BabyBlue

A lot of things happen in our lives. A lot of things happen every single day. Many of these events coast by our subconscious, becoming individual, unnoticeable brush strokes on the mural of our lives. After all, how important is that single drop of baby blue in a ten foot by ten foot painting of a cloudless sky? It would seem the answer is not very, if at all. The same drop of baby blue, however, let fall on ten feet by ten feet of blank snow-white canvas would become the foremost subject of importance. Once lost in a sea of his fellows, the stray tear of paint finds himself discussed, dissected, and applauded (or scorned) in turn. I believe we have the power to turn any of these normally pixilated moments into that dramatic stroke which brings everything to a climax. To invoke a cliché, if it were indeed our last act on earth – or at least our last act of any consequence it would indeed be that final stroke which brings everything into perspective. Am I then suggesting that we live ever mindful and fearful of our last day? Not at all, but is it so far from our capabilities to adapt an attitude of selfless compassion?

For example, when I walk campus I have become accustomed to wearing an expression that betrays neither vulnerability nor contempt. I’ve often thought of the Ocean’s Eleven quote when Brad Pitt’s character instructs Matt Damon on the finer points of robbing a casino: “Don't shift your weight, look always at your mark but don't stare, be specific but not memorable, be funny but don't make him laugh. He's got to like you then forget you the moment you've left his side.” I lift weights most days of the week, straining to attain a physique that would be both attractive and intimidating. I shy away from people who comment on my size, refusing to flex and show off the very thing I’ve worked hard to get for several months. Rather I posture myself like something from the Discovery Channel, hoping it is an effective defense against any potential threat. I file many of my idiosyncrasies beneath the umbrella of defense. I have convinced myself that so many threats lie on the other side of my skin that I walk with porcupine quills raised and skunk tail poised in warning to anyone that would come close. At the same time, I desire to be open. To be loved because I love.

I pass so many people, so many lone drops of paint. I wonder how many of them are about to give up, or already have. Who needs only to hear their name? Or sit next to someone while they pick at their vegetarian lunch? It used to be what I did. When I was a kid, I went out of my way for other people without a second thought. It was second nature to give up the best seat or my favorite milkshake for someone else. What happened?

Where does the child’s trust and indiscriminating love go? Somewhere in the cracking voice of puberty, high school football, and – and – I guess friends, the boy realized that to have friends he must be popular and to be popular he must be mean. He was wrong, of course, and knew it. But he was pressed anyway, little by little until he had changed.

It’s a difficult time, now. Sandwiched between the desperate realization that I’m not sure who I am, and the pressing urgency of making choices that will affect “the rest of my life,” I know that the only thing I am sure of is that I am not really ready for all of this. Time out. I need a break. I need a lakehouse with a few good people, good food, good drink, a boat, and nothing to do.