Quarter-life Crisis Mode in Full Effect...

This morning I had an appointment with a career adviser at my alma mater to discuss a career path / should I go to grad school. I had the spiel ready of what I've studied, what work I've done and why I went to New Zealand. For those of you that aren't familiar with my saga, here it is in a nutshell;  I studied several different majors in college, did quite well in all of them, but was never happy until I became an International Studies major and Philosophy minor. I stayed in the same financial services administrative job after college and after a while was unhappy in that field of work. I am not an administrative type person, I prefer creativity and complex problem-solving. So I quit to work in non-profits and travel. I applied for a visa in New Zealand and took off for 7 months. I discovered a lot about myself, learned more about who I am in those 7 months than I have the past 30 years. Now I was back home, and what should I do? Well, I knew the answer, I had to keep traveling. I needed to learn more about who I wanted to be.

But I turned 31 recently and the other night I had a dream that my hair was 70% grey. This was after I attended an International Grad School Fair. I found the program of my dreams, in Paris on Sustainable Development, yet it was obvious the school prefers their students to attend right after undergrad. It even states it on some of their marketing material that they welcome students under the age of 27. Twenty-seven!! That was four years ago. Then the calm rational person that understood that I needed to keep exploring the world took a hike (or a nap since she is getting older) and now the new me went into full quarter-life crisis mode.

So here I was in my career adviser's office freakin' out about what I needed to do to get my life straightened out and find a plan. I talked about my friends and how they all had careers in their fields of choice. I knew that I shouldn't be comparing myself to other people, but its human nature. I felt like I was having an out of body experience. I heard my voice crack with emotion at how I am very good at several things, but nothing that I would be able to specialize in. She spoke to me in the same clinical tone that I grew to dislike about counselors. That tone that suggests she has heard this all before and there was a simple solution. Just do what you're doing. Keep exploring. But what if I get too old, I asked? The counselor was in her 50's and the question also seemed to imply something about her. I got my master's when I was 40 she said. Yeah, I thought to myself, if I want to be a counselor, I wouldn't be worried.

She was telling me what I knew all along, don't go to grad school until you are sure. Figure out who you are and what you want to do by process of elimination. Try new things (and new places- I added). Keep reflecting on what you're doing and what motivates you.  When I went to college I wasn't a traditional student. I was a bit older than my colleagues and that actually was a bonus. I had more life experience.That is something you cannot get in grad school. All these things I already knew. But somehow, it sounded better coming from someone with grey hair.

Selling my attachments

The sounds of coffee cups clinking, soft music, water running and an expresso machine buzzing sorround me in this coffee shop. The singer coos, “life is good” as a soft guitar starts to pick up the rythem. I sip my coffee and think over the past few hours. I had sold a good majority of my personal effects in a yard/life sale. I sat there and watched anxiously as people picked pieces of my existence and judged them. Worthy of a dollar? Perhaps. Perhaps not, and they would set them down after a second’s consideration. I would make a terrible business woman I thought, since I really didn’t want them to buy anything. It feels like they are buying my experiences. How much for this an older Korean man asks me about a mini copper curiosity. Oh that I replied, well I bought that in Morrocco at a bazarr in this small town outside of Fez. After going through a labrinth of alleyways and streets, I found this tiny bazarr. He looks at me quizzically, then his faced twisted in a strained look. How much is it? he asks me again.  Oh, $2, I replied. One he counters, and I shook my head, looking down at my feet. No, I can’t, I say. He keeps looking through my things. I sat back down on my porch steps thinking about the past few days. I had the noble proposition to get rid of as much of my belongings as possible. I was, after all, about to begin traveling again, and I really didn’t need most of my belongings for a good long time. I didn’t know if I was coming back, but if I was it would be after a long time away. These things only took up space and I had moved them from apartment to apartment for the last several years. Besides, attachment is suffering proclaims the Buddha. And I agree. It is, and I was suffering getting rid of all those attachments. When I started going through my things for this sale, I would pick up an item and say, “I bought this when I was traveling cross-country and we  (boyfriend at the time, and I) stopped off in New Orleans. There were torrential downpours that weekend, but we spent our days getting soaked and wandering the old neighborhoods. The colors of the old houses had a special glow amidst the warm, humid air. I remember looking into this shop and thinking I could use a dry shirt. And I bought this one. This attachment. The guy I traveled with at that time has been long gone, but the memory of that time still lived on. And now I was about to sell it for $1.

But its not the money that I was after. I needed to let go. I need to realize that all these attachments represent the past. The paintings for sale that hung in an old apartment where I was unhappy. The shoes I bought when I last reinvented myself to someone I wanted to be, but ultimately, I was not. It would have been much easier to drive up to the local resale shop and given these things away. But I had to face my things and myself, for 5 hours on a cloudy Sunday afternoon. I had to look at them and say goodbye to that life, there is no room in my backpack for those things. I’ll be traveling again in three weeks.

I sip on my third cup of coffee, watching the rain outside the window. The music is still soft, but now the singer same singer is cooing "it won’t be long for me." I agree. e heeHERHHHHVFDLVKJRLEVMKERLMVRLMVLKERMBVBVR