A letter to myself
Dear Roomie,
If you ever come back to our room and find that a hurricane has blown through, please blame James Joyce.
Ever since I read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, I've been searching everywhere for an epiphany. I mean, if Stephen Dedaelus could find his true calling in life through a sudden moment of clarity---then surely so could I.
One night last summer, I took a walk in a thunderstorm. It was the closest I've ever come to a moment of clarity. I'd been walking a friend home and it had started raining. Out of some whim, I decided I liked the rain, the darkness, the lightning, the thunder. So I didn't go home. I traced the cracks in the sidewalk with my steps, seeing teardrops in the grass. Streetlights danced and so did the sky. The whole world seemed so poetic to me then! I wanted to be a poet, a romantic, a starving artist wandering the streets on a stormy night---cold, wet, alone, and free.
Dripping wet, I returned home to find what looked like a small hunting party on my front porch. My parents had been freaking out about my two-hour disappearance in the rain. They'd organized a neighborhood search party to look for me. Yeeesh. Too exhilarated to care, I brushed by the screaming adults. I ran to my room, trekking water and mud across the carpet, turning my desk into a puddle of soaked looseleafs while trying to find my journal. I wrote the whole experience down, not wanting to forget.
Just to warn you, I still take these walks. And I love them. Someday, I will find my epiphany in a thunderstorm. But probably not before drenching our dorm room a few times too. I apologize in advance for this. Truly.
Remember: blame Joyce.
Yours truly,
Dianna
That was my senior year of high school answer to the question "Write a note to your future roommate relating a personal experience that reveals something about you."
Sentimental, yes. Dramatic, yes. But my 17 year old self meant every single word.
*
It's probably not the safest habit, but I find that I have some of the deepest moments of introspection when I am driving. I remember how I loved to drive aimlessly at night on the streets and highways back at home. There would be no other cars, only a few streetlights, sometimes rain. I could be totally lost in my head.
Today, as I was driving back from dinner, I realized that after three years at Stanford, I finally feel like I have found myself again. And to my surprise, it was strikingly similar the self I've subconsciously tried to shelve away since coming to college. When I graduated from high school, I silently promised I'd never again try to deny myself of my genuine passions only in order to satisfy the pressures and expectations of my family and an ingrained part of my own beliefs. No more "self-denial," in the words of Stephen. His death - has it been almost 5 years now? - had taught me that much, at least, or so I thought.
But then I came to Stanford and got caught up again! They say your environment shapes you. Certainly the competition and pre-professionalism got to me. I no longer had time to write, to think, to be artistic, to do all the things I said I would. In high school, I remember thinking being the editor of Scratch Pad, the literary magazine, was exactly where I belonged and what I wanted to do with my life. I was surrounded by friends who had similar ideals - artists (Steph), playwrights (Sam), future novelists (Beth) and admired them so much for it. What happened to the girl who wrote poetry, composed music, and wanted - in the overly sentimental words of my college application - to be "a starving artist wandering the streets on a stormy night---cold, wet, alone, and free."
I was so naive at age 17, and 100% an idealist with this utterly romantic notion of what a "beautiful life" meant. I wanted only to become "an artist" and to "help society" with no idea of what that meant or entailed.
Completely immature and naive right? Maybe. But now I've realized that after taking a tour through the world of practicality, I've slowly been reverting back to form. Oh yeah, I have become a hundred times more realistic. That comes with getting older. My parents have always, always tried to reign in my idealism. Ever since I had enough self-awareness to rebel, this has persistently been the most heated point of contention between my parents and me. After all, they didn't leave behind their home and professorships in China and start from the bottom rung here in the U.S. only so that I could spend my life volunteering in sub-Saharan Africa feeding poor orphans. They wanted me to be a doctor or engineer and have all the opportunities and material things they never had. They've never explicitly pressured me but I've created for myself the expectations of success nonetheless. Before now, I have always felt on my shoulders a burden I couldn't handle, that of balancing my own ideas of a beautiful life with my responsibilities to my family. Now, however, I think I have finally figured out how they can converge.
I finally have enough confidence in myself to pursue my most genuine interests - that's the humanities and the advancement of art and the betterment of society - while at the same time, fulfilling what I feel are my responsibilities to my family. I may go off track again in the future - that's very likely - but I know I'll always find my way back in the end.
So. I have reverted back to form, I have come full circle - but along the way, I think, I have gained enough wisdom to reconcile distant dreams with grounded reality. I finally had my epiphany a la James Joyce or at the least, the closest I've come to a moment of clarity. I'm more happy with my life than I have been in a long time and I look forward to waking up every day and reaching toward my notion of beauty.
If you ever come back to our room and find that a hurricane has blown through, please blame James Joyce.
Ever since I read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, I've been searching everywhere for an epiphany. I mean, if Stephen Dedaelus could find his true calling in life through a sudden moment of clarity---then surely so could I.
One night last summer, I took a walk in a thunderstorm. It was the closest I've ever come to a moment of clarity. I'd been walking a friend home and it had started raining. Out of some whim, I decided I liked the rain, the darkness, the lightning, the thunder. So I didn't go home. I traced the cracks in the sidewalk with my steps, seeing teardrops in the grass. Streetlights danced and so did the sky. The whole world seemed so poetic to me then! I wanted to be a poet, a romantic, a starving artist wandering the streets on a stormy night---cold, wet, alone, and free.
Dripping wet, I returned home to find what looked like a small hunting party on my front porch. My parents had been freaking out about my two-hour disappearance in the rain. They'd organized a neighborhood search party to look for me. Yeeesh. Too exhilarated to care, I brushed by the screaming adults. I ran to my room, trekking water and mud across the carpet, turning my desk into a puddle of soaked looseleafs while trying to find my journal. I wrote the whole experience down, not wanting to forget.
Just to warn you, I still take these walks. And I love them. Someday, I will find my epiphany in a thunderstorm. But probably not before drenching our dorm room a few times too. I apologize in advance for this. Truly.
Remember: blame Joyce.
Yours truly,
Dianna
That was my senior year of high school answer to the question "Write a note to your future roommate relating a personal experience that reveals something about you."
Sentimental, yes. Dramatic, yes. But my 17 year old self meant every single word.
*
It's probably not the safest habit, but I find that I have some of the deepest moments of introspection when I am driving. I remember how I loved to drive aimlessly at night on the streets and highways back at home. There would be no other cars, only a few streetlights, sometimes rain. I could be totally lost in my head.
Today, as I was driving back from dinner, I realized that after three years at Stanford, I finally feel like I have found myself again. And to my surprise, it was strikingly similar the self I've subconsciously tried to shelve away since coming to college. When I graduated from high school, I silently promised I'd never again try to deny myself of my genuine passions only in order to satisfy the pressures and expectations of my family and an ingrained part of my own beliefs. No more "self-denial," in the words of Stephen. His death - has it been almost 5 years now? - had taught me that much, at least, or so I thought.
But then I came to Stanford and got caught up again! They say your environment shapes you. Certainly the competition and pre-professionalism got to me. I no longer had time to write, to think, to be artistic, to do all the things I said I would. In high school, I remember thinking being the editor of Scratch Pad, the literary magazine, was exactly where I belonged and what I wanted to do with my life. I was surrounded by friends who had similar ideals - artists (Steph), playwrights (Sam), future novelists (Beth) and admired them so much for it. What happened to the girl who wrote poetry, composed music, and wanted - in the overly sentimental words of my college application - to be "a starving artist wandering the streets on a stormy night---cold, wet, alone, and free."
I was so naive at age 17, and 100% an idealist with this utterly romantic notion of what a "beautiful life" meant. I wanted only to become "an artist" and to "help society" with no idea of what that meant or entailed.
Completely immature and naive right? Maybe. But now I've realized that after taking a tour through the world of practicality, I've slowly been reverting back to form. Oh yeah, I have become a hundred times more realistic. That comes with getting older. My parents have always, always tried to reign in my idealism. Ever since I had enough self-awareness to rebel, this has persistently been the most heated point of contention between my parents and me. After all, they didn't leave behind their home and professorships in China and start from the bottom rung here in the U.S. only so that I could spend my life volunteering in sub-Saharan Africa feeding poor orphans. They wanted me to be a doctor or engineer and have all the opportunities and material things they never had. They've never explicitly pressured me but I've created for myself the expectations of success nonetheless. Before now, I have always felt on my shoulders a burden I couldn't handle, that of balancing my own ideas of a beautiful life with my responsibilities to my family. Now, however, I think I have finally figured out how they can converge.
I finally have enough confidence in myself to pursue my most genuine interests - that's the humanities and the advancement of art and the betterment of society - while at the same time, fulfilling what I feel are my responsibilities to my family. I may go off track again in the future - that's very likely - but I know I'll always find my way back in the end.
So. I have reverted back to form, I have come full circle - but along the way, I think, I have gained enough wisdom to reconcile distant dreams with grounded reality. I finally had my epiphany a la James Joyce or at the least, the closest I've come to a moment of clarity. I'm more happy with my life than I have been in a long time and I look forward to waking up every day and reaching toward my notion of beauty.