing to get picked apart at each passing minute, so I didn’t expect to find anything on my list.
After a quick size-up of the remaining shelves, I made my way over to the shoes just for a glance. And there they were: leather boots, non-skid bottom, ends above the ankle, and no mesh on the tongue or ankle. They were half a size smaller than I usually wear, but they seemed to fit all right and my toe didn’t hit the edge. Plus, the closing special? 70% off! I bought $120 boots for $37.
(Update: These boots were also steel-toed, which, I later learned at ACE orientation, are absolutely not recommended. “No steel toe!” I wore the boots on my first hitch and they worked fine, but I now have a pair of non-steel-toe hiking boots to use on my second hitch. I found them in the “Commons Closet” of another ACE house here in town, meaning they were free!)
—
Finally, near the end of my gear scavenger hunt, I was still searching for women’s work pants. Emily recommended Duluth Trading Company in Mount Horeb, so I drove the 40 minutes to get there on Saturday, hopes high. In the end they didn’t have my size in the women’s work pant they were currently carrying. The woman helping me suggested altering or mending the pair to make them fit, but I didn’t want to spend $70 on a pair of pants and need to make modifications so quickly.
I drove to the west side of Madison and tried on men’s pants at Menards. Then I texted my aunt to see where she gets her work pants. “Farm and Fleet,” she responded, but sometimes she finds some at Savers or Goodwill, she added.
So I drove to the nearby St. Vinny’s and headed straight to the women’s pants rack. I started flipping down the line of size 4s, immediately moving past any regular pants or non-thick jeans. I couldn’t believe my eyes when my hands felt a pair of black pants that were super thick—nearly the same material as the work pants I’d just tried on at Duluth Trading Company.
I look at the tag:
Duluth Trading Company work pants – $7.99
I grabbed them and headed to the fitting room. They were a little short, but would definitely do for one pair. What crazy luck!
Then I stopped at Goodwill for kicks, since it was just a few minutes away and I was already out and about with mom’s car. Once again I went straight to the size 4 section of the women’s pants rack, and oh my goodness, the stars were aligned. Here I found two pairs of Duluth Trading Company work pants and jeans, both size 4 and this time they were the correct length. $7.99 each!
Although these work pants fit great everywhere else, I couldn’t get one pair buttoned but still bought them. The following day while out at my grandma’s I showed her my finds. As soon as I mentioned I couldn’t button the pants, she said, “Well just put on a button extender.”
A button what?
She went into her bedroom and came out with two cute little button extenders that go right on to the button of the pants. I could now button the pants!
I had all that I needed and still three days to go.
_
I reflected back on how panicked I’d felt merely four days earlier, and then marveled at all of the people, generosity, and serendipitous connections which had helped me acquire what I needed for this next adventure. I knew the frenzied feelings had only been a hindrance when I let them surface the first day, and I let this serve as a reminder to breathe and continue to take it one step at a time.
On Monday evening Emily and Liz came over for one last art night before I took off. Emily showed me how to adjust my backpack correctly and also brought along some old clothes up for grabs, which have already turned into staples for me here: yoga pants, a sun hat, a warm fleece, socks. At one point during the evening, Liz reminisced back to when she’d flown to New Zealand to study abroad in college, and how her body had manifested all of the nerves she’d been feeling on the way to the airport. I could relate; I’ll never forget the feeling of my stomach dropping as I took that first flight to Madrid in 2009.
But as I boarded the bus to Chicago early Thursday morning, there were no worries, stomach drops, or fears. My thoughts returned to amazement at how quickly my trajectory had changed. And despite the sudden shift, I felt completely at ease—thankful for the people and experiences which got me here.
All day in route I was nothing but excited to see what Flagstaff looked like from the ground and what ACE would have in store for me. Where have the butterflies gone? Have I done this so many times that I now know to my core everything will work out? Or am I so confident in my ability to adapt and find the good that there’s no room for doubt?
Or perhaps, this time I had the entire universe conspiring along to get me to Flagstaff.
Well, universe, we made it.
What It Cost
Here’s a rundown of the required gear and how much I spent to get myself to ACE here in Flagstaff:
Gear
Backpack – $0
Sleeping bag – $120
Boots – $37
Rain pants – $40
Wool socks – $18
Sleeping pad – $100
Sleeping bag liner – $40
3 pairs of work pants – $24
4L MSR Dromlite bag – $30
Headlamp – $9 Subtotal – $418
Transportation
Bus to Chicago – $30
One-way flight – $150
Checked bag – $25
Shuttle to Flagstaff – $53 Subtotal – $258
“Smile on three: One, two— stop leaning Rebecca,” said my cousin.
It was Homecoming of my freshman year in high school, and I was having my first of many pictures taken in my black dress.
“I’m not leaning,” I replied.
“Then why is your hip sticking out?” she asked.
What was she talking about? I looked in a mirror.
My cousin was right: My right hip was jutting out as if I were leaning heavily on that side.
But I wasn’t leaning at all.
That’s the day I “discovered” my scoliosis—an abnormal curve of the spine.
Exploring Options
The diagnosis was eventually confirmed by a doctor, and by February of my sophomore year I was seeing a chiropractor twice weekly. She gave me stretches to do, but my curve was at a severe degree; it had been caught late, now age 15.
I do remember my chiropractor mentioning a brace, but I never got one and I’m not sure why we (my family and I) didn’t explore this option more seriously. Would a brace have even made a difference this late in the game to a curve of my degree? I don’t know. But if I were to receive the news of scoliosis today—knowing what I know now—I would try whatever I could before turning to surgery.
But in 2004-5 we went on to visit a few different doctors before settling on a course of action. One of these doctors could lengthen limbs, and boy was I excited to meet with him. You see, we’d found out my left leg is slightly shorter than the other, so I thought if he could just make my left leg that much longer, doing whatever it is that he does, it would even me out and make everything straight again—easy as magic. I had zero concept of how unnatural it is to cut into human skin and perform any type of surgery, let alone the toll it would take on the body to heal itself.
Despite my fantasies of having two legs of equal length, the limb lengthening doctor didn’t think that was the route we should go. But to address the length discrepancy either he or one of the other doctors gave me a quarter-inch lift to wear in my left shoe. I wasn’t really instructed on how long I should wear it for; looking back it felt more optional if anything. I wore it for a time, then summer came around and flip flops adorned my feet—a shoe unfit for a lift. I know the lift is still lying around my room somewhere today, 12 years later, but I don’t wear it. (Should I be wearing it post-fusion? No idea.)
Rather than surgically lengthen my leg, the consensus was that I should have a spinal fusion. This would involve screwing a metal rod to my spine and covering the area with bone graft so new bone would grow around the fused area. I don’t recall having any sort of discussion about this with my family—it was more like a doctor recommended it, told us a bit about it, and then we picked a date: June 24, 2005. I was on board, but again, I hadn’t considered what this would mean for me long-term, nor all of the risks involved.
My main concern was getting my driver’s license, as I’d be turning 16 in April but wouldn’t be allowed to drive for six weeks after the surgery. I strategically scheduled my driver’s test for early June, two weeks before the surgery, and much to my relief, passed.
The operation would also eliminate all possibilities of becoming a future gymnast, which was a non-issue. No more botched cartwheel attempts or forward rolls in our PE’s tumbling unit for me.
Another concern brought up when learning about spinal fusions was my ability to have children. The doctor assured us I’d be able to give birth no problem with a fused spine. What I didn’t consider, however—too far from my mind at the time—is how a spinal fusion would limit positions for conceiving said child.
With no red lights, onwards we moved.
The Fusion and Hospital Stay
I had to give blood twice a few months before the surgery, which they would save and later put back in me after the spinal fusion. The first time I went to give blood, my iron count was too low. So we scheduled another date and two weeks prior I started taking iron pills (which made my poop turn green) and ate lots of broccoli. This second time my iron level was just high enough for a self-donation, but didn’t meet the level required for donation to others.
Sophomore year ended, I passed my driver’s test, and before I knew it June 24 rolled around.
The day prior appeared to be like any other summer day—I watched a Hilary Duff movie (“The Perfect Man”) with my best friend, had another friend over, and went to my neighbor’s house to watch the guys play Halo 2. My older brother and grandma returned from a trip to Ireland that evening, and then I imagine I tried to get to bed early.
I woke up at 4 the next morning and we left the house around 5. My surgery was scheduled for 7:30. I don’t remember feeling hungry or anxious, just being cold in a hospital gown and finally getting wheeled into a room.
When I came to, I was in a room with nurses and my parents. I couldn’t move my core. I had a button I could push for the pain, which pumped drugs straight into me but wouldn’t let me surpass some sort of daily limit. I was also connected to a catheter, so my pee went directly into a bag.
X-ray of fused spine — June 24, 2005
You’d think the most critical part would be over, now that the surgery had ended, but the event which marked my hospital stay happened in the hours after. I was watching “Pirates of the Caribbean” on the TV, and a nurse came in to give me a bag of my blood. She hooked it up, and all of a sudden everything went fuzzy, then black.
When I came to, there was a pile of doctors and nurses around me, one holding an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose, and my parents had terrifying looks of utter shock on their faces. Apparently the nurse had put the blood through the same line where they’d been giving me narcotics—without clearing it—so I overdosed on narcotics and my central nervous system shut down. My parents said I’d gasped for breath and then stopped breathing. They thought they were watching me go, right then and there. I was going, but the nurses/doctors gave me oxygen, stopped the blood transfusion, and then I came back.
Later that day I felt well enough to eat a popsicle, which I promptly threw up. I attempted to sleep that night, but hardly got any shut eye.
On Saturday I woke up around 6 a.m. and watched “A Cinderella Story.” That day’s events as recorded in my journal include:
Dad, Luke, Jacki came around 10 a.m.
Watched “Finding Neverland” but didn’t really watch it.
Read a little of “The Dark,” listened to CDs.
Got flowers from my chiropractor and staff.
MB called.
Drank 7-up.
Sat up in chair.
Watched “The Princess Diaries 2.”
Luke and grandma played cards.
Rolled on right side, not comfortable, rolled on back.
Took medicine, got washed up.
Yes, sitting in a chair was hard enough to warrant a line in the journal, and getting washed up involved a nurse wiping every inch of me with warm cloths.
That night was the episode I remembered most vividly. It was 3 or 4 in the morning and I had been sleeping on my right side. Suddenly I was incredibly uncomfortable and wanted to move, but couldn’t find the call button for a nurse. The pain was intense, but I also couldn’t find the green button to push for the narcotics. I was in such a panic, unable to move or do anything to get comfortable, trapped in my own skin. My newly damaged spine made my body feel foreign; nothing moved as I’d known it to. I couldn’t bear the pain nor frustration. Eventually I was able to wake up my mom—who had been sleeping on a cot next to me—and a nurse came in, but dang that was a long night.
On Sunday I sat in a chair again, got washed up, drank 7-up, took lots of pills, got a balloon and beanie baby from someone, had family visit, ate toast and juice, and then had my first walk.
It was very exhausting to stand and walk around. The nurse pushed my IV pole along, and I used all the energy I had to put one foot in front of the other.
Then an aunt and uncle came to visit, followed by my best friend MB and her mom. I went on a second walk with MB, returning to find another aunt and her friend were there to see me, armed with gifts of magazines, word puzzles, Pez candy, and a DVD.
When everyone left I napped for a while. Upon waking, I saw that my brothers and mom had used the window paint in this children’s wing to repaint the window in my room. My dad took my brothers home around 5:30, then I napped again, got my hair washed, ate mashed potatoes, and slept more.
Around 9 I woke up and went on a third walk, then watched “Desperate Housewives,” brushed teeth, and couldn’t sleep well that night either.
Monday was more of the same, though with notable progress made:
Woke up, sat in chair, took pills.
Slept lots.
“Bath.”
Catheter removed.
Walked and measured height (5’6”).
Walked up and own stairs.
Got hair washed in a “salon.”
Ate some mac+cheese, used bathroom.
Slept.
Epideral removed.
Epideral pad bleeding.
Slept on side.
They changed back pad.
Apparently being able to walk up and down stairs was what needed to happen before they let me go home. A nurse suggested we try it on the walk to get my height measured, and she seemed pleasantly surprised that I was able to do it, albeit slowly and with concentration. And that’s why at 5:30 that evening they released me from the hospital, a day or two earlier than we’d been expecting.
Recovery
Before the surgery I slept on a top bunk, so my parents brought it down and set the bed in the middle of the rug/reading area of my bedroom. I most remember spending daytime next door in my parents’ bed, however, as they had a small TV in their bedroom. I watched VH1 and MTV each morning, completely captivated and transported by Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound,” which had just come out that summer and always made the day’s top 20. I had stacks of library books next to the bed as well.
I wore a fabric brace that Velcro-ed shut, to help keep me from twisting or turning. I couldn’t shower, so we got some wet shampoo to keep my hair under control. I had a prescription of oxycodone and oxycontin for the pain, but I stopped taking them early on. I couldn’t tell much of a difference with or without them, so I figured I should stop taking them. I had little idea at the time just how sought-after the remains of these two pill bottles would be, but just last month I took them to a drug drop off here in town—the same number remaining as when I stopped taking them 12 years ago.
Later in July a friend had a birthday party and bon fire at her house. This was my first big “outing” post-surgery, approached with caution. I wore my brace under a sweater and my mom both drove me there and later picked me up.
After six weeks I got to drive again, and had a check up with a doctor sometime around there. At one point he asked me “Do you have any numbness or tingling sensations in your back?” My mind grabbed onto the word “tingling,” to which I immediately answered no. Moments later I realized this was when I should have said that yes, my lower back is a bit numb. But I didn’t say anything, and it’s remained somewhat numb ever since.
Aside from that, post-fusion changes were small and I adjusted quickly. Lying on my stomach was no longer comfortable, for example, so I stopped doing that. I was now sure to sunscreen the long scar on my back whenever I was outside in a swimsuit. Years later when I first tried yoga, I quickly learned that poses like upward-facing dog and cat pose were absolute no-nos. I’ve slept on a Tempur-Pedic pillow ever since my fusion, bringing it along for all of my year-long stints overseas. The fusion didn’t really affect my day-to-day teenage life after the recovery, though.
Life with a Fused Spine
As I finished high school, the whole spinal fusion quickly became old news to my new health problem of IBS-D—which would go on to cloud my world for nearly ten years. The funny (?) thing is, I’m fairly certain all of those digestive problems started because of the spinal fusion, or at the very least my surgery must have been a contributing factor. No one told me that all the antibiotics I’d been given would kill good bacteria in my flora, so I did nothing to restore it after the surgery. I didn’t yet know about prebiotic foods, probiotics, gut health, whole foods, “The China Study,” industrial farming, etc.
I’m now thankful the IBS happened, because it prompted self-education and experimentation through which I learned an incredible amount, flipping my view of Western health/medicine on its head. Over the past decade I’ve changed my diet from cans, frozen meals, and processed foods to a primarily whole foods plant-based diet. Very long story short, during most of my young adult life I was struggling to get my IBS under control, so there wasn’t much energy to consider physical health beyond that—meaning I wasn’t too aware of my movement.
I was most active in the no-contact sport of ultimate frisbee over the years, playing as everyone else except that I was cautious to avoid collisions and purposefully held back from “laying out” to dive after low discs.
Playing ultimate frisbee in 2009 (left, purple shorts), 2011 (center), 2016 (right, short hair and glasses)
In 2014 I brought attention to my tight hamstrings by beginning a 100-day stretching project with the goal of touching my toes. I made it to day 77, increasing my flexibility along the way, though never eliminating the gap between my finger tips and toes.
That fall I took my first Pilates and Zumba classes at our local village center. I especially liked Pilates and found I had quite a weak core to build up. There were certain twisting/rolling exercises I would modify or substitute for others, and although she’d never had a spinal fusion student before, my instructor was really good about telling me what to replace with what to keep my core in a neutral position.
When I signed up for a second session with the same instructor that winter, she requested a letter from a doctor saying it was okay to do Pilates with a my fused spine. I went back to my chiropractor all these years later and she tested my movement then cleared me for Pilates. (She encouraged it, actually, commenting on my weak core muscles.) I suppose it was during these years that I began to pay more attention to my movement and posture.
The Roost raises the screen so my eyes are looking straight out to the top 15–20% of the screen when I’m sitting straight up, rather than having to crane my neck down or slouch as I’d been doing. (I can tell a huge difference and highly recommend a Roost for all laptop/tablet users, by the way.)
I’ve notably increased the amount of mindfulness in my life over the past five years, and I’m now much more aware of my body’s position each day. I make sure to avoid slouching or putting pressure on the lower and upper ends of my fusion.
While working on a small farm this spring, for example, I was often tasked with cutting olive tree and vineyard branches into small logs and tinder. I did much of this chopping on my knees or sitting down, depending on the tool I was using. It probably looked silly, but standing and hunching over to cut said branches would have been terrible for me. I have to keep my top half straight. (For any fellow fused spine folk, I recently discovered that Julie Wilkins has very helpful videos on YouTube, such as “Home Activities After Spinal Fusion”and “Yoga With Spine Fusion.”)
I’ve read a bit on online forums about people older than me with spinal fusions who later had to have hardware removed/replaced. I’ve only read a bit and not extensively because these types of Google searches really freak me out. I absolutely do not want another surgery, but 16 was so young. If I live to be 90, let’s say, that would come out to 74 years living with the spinal fusion. I don’t think anyone’s ever had my exact type of fusion for 74 years, as medicine is always advancing, so this huge unknown worries me. Could the hardware break down inside of me or cause some other big problem in the years to come? What’s the longterm effect of having cut through my skin and installed this hardware along and into my spine?
I don’t like to think about it, so I don’t. Instead, I stay in the present and pay attention to how I move, taking responsibility for what I can control now—in an effort to prevent any future slicing and dicing.
12 Years Fused
When first researching for this post two years ago (the original idea was to do a 10-year reflection), I happened upon a story about a teen girl who wore a back brace to reduce the curve of her scoliosis. She probably cursed having to wear it every day at school, but my first thought was “I wish I had done that!” My whole understanding of health and Western medicine has changed drastically from age 16 to age 28. It feels strange to know one of my past selves so willingly allowed surgeons to alter my body in this irreversible way, to cut it up and put it through so much without trying to fix it via a more natural course first.
The word “regret” has only ever come to mind in my life when looking back on this particular past choice. Who wouldn’t wish they could move freely and bend like once before? It would be nice to be able to twist in yoga and Pilates, to shake my hips while dancing, and to have a greater variety of passion poses. But at the same time, if the surgery was indeed the main cause of my IBS, I’m thankful these struggles allowed me to learned so much about whole foods and being mindful of my body movements. Would I have learned all of this another way, without the spinal fusion? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.
Whenever I’ve reflected on whether or not I regret the surgery, those feelings are soon followed by twinges of guilt. You can’t feel bad just because you can’t turn certain ways and bend your back, I would tell myself. You can still walk, run, ride a bike, basically do anything you want—just a tad bit differently. It seems a very small price to pay when you consider all the things that could have happened to me. I have my sight (with glasses), I still have my awesome metabolism and size, my hands, arms, legs, feet, knees, heart, lungs—everything else seems to be functioning as it should. And that’s merely the physical. So among all of my good fortune in life, it feels foolish to regret having fused my spine together.
But still, every now and then, I wonder.
Update: In July 2017 I had a great appointment with a PT who offered specific exercises and stretches to improve my flexibility/muscle where I need it most. I also purchased a set of ten yoga-for-spinal-fusion videos by Julie Wilkins called Adapted Yoga. A full write-up about this new part to my journey can be found here.
I don’t want to imagine what my life would look like today if Facebook were still a part of it. You see, the on-the-surface difference between then and now is that I have removed Facebook from my life. I don’t think about it; it doesn’t have a place in my days.
Underneath the surface, my mind has all this space for thoughts, creativity, and reflections. It’s clearer, more focused, and relaxed — reminiscent of how I felt when I walked the Camino. My mind is not bombarded with thoughts of others, of companies, or of news outlets vying for my attention.
I recognize that I have control over what I see and think, and I’m so much more mindful of these choices. I choose where my energy goes.
For me, it all comes back to this quote by Gandhi, which struck me when I first heard it years ago, and which I return to again and again:
Your beliefs become your thoughts,
Your thoughts become your words,
Your words become your actions,
Your actions become your habits,
Your habits become your values,
Your values become your destiny.
So I ask: Where do your beliefs come from? What sorts of things/people are impacting your thoughts each day?
Are you setting yourself up for the beliefs → thoughts → words → actions → habits → and values that will create the destiny you want?
We only have one life. It’s now.
And in my Facebookless life now, I’m not looking at highlight reels of other peoples’ lives, and thus I don’t experience the fear of missing out or the damaging feelings of comparing myself to others’ best sides.
Rather, I’ve been experiencing what it means to be human, and am seeing again and again that we absolutely cannot compare ourselves to others in the ways we often do. Life is so incredibly complex and intricate. Our situations and histories are unimaginably unique, and most of the stories we tell ourselves are inaccurate and incomplete.
One sentence, paragraph, website, or blog absolutely cannot define a person. There is so much more going on behind the scenes.
I’m a writer who values the written word. Yet despite my snail mailing, blogging, and texting, my primary mode of connecting during these past two years has been face to face. Nothing can replace the tone and emotion in someone’s voice or a friend’s laughter. Likewise, nothing can replace a smile, a grimace, a wink, an eye-roll, or any other facial expression and body language.
Ninety-nine percent of the time when I’m alone with my computer or phone, nothing much changes. The internet has amazing reach and capabilities, but…
But when I’m in a setting with other humans — wow. That’s where the magic happens! That’s where real possibilities arise, where new ideas are born, where laughs and stories are shared, where nerves can heighten, where lifelong connections form, where energy is felt, and where your actions can really brighten days.
I’m learning more and more how special and valuable these shared moments are.
I can also appreciate moments in silence. I don’t have to grab for a phone to scroll while waiting. I practice staying present in the moment and appreciating the small things.
This is life, after all. These small moments make up the majority of our existence. It’s now. It’s this. So I’m striving to be there. To be here, to be present. To catch myself thinking about small worries and to replace those thoughts with appreciation for the humanity, creations, or nature around me. To consider what emotions others might be feeling. To act out of kindness, compassion, and understanding.
Meditation is helping me to cultivate this. (Thanks Daily Calm!) It’s nothing far-fetched, out of reach, or sacred. Meditation involves being in the moment. Being non-judgmentally aware of what’s going on in your mind.
And yet that simple practice is so powerful. Sitting and feeling the breath go in and out of your lungs is insane! I’m telling you. But we breathe all day long. We have breathed all day and all night since the day we were born, but when is the last time you took two minutes to stop and listen to it? To focus on the feeling of the air going in, and how it magically, smoothly transitions to an exhale. Breathe now and pay attention to the fleeting moment where inhale becomes exhale. Neat, huh?
And this all just happens. Now think of all the other organs hard at work inside your body. You don’t have to tell them to do anything, they know what to do to keep you alive. Do you keep these organs healthy? Do you treat them with love and kindness?
You see, these are the types of thoughts that have since entered my mind. It’s awesome.
So to sum it up — because I’m getting away from myself here — I’m happier because there’s little to no comparing (and when I catch myself doing so, I tell myself there’s much more to the story, I can’t compare. And then leave the site and get outta there!) I’m cultivating the beliefs and thoughts I want to have in order to live my values. I’m recognizing how meaningful in-person interactions are for me. Not to mention my data and personal information is no longer being sold and used to make profit for Facebook.
I cut out one thing to get much, much more.
Less is more.
If you know me in real life, this goes without saying, but it’s the internet, so: Nearly all of my friends and family have Facebook. This piece is a reflection on what I’ve personally gained since leaving Facebook, nothing more. Thanks for reading my words in this context of its intended self-reflection.
My younger brother has been thinking about “being an artist / human / creator in this modern age,” so he wrote about five of his current questions, worries, and concerns, and then answered them. This is a response to that post, “Things I’m Struggling with as a Musician/Human Being,” from his blog I Will Write About Music Here.
Hello, Luke.
As you know, I am not a musician, but still feel as I can relate to these questions. Perhaps my extra ~3 years on this Earth can offer a slightly different perspective, so here are some of my thoughts about each of your questions and responses.
1. Do people have time for art anymore? Is it relevant?
Yes, it’s definitely very relevant, and it’s no surprise we’re both on the same page here.
You had asked what is art’s place within all of the world’s very real problems (poverty, sickness, genocide, war, global warming, political divisiveness, etc.), and I’d say that art is a huge tool for making progress in those issues.
Advocacy is a big way art can help—doing a photography exhibit, cartoon, or concert to raise awareness or money for a cause. (In writing this, I discovered there’s a group called Artists Striving To End Poverty, which must just be the tip of the iceberg.)
And especially with war and any other less-than-desirable situations, people have used (and always will use) art to escape. Think of all the songs sung by African American slaves, for example.
Jumping back to the first half of this question—do people have time for art—I want to note that “people” spans a huge range of lifestyles and cultures. Some of your American peers may not appear to have time, but that’s just a tiny fraction of the people on this planet.
During my year in France, I got the impression that it was quite common to go to an art gallery or museum on the weekends, which Damien and I did every couple of weeks (even though he is very much a mechanical guy); art can be appreciated by all.
2. I feel uneasy about self-promotion. To the outsider looking in, I must look like one helluva self-absorbed guy.
I struggle with this one, too, in sharing things I write or sell (-cough- Korean food guide I spent two years writing and of which I have yet to sell one single copy -cough-). But realize that people who follow you on Twitter or who like your Facebook page, for example, have chosen to do so. They want to see your face, watch you play, and hear your thoughts. So no need to hesitate posting about yourself there.
Where it can feel self-absorbed is going outside of those circles to connect with others. But as you’ve said, this is necessary in order to get your art into the world. If people don’t care or aren’t interested, they don’t have to click/watch/read. They choose. And then everyone continues on with their lives, and no harm is done.
But when your work reaches someone who does care, it could very well have an effect on their life (and yours). There are likely a ton of people who would like to see your face, watch you play, and hear your thoughts—for a variety of reasons—but they haven’t met you yet. So self-promotion increases you chances of “discovering” each other.
Although innate for you and me, I don’t think this feels self-absorbed for everyone. I think the fact that it does for you shows how aware you are of others in the world.
I feel like I’ve probably recommended this to you already (and maybe you’ve already read it), but I enjoyed Austin Kleon’s “Show Your Work,” which had worthwhile ideas about sharing one’s creations.
3. Sometimes I find myself falling into the trap of equating my level of musical performance with my self-worth.
You know what, while I can relate to this one (in a non-musical sense), I actually don’t think everyone can. I’ve met people who were terrible at their jobs, but they absolutely didn’t care—for a variety of reasons. A job for some is a completely separate entity, and their job performance is only that. Not all cultures are so “success”-driven like in America, but I’m glad you’re wary of that darn s-word.
I really like your idea of measuring “success” with growth-centered markers (surprise, surprise, after my obsession this year with Carol Dweck and the growth mindset). Or, as you wisely recently told me, you could measure achievement by how close you are to being “your truest you.”
And I admire your large step back into the fact that we are all humans.* As time goes on, I only see more and more examples of how complex (and long! yet short) a person’s life can be. Someone’s website or video is an itsy bitsy item, but a human being—their emotions, past, desires, relationships, society, daily struggles, passions, body language, genetics, creations, community, etc.—that’s a full-blown 4D experience. I’m simplifying this, but someone might be able to give a kick-ass piano performance in front of a camera, yet could be a total asshole. We cannot be defined by one thing.
(*And if you’d like to really freak out your mind, take an even larger step back and see that us complex human beings are minuscule specks of dust in this ever-expanding universe.)
4. Is music my true “calling”?
A few questions to start: Does each human even have a true calling? How do we know? And would “true” mean just one?
I was so excited to learn, upon reading Julia Child’s awesome book “My Life in France,” that she first went to France at the age of 36. Her entire love affair with French cuisine and cooking (including all the learning (starting at zero), experimenting, cook-book writing, and TV hosting) happened after that point. Although I realize it’s silly to use 36 as an arbitrary age comparison, it’s still cool to think: “I can keep farting around for nine more years, and my greatest life pleasure might still be ahead of me!”
As far as following paths goes, I think this Ralph Waldo Emerson quote speaks for itself:
“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”
Later on you’ll be able to connect the dots backwards and see the path you made.
5. I feel stuck, musically. I feel like I’m playing the same things again and again.
Good idea to force yourself into the uncomfortable by forbidding a certain lick or style! You know, I’ve read that Dr. Seuss was bet by his publisher that he couldn’t write a book using only 50 different words. The result? “Green Eggs and Ham.” By imposing limits, you can force yourself to be creative.
Exposing yourself to new things can help get your creative juices flowing, too. That can be as simple as walking a new route to somewhere you go often, reading a book or article outside of your preferred genre, socializing with people in different fields from you, etc. Remember that you have (to an extent) control over your input: what you see and hear each day. By controlling the input—and then giving yourself space for the subconscious to make connections—you’ll get unstuck.
So to conclude as you did, none of us have it figured out. And I don’t think we’ll ever feel as if we have it “figured out” (let’s ask Grandma?). Gregorio (age 50) just mentioned the other day that if he couldn’t see himself in the mirror, he feels—in his mind—the same as he’s always been.
Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts with the internet world—for beginning this discussion. It’s never easy to be raw, let alone with an audience, but the audience always appreciates and benefits from it (as does the one who shares their inner thoughts, right?).
“The vivid detail at which you share the truth that stirs in your soul will move all the people it’s intended to touch. The aim is not to receive mass approval or have everyone connect with your work. It is to reach those who experience goosebumps when they come into your orbit because the realness at which you create grabs them and pulls them close. Be true to yourself, and the work you know you must create, and you will experience the profound joy of honoring yourself and your creative vision.
And as Neil Gaiman reminds us: If you’re doing it right, you will feel like you’re revealing too much of yourself.”
So here’s to many more decades of questioning, reflecting, revealing ourselves and sharing as we both continue on this journey of growth.
