The opposite of dying.

Recently I read Marina Keegan’s now-famous essay for the Yale Daily News, “The Opposite of Loneliness.”

It is famous because it’s a lovely piece. Written in 2012 in the week of Keegan's graduation from college, it embodies the tension, uncertainty, and lip-biting optimism of this season. It suggests a woman moving forward from the collegiate cocoon into the realities of the adult world. It is honest, idealistic, joyful, frightened, hopeful.

It is also famous because Marina Keegan died in a car accident just days after her graduation.

As I read it, I – like everyone else who reads the essay knowing the story – couldn’t help but delight at the beauty of her hope, and grieve at the poignancy of it. Here is a young woman who stands looking out at what she sees as the beginning of her adult life. She marvels at it. She shrinks away from the unknowns. Then she runs boldly towards them all. She says, “We’re so young. We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time.”

Only – she didn’t.

And that is one scary thing about death. We like to think of it as something having a proper time and a place. The time is far into the future, and the place is at the end of a full life: a gentle, welcome conclusion to a life well-lived. But death is not so tidy. It likes to sneak up on us at odd moments, and that is scary.

Another scary thing about death is that it closes the book. And wherever we were up to in our writing – even there at the half-finished sentence, the misspelt word, the angry exclamation – is where the book is done. Or undone, as the case may be.

That’s why, in Marina Keegan’s story, although there is a sense of deep sorrow at a bright young life being seemingly cut short, there is also a sense of triumph: the story ends on a rich, meaningful note, one that will have echoes far into the future. It’s not a happy ending, but it’s a great ending. Marina Keegan left her mark on the world, and it is a good mark.

Sometimes, when I’ve had a particularly lame day, overthought everything, talked too much, accidentally been a jerk to the people I love the most, and wrestled with creative paralysis, I worry that I might die in the night and the only legacy I’ll have left behind is a bad taste in people’s mouths.

I don’t think I’m alone in that. Even for those of us who believe there is life after life, we are not so much scared of death (although it can be frightening, because it is strange to us); we are scared of having not really lived. We are scared that we will not do what we were meant to do with this “one wild and precious life.” And all the unfinished projects, the untouched possibilities, the wide open relationships, the people we love the most that we haven’t loved the most – all of them are a hundred tiny swords of Damocles, suspended over our lives and ready to come crashing down at our failures.

People like Marina Keegan empower us, and they terrify us. We hope we will end well, but we can’t be sure we will. One of the gentlest men I have known once told me, “I worry that my time will be up just as I’m snapping angrily at my wife.” Even he was not immune. It seems that none of us want to be caught in the messiness of a first draft.

That’s why it’s freeing – achingly, beautifully freeing – to consider that our legacy, whether it’s a whisper or a shout, is not only about how well we lived. It’s also about how well we were loved. A life well-loved is a life well-lived. That is a rich life, and a full life. If there is one person who loves you, then you exist, you are valued, your very being is important.

Within the Christian worldview, this understanding goes even deeper. To be loved in many cases means to be lovely. To have friends requires us to be friendly. And there are days when we are not lovely. There are days where we are not friendly. There are days when we are abandoned and alone. This is, after all, the essence of the fear.

What then? What of those times? The Christian message, the message of the gospel, is for those very times. At the bleakest, at the blackest, at the most unlovely: still loved, still beloved.

The horse hairs snap, the tiny swords fall, and He is there catching them all in his bare hands, heedless of the pain and of the blood that flows from the wounds.

This is not permission for any of us to embrace the jerkdom that either hibernates within us or openly roams free. It is not permission to waste our lives; love compels us to live better lives. But it is permission to look ahead with hope and to silence the voice that tells us we must do something important in order to be important.

You may have sixty years left or you may have six. In every one of them: be loved, because you are beloved. That is the opposite of dying.

"It's time we stopped talking about what we're going to do when we grow up. We ARE up."

I know I’ve mentioned it before, but whenever I think of adulthood -- or what I once thought it would be -- I remember a project we were tasked with in primary school. On a piece of paper segmented into four rectangles, we were meant to draw projections of our future selves. The future self that stands out the most is me as a woman in my twenties or thirties. I am wearing a shockingly attractive canary yellow skirt suit (most probably influenced by Princess Diana, I’m thinking) and a matching pair of yellow patent leather pumps. My heels are high, my hair is long, and my handbag (also yellow) swings out from my hip, suggesting that here is a woman who is going places fast. I don’t know what I imagined this future woman doing, but it was important and it involved an office. Yes, an office, little baby past-Danielle. Most likely on the twenty-third floor. With a snappily-dressed personal assistant who would carry that handbag when I needed both hands free for doing important business stuff. You know it.

Oh baby little dreams, you know what I think of you? I think: HA HA HA HA HA. (And not just because of the canary yellow, which was never going to look good on anyone except Lady Di.)

I have never worn a skirt suit in my entire life. I have like three items of clothing with actual lapels and the closest thing to a suit is a pseudo-biker jacket. I have also never worn high heels. Ever. The intense surgery I had on my feet as a baby took care of that. Of course, they’re the same feet I had when I drew the picture, but maybe while I scribbled, I was thinking puberty was going to miraculously give me princess feet. Puberty didn’t give me princess anything.

 It’s more than that, though. The idea of wearing power suits and working on the twenty-third floor of some swish high-rise is a bit terrifying. I still wear pink hi-top sneakers. I have a penchant for ugly cardigans. Sometimes the Captain Planet theme song gets stuck in my head for no reason at all. I am so far from being the poised businesswoman dressed head to heels in Pantone #14-0848 (Mimosa) that occasionally it hits me: I might be letting my big-dreamer younger self down. Or, perhaps even more terrifying: I worry that I still am my big-dreamer younger self, masquerading as a grown up and telling myself I’ll be the power-walking hair-swisher some day.

 I think, though, that the more honest truth is that my definition of adulthood has changed. I don’t see myself needing to attain the executive office because adulthood is more than that and less than that. I’m rewriting my definition because I’m an adult now but I’m not the adult I thought I’d be. Which sounds like a terribly backwards Gen Y method for coming up with anything, and not in a good way. “Let’s do this thing and see what it becomes and then let’s call it what we think it looks like.” Flaky, I know.

But my total failure to become what I thought I’d be reminds me that I actually no longer want to be that person. Who knows if I ever did? For most of my childhood and teens, I resisted the entire idea of growing up, putting my foot down against the unwished-for intrusion of hormones, responsibility, and the inevitable decline into life as the kind of boring person who would rather talk than play. Eventually I reconciled to the idea of adulthood, but I subconsciously filed away certain new parameters under which such a state of being would be attained. Now that I have attained said state of being (mostly through no other virtue than that I recognise that it has happened), I realise that once again I’ve failed to master any of the steps I thought were required. Or if I somehow reached them, they turned out to be far less impressive than I’d hoped.

For one thing, I thought that an aura of busyness was the glamorous external proof of a gloriously adult life. Double-booking events? So mature. Having something on every evening? Seriously cool. Having to schedule phone calls with your own sister? Man, that is Adulthood with a capital A. Actually, it’s not. It’s the curse of our age, and being busy says nothing about age or maturity; it says you either have too much on your plate, or you’re a bad manager, neither of which are particularly fantastic. I have been tear-your-hair-out busy, and it doesn’t make me feel more adult. It just makes me feel tired.

I was sure, too, that adults always know what to say. No matter what comes at them, they can answer with a gentle laugh or a sympathetic frown. Adults don’t regret the things they say. They certainly don’t drive home after parties replaying cringeable moments in their heads. And they find a way to say yes to everything, mostly because they are good at everything, so nothing is ever a problem. (Nope. No. No. No).

Similarly, I thought adulthood means curbing your enthusiasm and being mildly interested in things rather than a rabid fan. Adulthood also means growing out of the things you once loved. Not just some things, but all of them. Of course, when I believed this initially, I had forgotten about the existence of Batman. So there’s that.

Adding to the enthusiasm thing, all adults are supposed to closely hold the secrets of the universe within their psyche. They are neither openly enthusiastic nor insecure. They also keep a lot of thoughts private, which makes them seem aloof and mysterious and cool. Try as I might, I don’t tend to hold my own secrets very closely (behold, evidential artefact #72: this blog). I’m intrigued by the humanity of humans, by this bizarre shared experience of being people in this world together. I believe in openness and honesty (with discretion, at the right time). I care about authenticity and genuineness. I think we have a lot to offer each other, and we do that by sharing. Yes, I still find the mystique of mysteriousness to be ridiculously compelling, but I’m learning that it’s not necessarily any more adult than being a (mostly) open book.

Of course, my original view of adults also held that they have all the answers. They know what to think and they know when to think it. They are sure of what they believe. They are sure they are sure. I was actually like this once, and it was a really confidence-boosting time to be alive. I had so many answers and so few questions! I was interesting! Self-assured! Articulate! Actually, I was probably quite smug and self-satisfied and if you encountered that version of me, I am genuinely sorry. I don’t have all the answers any more. I major in uncertainty, and sometimes this frustrates me. Whether this is a failing of adulthood, a failing of myself, or not even a failing at all, I don’t know. But sometimes I feel that uncertainty is a healthier place to rest. Clinging certainly in the uncertain places, finding peace with my own lack of answers/resting in the wisdom and grace of others, fits far more closely with the Judeo-Christian worldview I hold to. It’s a belief system that acknowledges neediness and turns it into strength. Its leader shrugged off divinity to embrace the weakness of humanity. He calls to “all who are weary.” Less answers means more need, closer communion. You don’t have to be inherently awesome, but you will be awesomely loved.

Most of all, adults don’t talk about being adults. They just are, and they don’t need to analyse or examine it because they’re good at it without thinking. They don’t look at the chicken curry bubbling in a crockpot and think, “This is adulthood!” But I, who cannot adult without recognising my adulting, relish the small things that remind me I’m a grown up. Buying a clothes airer, for example. Pulling apart the plumbing under my vanity unit and putting it all together again. Having obscure ingredients in my pantry just when I need them. Realising I would rather stay in some nights than go out every evening and that’s a choice I get to make. These little rites of passage are, of course, as arbitrary as the wattle-coloured handbag and the fancy job. But I’ll take them, because adulthood isn’t my childhood fantasy any more; it’s reality, and I find I rather like it.

Finally, adults certainly don’t say “the end” at the conclusion of their stories, because that’s a thing left over from fairytales, and adults have outgrown fairytales.

(Myth: BUSTED).

THE END.

----------

Conversations:

• Cora Lynn -- lovely to get a comment from you! It made me grin; I love strong book opinions/feelings :D
• Emily Dempster -- well, I do hear you there. If you can't go all out with roses and lace on a romantic book, then when can you?
• Jasmine Ruigrok -- ooh, I had totally written my blog post from the perspective of someone who's just like "OOH BOOKS PRETTY!" but it added a whole new level thinking about it from the perspective of someone who designs book covers themselves. Some cool insights, thank you!
• Jessica -- I am so with you on not wanting to see a photo representing the character. I'd much rather see no physical depiction of the character and get to form my own opinion of what he or she looks like based on the author's words. But if there is going to be a picture -- art, not photo!
• Meaghan -- thank you, milady!
• Rachel Lyn -- thank you for dropping by and leaving a comment. Totally with you on the minimal cover preference/no people pictures thing!

System reboot.

Last week I was able to take leave from both my jobs. With uni being done and no work at all for seven days solid, I was on the most holidayish holiday I’ve had in ages -- certainly, in 2014 so far. I was ridiculously excited by this prospect. My week was going to be awesome! Illuminating! Life-altering!

I had grand visions of doing all these amazing things: completely reorganising my walk-in closet, working out for hours every day, reading stacks of books, making art, writing stories, replying to the five hundred letters I owe people, hanging out with my little brother and being the world’s best sister, doing up a new menu plan and shopping for lots of fresh food. I was also going to be charming, snappily-dressed, witty, entertaining, and super-holy. You know, it’s never too late to try and be your best self all in one week, right?

But then… I didn’t really do much. Of anything. For starters, most of the time I felt like I was dying, which is my body’s really kind way of processing stress and anxiety. I struggle to catch the thoughts in order to stop them from taking root because my anxiety seems to bypass my conscious brain and instead just keeps my body constantly on the edge of fight-or-flight mode. So that was exhausting. I barely read a word. I did take six bags of books to the op shop, but that wasn’t so much satisfying as it was a slap in the face to my own humanness and a sudden existential tailspin into questions about mortality and the unenduring nature of pretty much everything ever. (I had visions of myself surrounded by a crumbling tower of old books, so make of that what you will). I watched a lot of German television and developed an unhealthy obsession with the all-too-cute cast, lurking their work anywhere it was to be found online. I wrote in my journal, but mostly it felt like me self-indulgently regurgitating all the messy thoughts I hadn’t had time to process towards the end of the semester. I thought too much about how to change things that can never change. I attempted to address all the questions of the universe, as well as some of the seemingly unfair issues of human existence. (Like, why do some people get to be pretty and others don’t? Why do some people get to be pretty and good at sports and musically-talented and with a winning personality? [See aforementioned German actors] How come it’s impossible to connect with certain people no matter how much time you invest in them?) The end result is that I felt just as confused after all my writing and processing as I did before it, and the whole week had this unsettled, dissatisfying hue over it.

This is the part where you should be laughing. I sure would be if it weren’t all so pathetic.

What you know -- and what I should’ve considered -- is that you can’t rewrite a life in a week. You can’t do everything you’ve put off for five years in five days. You can’t reboot just like that. I wailed at my BFF about this via text, slamming her with all my failed aspirations and intentions and confessing to her the extent of my ineffectiveness: “Why can’t I get obsessed with actual important things?” She is wise and sensible, and replied by saying, “You don’t have to turn on the Christianity when all of life is grounded in it.”

Her words -- always good -- reminded me that, when you live a life devoted to something (or Someone), there doesn’t get to be any distinction between secular and sacred. If you’re married everything you do is as a husband or wife, not just the husbandly/wifely things. You don’t turn it on or off. All things are permitted, but not all things are beneficial. It’s okay sometimes to rest, to think, to wait hopefully and expectantly for the sun to rise and burn away the last remnants of fog.

We live in a world that values achievement over just about everything else. There is no glory in quietly being. But sometimes that’s exactly what we need to do.

----------

Conversations:

• Asea -- everything you said about HTTYD2: YES. A thousand times. And I'm sorry you had such a rough day the day you posted. Here's an across-the-sea hug from me.
• Jasmine Ruigrok -- David Crowder is great; you really need to give him a listen! I loved your rundown of your day. It made me miss getting to sing with my siblings.
• Joy -- feel free to email me anytime! And your blog party sounds like a lot of fun. I'm going to pop by for a visit!

The last five years:

I never went on to tertiary study when I finished high school. In fact, I hardly even 'finished' at all. School just kind of faded out and work faded in, and suddenly I was doing a whole bunch of projects I really cared about, burning the candle at both ends, and loving every minute of it (I needed less sleep back then). A degree was the last thing on my mind. But five years ago, it all kind of fell together for me to begin a bachelor of arts, majoring in creative writing, minoring in history, maxing out in books and words and thoughts.

On Friday, I handed in my final paper of my Master's degree. Mum called later that day to share the excitement. "I just realised," she said, "that you've finished your degree just as everything is winding down." She was right. In those five years, my second sister got married. My brother re-met and got engaged to his high school crush. Two nephews and a niece joined the family. My parents lived in Tasmania, Western Australia, and New Zealand. A lot went on in that time and my personal world spun pretty fast.

But now: my dad has finished his recent work contract and moved back to Queensland. My parents are going into business together. My life has an established pattern in a place I feel at home in, even though I'd never have guessed I could feel at home in Queensland. But this is my place now. I feel like a local, I'm full of patriotic pride in this little region and all of its loveliness. I have two part-time jobs that I care about, I belong to a church. The people at my library know me by name. I have conversations with checkout people and sometimes I even see them at my church. The guy at Blockbuster asks after my life. The owner of the best local fish and chips place passed away recently and I'm sad because I feel like I knew him. I meet with a cool little gang on Thursday nights and we talk about life and CS Lewis. I meet with another friend on Monday night and we pray and read the bible. I have a buddy who lives on the north side but still makes time out of her busy life to hang out, see movies, and talk books. I kind of even know my way around without a map.

None of this was really going on five years ago. None of it. I felt like a newcomer to every part of what my life was then, and my roots weren't down deep. "Your degree gave you stability when there was none," my mother said on the phone. "Now you're finished and life has settled down." I hadn't thought of it that way, but it was true. And I've lived long enough to know that nothing ever settles down, really. But it does feel like we've come out onto a plateau and the view from here is a good one.

Considering this, I'm thankful. But I'm also wary that this may sound like everything's coming up Danielle. My life is no more perfect than it was five years ago. I think I'm definitely more neurotic than I was before. I wrestle more with anxiety. And the single life at times feels more like a cage than a pair of unfettered wings. But my life feels steady in a way I haven't often experienced in this wandering life, and that's new and good.

I've spent so many paragraphs talking about anything but what I actually studied and why it was relevant. It was ridiculously important to me, and I'm definitely going to expound on that, but for the moment I want to appreciate this unexpected revelation: that studying gave me some bones to hang my life on in a time when everything was shifting and uncertain me around me. I'm pretty thankful for that. And I'm thankful for the one who orchestrates time and circumstance so that the pieces fit together well, even if it only makes sense in retrospect.

----------

Conversations:

• Brenda Wilkerson -- thank you :)
• Lauren -- and thank you.
• Melody -- thank you for reading along! x
• Bush Maid -- I love that you can relate.
• Asea -- gosh, yes. I hadn't thought of the relationship to intuition. You're so right. (I've never heard of Predator Cities but it sounds amazing!).
• Meaghan -- oh you.
• Mothercare -- hearts. xx
• Joy -- thank you! Isn't it amazing how many kindred feelings and experiences we all share and yet struggle to find words for?
• The Elf -- I'm honoured by your nomination. Thank you!
• Brooke -- thank you for reminding me about your blog! I lost all my old feeds when my computer died, so now I can keep reading!