Lessons from Somewhere: June 2013

It was unbelievably early. The train ride to Brooklyn was a struggle and I couldn’t seem to keep my eyes open. I’d felt a bit run down that week; it’d been a hard month actually, the kind wherein everything seemed even more taxing than normal.

I got off the subway at thee Atlantic Pacific station and exited towards the
Barclay’s Center. The arena is surprisingly beautiful on the outside, and the way it’s designed, the staircase from the subway lets you out right in front. It’s something I sort of love about the morning. After riding underground, it’s like you’re emerging into light and I find it very satisfying.

As I made my journey up the stairs, that relished sense of satisfaction was disturbed. Instead, I filtered into a crowd of hundreds and hundreds of family, friends and future high school graduates. It was an insane amount of people and I knew making my way through them would be challenging. But I bucked up, spat out a vulgar word and sought the most efficient pathway towards my office.

As I wove through the teenagers dressed in their caps and gowns, I was reminded of my own high school graduation. It was one of the happiest moments (I know this because I smiled like an idiot thee entire time). Graduation didn’t simply mean getting out of high school (which I was very much ready to do). It was a ceremony filled with promise, a day wherein everything in the world — both great and small — seemed entirely achievable. I was entering the world on a series of possible promises, floating into it on a cloud of dreams.

With time, as anyone over 18 knows, that feeling fades. This is bitter-sweet. We grow-up, becoming less idealistic and naive. We learn that people will let us down. They may even use their words to hurt us and keep us from living big. Eventually, we might begin living more realistically instead of as visionaries… this is sort of fine, but also, sort of sad.

As adults, we see the world more honestly. It’s valuable, but as I shuffled through this herd of very, very young adults, I felt their energy, excitement and hopefullness.

It was nice experiencing their bliss even as a bystander and it made me think:

When do we stop believing in impossible things and stop pursuing them? I call myself a dreamer. I want to write a book; I want to see the world; I want my work to affect people and help them live their best lives. Then I wondered if I really believed I was capable of doing these things or was my more adult outlook keeping me from believing in myself?

That morning, as I looked at these young people just beginning their lives, I learned that I need to remember that sense of promise I felt on graduation day more often. We will mature and become more realistic—and we absolutely should. But this child like belief that we can do anything and that our dreams can come true should never change. We must hold onto that small part of ourselves as it means that at any point, even when we’re at our lowest, there’s some part of us that will believe we can win.

And this speck of hope is what will pull us out of the dark and towards something greater.

 

 

 

 

 

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