Epic Tails

You should know that I believe in the power of fables.  I think that metaphors are a great tool for understanding the world.

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Human history is rich with examples of us exploring our purpose as a species through story telling. People have always been able to extrapolate powerful meaning from mythologies. This is a pattern that continues to this day. If you are paying attention, you'll be surprised to find many of life's little lessons in the most unexpected places. Epic poems, novels, comic books, and even movies are filled with profound insight. I am a firm believer that "all of life's riddles are answered in the movies," and in the best children's stories as well.

So today, when I went to see a movie based on a novel, I wasn't surprised to discover the entire story had been leading to moment of allegorical clarity. However, I was surprised to find out that the lesson to be learned from this particular tale was one I had already learned. Even more startling was the awareness that this very specific lesson was one I had  taught myself. I had even passed this bit of knowledge on recently.


It was this past summer, and I had (as I often do) accompanied my parents to a bike race. I was standing in the official's box in the infield of our friendly neighborhood velodrome. I was talking to my father, as the child of a family friend sat next to us eating a type of sweet treat that I have since forgotten. The brawny little boy sat atop a tall stool wearing a content expression as he munched on his snack. He innocently kicked his dangling legs back and forth in the sunlight. Watching him sit there as his father attended to something elsewhere,  I felt a kinship with this boy who was sharing my childhood experience. I smiled at him as I recalled my own childhood sitting in that very spot.

Then, I noticed what looked like a scrape on his knee. Though the scab was small, I figured it had come from one of his rough and tumble adventures, and I wanted to know the story. So, I asked him. "How'd you scrape your knee?"

He squinted his eyes into a perplexed expression as he looked up from underneath a pile of the most golden blond hair. "It's paint," he said reaching down to scratch part of it off.

It seemed so obvious after hearing that. The kid had, after all, spent the afternoon with both of our fathers repainting lines on the track. However, I felt somewhat unsatisfied with his answer. So, as someone who has been repeatedly complimented for her sensitivity in dealing with children, I told him how I felt.

"Oh," I shrugged. "Well, that's kind of boring."
"Yeah," my dad chimed in. "Next time someone asks you that, you should come up with a better story."

The child looked at us, confused.

"I think you should tell people you wrestled a tiger," I said "It's more exciting."
"Yup, tigers are much cooler," my dad concluded.
 "But, it's just paint," He told us. The boy still looked puzzled, but one corner of his mouth had flipped up into a smirk.
"I know! I can say the tiger had a paint brush in his mouth," he added, clearly missing the point.
"I guess that will work," I responded suddenly feeling disappointed in myself for having told a small child to lie for no good reason. But, it was too late.

The boy had started to get the idea. With our assistance, he had concocted an epic tale of an invisible paintbrush wielding tiger that had scratched him once, because it turns out he did have a cut on his leg (a small freckle-sized scab on one ankle underneath his sock). And, for the rest of that evening, when we told people to ask him about the paint on his knee, the macho boy responded with pride, "I wrestled a tiger."


I guess the point I was making, that was echoed months later in this movie, was that sometimes how you got to where you are is not important. Life can be intense and complicated. We move through it compiling data for complex tales, some of them gloriously exciting, incredibly tragic, or unbelievably mundane. We all have epic journeys to report. In doing so, it's easy to become fixated on how it all happened. When we do that we can forget the most important details. That is, we often neglect to acknowledge that, no matter how we reached our current states, we survived.

So, next time you feel the need to dwell on your past, take a tip from me. Tell the story with a tiger. It'll sound more impressive.

"Van Gogh would’ve sold more than one painting if he’d put tigers in them." - Calvin 

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Disoriented

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There she stood; a little girl alone in the dark stormy forest. Though she wracked her brain, she couldn't recall exactly how she had gotten there, but she knew how to get out. The path lay just before her. She had spun around multiple times, surveying every corner of these creepy woods, but the darkest and most worrisome road was the only one that seemed remotely familiar. Just as she realized it was the way out, the storm picked up. 

The wind began to rock the trees around her as it whistled through the canopy above. Thunder cracked through the sky, and the thick cloud cover dumped freezing water.  The little girl wrapped her arms tightly across her core. She was thankful to be wearing her warmest winter jacket, but even still she shivered as the downpour struck her bare head and cheeks. She was not yet aware that the frigid climate was only partially to blame for her quivering.

Still she stood there, soaking wet and growing colder by the minute. She had figured out which direction to go, but something seemed to be stopping her from heading down that path.  It could have been the ominous shadows looming overhead, or the drastically poor visibility, but it seemed like more.  She had recognized those problems, and the little girl understood that there was nothing she could do about them.

"It is what it is," she reasoned to herself.  "I can only control myself."

So, she took a few small steps forward, but froze in her tracks shortly after beginning her trek.  She couldn't move anymore, because she suddenly felt so small.  She felt as if she had become a miniature version of herself standing in a world of giants.  Despite knowledge of her strengths and capabilities, the little girl cowered in the deep dark woods.  The road seemed even longer now.

With a heavy weight on her shoulders, the girl stretched out her neck and trunk. She squinted her eyes in an attempt to see more clearly, but it was of no use.  The fog had rolled in, and she could barely see her own hands in front of her face.

That's when her stomach began to turn.  Something down in her gut began flopping around, but rather than deal with it she reached up to chill her unexpectedly feverish cheeks. The two sensations combined caused her to waver in her stance. She automatically blew out a long stream of air, and crouched to her feet. 

Frustrated, the shrunken little girl couldn't take it anymore.  She was exhausted and overwhelmed from her circumstances. She closed her eyes and let her fingers rake in the damp earth below her.  The little girl knew what had to be done, and she was eager to get on with it. She hoped that an epiphany would strike her, and this sudden burst of insight would shine some much needed light on her situation.

But no amount of grounding or rationalization would get her out of this. She was alone in an unknown land. Though she told herself to move on, the little girl was stuck trapped in a body that wouldn't listen to her.

"I just want to get out of here," she thought to herself over and over.

Tears squeezed out of her tightly clenched eye lids, and her lip began to tremble. Then, a low flying gust of frigid wind knocked her off her precariously perched feet. She slammed down hard into an icy patch of dirt. Without realizing it, the little girl let loose with a wail that was just as loud as the cry of the storm.

She attempted to recompose herself, but that only lasted a couple of short seconds. Then the little girl understood that she couldn't even control herself any longer. She let go in a rare fit of unregulated emotions. She screamed and thrashed about in a way that hadn't been acceptable of her in years. The girl kicked her feet and arched her back while sobbing with every ounce her diaphragm could muster.  She knew it wasn't going to help anything, but she didn't care anymore. The little girl was distraught. She felt confused, frustrated, sad, alone, and angry.  She was overwhelmed, and she was frightened she would never make it through this.

After what felt like forever, her tantrum tapered down and her weeping faded to a whimper. The exhausted little girl slowly sat up and opened her eyes to see the unchanged world around her.  With a heavy heart and a vacant mind, she carefully shifted her weight. She wanted to slip her weight back to the ground. She craved nothing more than to just give in to the insanity that seemed to be consuming her. However, as she leaned carefully backwards, the little girl startled.

She had struck something cold and hard. She turned her body to feel it with her hands.  As she groped along the rocky surface, she found herself crawling forward. Cautiously, she moved further and further until she realized that she no longer felt the cold sting of rain drops on her skin or the burn of the wind as it rushed across her cheeks. She listened carefully, and heard droplets echo in puddles around her. Still blinded by her darkened surroundings, the little girl assumed she must have entered a cave. She got to her feet, and looked around. She had no idea what lay ahead, but, if she squinted really hard, she swore she could see a pin prick of light in the distance.

She adjusted her proportions, and returned to her normal stature. Her chest still ached from fear and her gut flipped with anxiety, but something told her she was going to be okay.  So, the little girl headed off on her journey.

Focal Points

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One of the first things they teach in dance classes is how to spot your turns. "Find a speck on the wall, and stare at it," said every dance instructor ever. "When you're ready," they explained. "Let your head go first. Find the spot with your eyes, and your body will follow."

I remember, as a little girl, spending hours identifying a single fixed point on an adjacent wall. Staring at that spot, I would rise to my tippy-toes, lift one leg, and whip my head around as fast as I could. Each time I hoped that my eyes would remain fixed on that preselected speck, but frequently they wouldn't. I failed often as I attempted to learn this skill. I would lose my balance, teeter, and tip over. Understandably, I found this frustrating.

Eventually, I figured out that focusing on one spot in a semi-distant space was actually serving a purpose. Steadying my gaze seemed to give me balance. That provided the stability required for movements. However, having that down isn't enough. Whipping my head around with no continued focus, left me without direction. My brain lacked proper input to tell my body where to go. I could balance, but I would veer off randomly. I had to know where I was going before making the shift.

Later in life I learned to drive, and dealt with a similar issue. Petrified over the responsibility of operating heavy machinery, I focused my attention on the front of the car. Hoping never to strike anything, I sputtered through this learning process. I zigged through parking lots, and zagged down neighborhood streets. Slowly careening around isolated areas, I thought I'd never make it to a real road.

My steadfast parents however, knew otherwise. They ignored my teenage melodrama, and repeatedly reminded me to shift my gaze further down the road. This made no sense to me at the time. I often wondered how I was to get anywhere without knowing what was directly in front of me. So, imagine my delight when I discovered that they actually did know what they were talking about. Watching the road ahead informed my driving. It allowed me to see where I was going, and told me what was headed my way.

As I have illustrated, this bit of advice is reiterated frequently:

Head up. Keep a weather eye the horizon. Look ahead.

It's all very useful advice. The body follows the eyes. Looking down the road prepares you for what is to come. Although, it is pretty easy to forget this. The present is more immediate. It is, after all, happening now and it seems as though you must deal with it as it comes to you, but having a goal is important.

You must identify where you are going in order to get there. You have got to look ahead, and prepare before you take your steps. Focusing on the distant future gives you the guidance required to maneuver this world. It's a practice that affords you the balance to deal with what's in front of you while also helping steer your life in the right direction.

Big Girls Don't Cry

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This past weekend I went out to a karaoke bar with friends. I had some delicious beverages, and observed complete strangers make a mockery of themselves. After a couple brief hours, I called it a night in favor of my bed and a good night's rest before an early morning. While waiting in line to close out my tab, a rather inebriated young gentlemen wandered aimlessly in my direction. He stopped in front of me, and gaped.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" he inquired with genuine concern in his voice.

Though I assured him that I had been "old enough" to be there for the better part of a decade, the man remained suspicious.

"You look like you're 12!" he argued with me.
"I'm not," I responded abruptly, but he persisted. He went on and on about his misperception of my age. I simply stood there speechless, staring daggers at him, until a nearby friend came over.
"You are not making friends right now," she said. "You need to say something nice, and leave."
"It's just that you look..."
"Think about it," I urged him.
"...like you have a wonderful smile."
"Nice job turning it around," I affirmed. "You should probably go now."

With that he was gone, but his words still linger in my brain.

For the most part, I have pretty thick skin. However, those who know me well, know that being older than I look is one of my truly sensitive areas. And it gets picked on quite frequently. In the past year, I have been called pet names, offered children's menus, had solicitors ask if my mom is home, and had the validity of my ID questioned on numerous occasions. People hear me talk about school and want to know what grade I'm in or what college I'll be attending. In the past, my adolescent clients have asked if I was a teacher or a student, and my child clients have told me I look more like a kid than an adult. The general population seems to struggle with categorizing my appearance, and they all feel the need to share that difficulty with me.

I wish I were tougher. I wish these observations didn't get to me as much as they do. I want to be able to confidently stand up to the world and say, "so I'm short and I've got a mad case of the baby face. No need to make a formal report. It's not like this is news to me. I do own a mirror." Sometimes I even try this, but I lack the most key component: confidence.

I act all resilient and talk a big game about it not bothering me, but the truth is that this infuriates me. See, I believe that life is a long journey of self discovery and growth. I write about growing up so often, because I think that's what we're all trying to do. Myself included.

I'm trying so hard to grow up, to become the mature, poised, and competent woman I know I can be. I'm desperately seeking opportunities to prove professionally, socially, and personally that I am an adult. I constantly feel like I'm ready to start my life. I want a career. I want love. I want a family. I want to move on from adolescent angst and finally feel comfortable in my own skin.

Though well-intended, all of the jokes, comments, and assurances that "one day I'll like it," seem to be forming a barricade in my own development process. When others see me as juvenile, it stunts my personal growth. Even if only for a moment, I loose any progress I've made in life in a regression back to my early insecurities.

I mean, I get it. I look young. But, I can't do anything about my appearance. My hands are tied behind my back on that. All I can do is recite my birth date repeatedly, and hope that one day someone will believe me.