Change, and the Way Things Are
A note on choosing the road less traveled.
There’s a stretch of road in Napa Valley that sits in a quiet area where trees hug the vineyards and sunlight barely punctures the leaves. There’s just enough shade to prevent a street runner from boiling under the June sunlight. Though it’s not a busy street, in this area of Northern California, where driving between multiple wine tastings, slightly buzzed, is a norm, the cars that do pass pose just enough of a threat to cause anyone on foot to be wary.
As I run in the opposite direction of traffic — using the term “traffic” lightly, as I passed only maybe two dozen cars over an hour — I notice how few cars move to the center of the road to avoid accidentally hitting the guy running along the shoulder. It’s broad daylight outside, and I’m dressed in a bright orange shirt with black shorts. I’m a running traffic cone.
One car after another passes, and nearly all of them ride the solid white line that divides their lane from the shoulder where I’m running. And one after another, I dart into the embankment, avoiding even the mere possibility that the driver sneezes and swerves just a little too much in my direction. In the shady spots along the route, it feels even more dangerous, providing brief relief from the sun for me but dark blind spots to the handful of drivers already not paying attention. Every few minutes I think: Is this it? Will this one hit me? It’s hard not to compare this tiny sample size with the greater whole of humanity. Generosity feels lost.
As the next car approaches, maybe the fifth or sixth now, he provides a ray of hope for the larger collective, gently swerving to the middle, acknowledging me with a slight wave and even slighter smile. It’s funny how quickly I revert back to the positive. Thank God some good ones still exist.
That thought quickly fades as another car passes, forcing me into the embankment yet again, the driver turning his head to look at me, then turning back to watch the empty road.
With the sun beating down and the wind blowing over the tops of the grape vines, I find a comfortable pace and hit a flow. I wonder about the drivers who think they own the road, the passengers who don’t speak up. I think about how often I had to jump into the embankment, a sort of proactive measure to ensure I live long enough to taste at least some of the wine surrounding me on all sides. In a greater context, the run reminds me somewhat of life, bobbing and weaving through the hard times, enjoying the little moments when someone decides to make space for a stranger.
Somehow, an hour later, I’m still alive.
Last month I left Hawaii, and for the most part, the Navy, too, preparing for a new chapter of life in New York City. Though I won’t miss the overpriced food and being so far away from the rest of civilization, there’s something to be said for needing a wardrobe that consists of only shorts and sandals. They’re applicable at any time of the day, any day of the year.
This fall I will start graduate school at Columbia University, writing and reading for an MFA in creative writing (in the fiction concentration, despite all these essays). It’s a big leap, leaving something so financially secure, but I’m familiar with this path, of leaving behind what I know and trying something new.
The truth is, I’ve wanted to attend graduate school for a while now. I prolonged it when I joined the Navy, uninterested in taking on $150k in student debt, uninterested in figuring out what I wanted to do while accumulating that debt. That was back when I wanted to study public policy, when I thought I wanted to write policy. It turns out, I just wanted to write. So here we are, four years later, and I’m ready to switch it up again. Another little moment to enjoy.
There’s a saying in the Navy that sailors hate only two things: change, and the way things are. It’s an aphorism truer than most.
I am, somewhat, different. I thrive on change, on new surroundings and new people. But this change is not without nervousness. Of all the questions I get asked, two remain constant: a) What are you doing next? And b) Why now? Why leave the comfortable paycheck and security of a job for a career where only the lucky few can make a survivable living?
I’ve been humbly and pleasantly surprised by the reactions to my answer of the first question. In all honesty, I still hesitate when someone asks. “I’m going to grad school,” I initially say. Who doesn’t support further educating oneself? But it’s the next part that increases my heart rate. “What are you studying?” After a moment, knowing there’s really no way to spin “writing” without sounding like a buffoon, I speak the truth. Nearly every time I have received a response in the vein of “that’s amazing” or “incredible, good for you!” I really don’t know what I expected. Someone to laugh? Someone to tell me how dumb it is that I’m throwing my career away for a hobby? It gives me some hope for the future.
As for the second question, the elevator answer is that I will always have a fall back option. In the worst of times, I have a solid resume that will provide a buffer. In the event that I wake up one morning and decide I’m not actually good at writing, surely someone will hire a technical project manager with a security clearance.
The longer answer is that the timing couldn’t be better, that I’m finally pursuing this dream after learning a bit about life. I can’t imagine me as a post-college graduate, writing novels and submitting short stories to literary magazines having not seen any of the world; having not been dumped and had my heart broken; having not been deployed to sea and learned just how fragile the System really is; having not learned right from wrong; having not chosen wrong from right and learned the hard way. As Warren Buffet has repeatedly said, do the job you’d want if you didn’t need the money. And though only about 12 people in the world don’t actually need the money, the sentiment is real.
Writing, for me, is a release. It’s a constructive way to formulate thoughts and desires into a format that others can interpret on their own, as they see fit. It’s a way to both see and be seen. And it’s gratifying as hell.
In 2013, Oprah gave the commencement address at Harvard University, delivering a speech in true pizazz and unmatched confidence. A little more than halfway through she tells a brief story about the need of being seen and feeling validated — how it’s something that, at the end of the day, every one of us has in common. From President Bush to President Obama and Beyonce herself, everyone she’s interacted with has sought validation in his or her own way. Was that okay? they’d always ask.
Writing is also a way of seeing others, of finding my own validation and telling stories that allow those others to connect and find their own validation, too. Literature, as only few other forms of art can do, has that power. It has the effect of turning pages of words into motivation, into empathy, into a sometimes much-needed reset.
Though the road ahead is unclear, I will write as if I didn’t need the money. This path, too, is likely filled with trees that provide shade at dangerous curves along the way. But as I’ve learned, all I need to do is bob and weave, dodging the obstacles that come my way and embracing the little moments that keep me moving forward. And though this next chapter is quite literally still unwritten, I’m comforted by those who still wave to the passing runner, who still make space for those of us pursuing a dream and in spite of those who choose to hog the road.
I’m guessing in the very near future that I, too, will ask the question: Was that okay?