spring, somehow interpreted

hot and dirty mornings; making things worthwhile

spring was short and i didn’t write anything that mattered, or at least not to me. usually i quantify my experiences by the extent to which they produce good material — if the love can be read in a poem, if the joy can be read in an essay. if the hurt can be felt in a notes app entry. i have a hard time living without understanding my experiences through the work that comes from them.

but in spring there was nothing to interpret. i do know that i was alive in some way that most people would consider extraordinary — that i participated in the world and experienced things worthy of reflection. i took weekend trips and spent time with my friends and made art that was decent enough to be proud of. i felt successful and determined and hopeless, sometimes all at once. but none of that felt tangible without carefully crafted words on the page to explain it all. while i had plenty of inspiration, i lacked the stability to make something worthwhile of it.

the singular sense of meaning i found in my day-to-day came from mid-morning coffee shop stops on my way to class. my favorite baristas learned my name and order, and each monday and wednesday we made small talk about the stresses of spring. my usual “hot and dirty,” turned to “cold and dirty” as the sun came out and the days became more humid. i enjoyed having something to hold and someone to recognize, if only for a few minutes.

each day on this walk i passed a person i spent a long time loving on the street and said nothing. i let the guilt sit in my chest and the sadness rise in my throat. i let my stomach twist into knots. the silent familiarity made me sick with grief.

in class i would sketch big block letters in my notebook, my notes intertwined with desperate affirmations. i was determined to survive spring, even if i sometimes hoped it would kill me.

but eventually the heaviness subsided. i had said to myself over and over: it won’t feel like this forever. and through reckless texts and front-porch cigarettes and lots of time in the library, i managed to claw my way out — of the season, of the quarter, of my own head. i drank my last pre-class coffee. i finished the last of my work. i made things right with the people i loved.

the person i passed each day on the street became a person that was once again sitting in my bedroom. it felt familiar in a different way, and also somehow fated. as we talked i realized i had much more to say than i thought i would. maybe i hadn’t been writing, but i was feeling all the same.

sitting on my bed, he told me that he thought i was much more comfortable with my work than i was with myself. i don’t think i realized how true it was until he said it out loud. that the quantifying of experience was a distraction from genuinely experiencing. that sometimes i forget to just let myself live.

as may turned to june i felt a sigh of relief. spring tore me apart so summer could build me back new, i think. i’m reminding myself of the cycles, which i always seem to have to do this time of year. everything ends, but most of the time it all comes back how it’s supposed to.

i’m writing again and it feels worthwhile, not because of the writing itself, but the intention behind it. summer is here. it’s slow for now. i know it won’t feel like this forever, but i might as well enjoy it while it lasts.