The wall behind my bed is papered in pictures. Chock full
of smiles and laughter, overflowing with happy memories of
my childhood and beyond. As I go to sleep each night I stare
at all the happy faces, smiling back at me. And I take a moment
to pinpoint that one picture, that one anomaly- stern face,
eyes focused and clear. Here I am, six years old and all too
sure of myself. Red hair, blue eyes, three feet tall. Yet
as I grew, my hair became orange, or strawberry blond, even
a little brown. My eyes were green, sometimes gray, never
true blue. I grew up and my firm footing slipped, leaving
uncertainty the victor. And this is how I have lived my life.
Stepping softly and observing, I made it hard for my red hair
and blue eyes to be seen in a crowd of faces- and perhaps
that’s the way I wanted it. I accepted, never questioned
whether or not this was the way it should be. And then I guess
I got myself stuck in a position where I had to question.
Bushwhacking. Even the word sounds like some sort of medieval
torture, but I did it. Like so many others teens from the
East Coast of America, I spent my summer “finding myself”
at the Hurricane Island Outward Bound School in Newry, Maine.
I was as ready as I’d ever been to get away from summer’s
chaos and do the Thoreau thing- into the woods. Here, following
a map and a compass I was sure of myself. I understood exactly
what I needed to do, where each path would lead me. And somehow
the people around me took notice too. People asked me questions
and I knew the answers. I gave no faltering responses. North
is straight, stay in the land’s wind shadow to go fastest.
This I knew and knew well. And I began to feel as I did when
I was six, stern and sure.
Somehow in some far-off land I had been able to keep my feet
on the ground and know that they belonged there. Who was this
sure-footed girl I had become? Each grueling step was hard
but taken with assurance and confidence. On those last days,
when tired bodies and minds are comforted by only blissful
sleep, we all came to reflect. Stuck in a tent, coated with
perspiration and mosquitoes, we talked like old friends. We
sat in the dark, eyes focus, intent on finding the right words
to describe these people who had stood by us on our inward
journies. And we went along, each saying our piece about the
other. And they came to me. And I didn’t know what they’d
say. And I thought, and I didn’t care. Because I knew
who I was. I knew that my path, if only for the past two weeks,
had led me to my intended destination. But they saw it too.
And suddenly I was “strong” and “respected”
and “confidant” to all. I marveled at how I could
have spent even part of the past 17 years not being this person
who I so clearly was.
And so I came home. A day early, even, to see my dear friends.
I came back into this world, embracing all the necessary evils
of the status quo. Back to the good life- hot showers, fresh
veggies and clean hair! These novelties became the norm and
slowly, the qualities that were as much me as my red hair
and green eyes, blurred into that sometimes gray, occasionally
green, never true blue state. I didn’t care so much
about confidence and strength, rather I was on an expedition
to find the perfect sweater and the most appropriate earrings.
Moments, little pauses, make me stop and appreciate. Yet as
quickly as I stop, I’m sucked back into the whirling
dervish that is my “real” life. My “real”
forests, made up of more than just trees and wildlife. There
are people of all different sorts, a million and one instructors
commanding contradicting acts. As I woke in the woods, my
thoughts drifted to caterpillars crawling on the tent floor
and now, I wake to college essays creeping, and looming application
deadlines. I suppose I could have never expected it to stay
the same. I returned to the home I had known for 17 years,
and I had to step back. My mind swims with all the required
responsibilities. I am awed by the ease in which I can, once
again, become a pre-packaged product of my environment. Bushwhacking
takes on new meaning; its not thick underbrush and scraped
legs. Now, bushwhacking becomes an emotional struggle, trying
to squirm my way through the trivialities and soap opera dramas
of all the people I love.
I’m still home and people comment on my smile and my
hair, those ever important parts of life. And I’ve come
to realize that its not so important what other people say
or comment on. But I realize, I'm the only one who can categorize
myself. I can read a map, paddle a canoe in rapids and build
a shelter all my own. But I can also sing a scared friend
to sleep when all our thoughts are pinpointed at the possibility
of wolves in our near future. And I can sit by a half dried
up river, with iodine stained fingers and convince a fellow
expeditioner to keep fighting. Better still, I’ve settled
on one thing that I know for certain. I am determined and
strong and respected. In the jumble of things that make up
myself, there they are. And my red hair is sometimes called
orange, or strawberry blonde, or carrot-colored. And my eyes
still blur into that sometimes gray, occasionally green, never
true blue state. But maybe that’s how it should be.
My path is a little muddy, but as long as I have the right
boots- I’ll make it through.
