Sam R - 8/08/08
INWARD BOUND
The wall behind my bed is papered in pictures. Chock full of smiles and laughter, overflowing with happy memories of my childhood and beyond. As I go to sleep each night I stare at all the happy faces, smiling back at me. And I take a moment to pinpoint that one picture, that one anomaly- stern face, eyes focused and clear. Here I am, six years old and all too sure of myself. Red hair, blue eyes, three feet tall. Yet as I grew, my hair became orange, or strawberry blond, even a little brown. My eyes were green, sometimes gray, never true blue. I grew up and my firm footing slipped, leaving uncertainty the victor. And this is how I have lived my life. Stepping softly and observing, I made it hard for my red hair and blue eyes to be seen in a crowd of faces- and perhaps that’s the way I wanted it. I accepted, never questioned whether or not this was the way it should be. And then I guess I got myself stuck in a position where I had to question.
Bushwhacking. Even the word sounds like some sort of medieval torture, but I did it. Like so many others teens from the East Coast of America, I spent my summer “finding myself” at Outward Bound in Maine. I was as ready as I’d ever been to get away from summer’s chaos and do the Thoreau thing- into the woods. Here, following a map and a compass I was sure of myself. I understood exactly what I needed to do, where each path would lead me. And somehow the people around me took notice too. People asked me questions and I knew the answers. I gave no faltering responses. North is straight, stay in the land’s wind shadow to go fastest. This I knew and knew well. And I began to feel as I did when I was six, stern and sure.
Somehow in some far-off land I had been able to keep my feet on the ground and know that they belonged there. Who was this sure-footed girl I had become? Each grueling step was hard but taken with assurance and confidence. On those last days, when tired bodies and minds are comforted by only blissful sleep, we all came to reflect. Stuck in a tent, coated with perspiration and mosquitoes, we talked like old friends. We sat in the dark, eyes focus, intent on finding the right words to describe these people who had stood by us on our inward journeys. And we went along, each saying our piece about the other. And they came to me. And I didn’t know what they’d say. And I thought, and I didn’t care. Because I knew who I was. I knew that my path, if only for the past two weeks, had led me to my intended destination. But they saw it too. And suddenly I was “strong” and “respected” and “confident” to all. I marveled at how I could have spent even part of the past 17 years not being this person who I so clearly was.
And so I came home. A day early, even, to see my dear friends. I came back into this world, embracing all the necessary evils of the status quo. Back to the good life- hot showers, fresh veggies and clean hair! These novelties became the norm and slowly, the qualities that were as much me as my red hair and green eyes, blurred into that sometimes gray, occasionally green, never true blue state. I didn’t care so much about confidence and strength, rather I was on an expedition to find the perfect sweater and the most appropriate earrings. Moments, little pauses, make me stop and appreciate. Yet as quickly as I stop, I’m sucked back into the whirling dervish that is my “real” life. My “real” forests, made up of more than just trees and wildlife. There are people of all different sorts, a million and one instructors commanding contradicting acts. As I woke in the woods, my thoughts drifted to caterpillars crawling on the tent floor and now, I wake to college essays creeping, and looming application deadlines. I suppose I could have never expected it to stay the same. I returned to the home I had known for 17 years, and I had to step back. My mind swims with all the required responsibilities. I am awed by the ease in which I can, once again, become a pre-packaged product of my environment. Bushwhacking takes on new meaning; its not thick underbrush and scraped legs. Now, bushwhacking becomes an emotional struggle, trying to squirm my way through the trivialities and soap opera dramas of all the people I love.
I’m still home and people comment on my smile and my hair, those ever important parts of life. And I’ve come to realize that its not so important what other people say or comment on. But I realize, I'm the only one who can categorize myself. I can read a map, paddle a canoe in rapids and build a shelter all my own. But I can also sing a scared friend to sleep when all our thoughts are pinpointed at the possibility of wolves in our near future. And I can sit by a half dried up river, with iodine stained fingers and convince a fellow expeditioner to keep fighting. Better still, I’ve settled on one thing that I know for certain. I am determined and strong and respected. In the jumble of things that make up myself, there they are. And my red hair is sometimes called orange, or strawberry blonde, or carrot-colored. And my eyes still blur into that sometimes gray, occasionally green, never true blue state. But maybe that’s how it should be. My path is a little muddy, but as long as I have the right boots- I’ll make it through.
