When I was a child, time terrified me. I agonized about growing up, and in the dark, I wept, thinking that someday I’d be older. When I turned thirteen, I went with my family to a house party that my uncle and his band played at. He sang happy birthday for me, and I hid, because being thirteen meant I’d be a teenager, and being a teenager meant I was closer to a still unknown adulthood. Even though time was my specter, the hooded thief, I never felt comfortable in my years. I wanted the weight of experience without experiencing passed time.
I feel the weight of twenty-three lived years, and I feel how little this is, how light these years really are. My youngness, my inexperience, my newness and next to it, my experiences, failures, circumstances and decisions, the rawness of being alive.
As I move forward into my twenty-fourth year (it took a birthday card from my dad to correctly understand this math), I am thinking about this time in front of me, specifically thinking about my twenties. This decade is mythologized— at least it seems that way right now. There’s a massive literature this collective, cultural imagination, and according to about 90% of it, I think I’m doing it all wrong. I haven’t traveled much. I took a job that turned into a career three weeks after I graduated. Most of my clothing is from Target, and I still live in the same state in which I was born.
Instead of looking at what I want to do, I am looking at what I want to gain, what I want to invest in and take away from my twenties. (It’s a short list).
Recently, I listened to an episode of the Longform podcast that featured an interview with Cheryl Strayed. The ever-quotable writer said something that I stuck with me (and with every other writer who listened to the episode): “I didn’t just get lucky. I worked my fucking ass off. And then I got lucky. And if I hadn’t worked my ass off, I wouldn’t have gotten lucky. You have to do the work. You always have to do the work.”
This is my work: The pouring of myself and the full force of my humanity into my writing.
The reality is, no matter how many hours I put in or how many pages I write, there’s a chance that my writing will never be seen, and it’s a near statistical guarantee that I’ll never get lucky (at least not 800,000 copies of my memoir sold + a Hollywood movie deal lucky). Coming to grips with that is a constant struggle— some days, all I care about is the writing, other days, the idea of never reaching publication makes my blood cold— but no matter how I’m feeling, I know that I want to work my ass off. I want to do the work, so that if I never get published, I’ll know it’s not for lack of trying, and if I do get published, I’ll know that I worked hard enough to be proud of it.
The other thing I want to invest myself in, give my time and energy and love to, is wonder. I really believe that the ability to experience awe is one of the greatest gifts that humanity has been given. The ability to stand before reverence, and know that the world is big. That it’s beautiful, and it’s mysterious, and despite this you, small you, have been given the chance to see it, to feel it.
It’s easy to lose the wonder, and it’s just as easy to not see it when it’s there. When I was a girl, I loved dew in the morning, thought it was magic, thought each drop was placed there by fairies, thought it was a gift given straight to those who woke up early. I remember one morning in southeastern Minnesota, when my mother and I went for a walk just after the sun had spilled over the horizon. To our east was red and pink and purple, fire in the sky, and to the west was pearled dawn being chased away. I stopped at the top of the hill and watched as dew drops slid down the stem of prairie grasses, shimmying the whole plant and landing in a cup where the grass blade slip off from its stem. Inside every single dew drop, I saw the glory of the world, that sunrise coming up over us, over the mid-summer soybeans, over the undulating hills that glaciers hadn’t razed. It made me cry, and then, I couldn’t understand why, but now, I know that it was wonder, encompassing, enfolding awe at the smallness and largeness of incomprehensible beauty.
I need to feel that, feel the wonder. I need to have my breath taken away, and my notions of beauty laid flat, and I need to feel both small and big, bowled over by the world and yet beautifully apart of it. It makes me a better writer, and much more importantly, it makes me a better person.
I finished The Color Purple yesterday, and as I read the last few pages, I wept. Albert says to Celie, “I think us here to wonder, myself. To wonder. To ast. And that in wondering bout the big things and asting bout the big things, you learn about the little ones, almost by accident. But you never know nothing more about the big things than you start out with. The more I wonder, he say, the more I love.”
And it makes me think about my own heart. The more I ask, the more I see, the more experience, the more I do, the bigger I grow, the smaller I get.
Time is still a friend to me. While I know it’s precious, I am young enough to still feel it as endless. Every new year, every new season, I feel its passing more acutely, can see it draping itself on those I love, can see wasting hours piling up. I have no interested in a checklist, in doing for the sake of doing, because I’m a certain age or because a certain blog says so. I want to do my two w’s, work and wonder. It’s these I want to throw myself, sink myself into, because time is passing me quickly, and while I have it, I want to use it well.