My alarm clock sirens again. It’s 5:30 am and I have to get up for football practice, but as I glance over to smash the snooze button my body doesn’t respond. The soreness has matriculated to my extremities and calcified my muscles. I had been tossing and turning all night with feverish chills, and now my mind leaps to the possibility of missing practice. This can’t happen. As I take a worried gulp I realize that my throat is raw and swollen shut. I hurry to schedule the first doctor’s appointment I can, and sitting in the examination room, I rehearse the vital talking points in my head.

“It’s my senior year. I have worked my whole life for this moment. I will do whatever it takes to play.”

A nurse comes in to take a throat swab and draw my blood, and mentions that they will run a few tests. My answer will have to wait. After 24 hours of physical and emotional misery, I receive word that while I have strep throat, I tested negative for mono. I only need a couple days of rest, and then I will be back at practice ready to play.

“It could be worse,” I tell myself.

I return to practice as scheduled, on a sweltering mid August day. 90° with 94% humidity. If walking outside feels like trudging through a swamp, conditioning in the heat will be another beast. As the end of the practice nears, an audible groan lets out from my teammates, we know what’s next. 10 timed sprints, from one end line to the other and back, 240 yards total. I feel my body mustering its reserves in preparation for the workout. The same broken body that had been bed ridden the day before. The same broken body that had been put through suffering numerous times, would be put to the test again.

We take our places along the end line, and I hear the whistle blow. Mindlessly, my legs begin to churn up and down pumping like pistons, movements I have done a million times, only this time something is wrong. My heart is working twice as hard, an engine running on half its cylinders.

Moments after the first sprint, before I can find my footing, the whistle blows again and I am off. By the second sprint the heat from inside of me begins to burn through my skin. By the third sprint my legs feel like jelly and I can’t stand up straight. By the fourth sprint my lungs are empty and I can’t catch my breath. By the fifth sprint, I can feel my eyes roll to the back of my head as I demand that my brain remain conscious.

No one seems to notice any of my near death experiences, but it’s clear from the noises around me that quitting is not an option. I can hear coach Jones's voice over the chaos,

"Run you fat fuck! This is what you get for sitting on your ass all summer!”

“You are all a bunch of pussies! Be a man!”

“Not good enough! You are a disgrace to this football team!”

The clearest voice came from within me.

“Jake you fucking bitch. Quitting is not an option. What’s one more sprint?”

I stagger back to the end line...

After practice, I do my best to avoid the athletic trainer given that I am not injured and don’t want to bring any unwanted attention to myself. My chest tightens nervously as he singles me out and approaches me, bedside manner be damned.

“Hey Jake, I just got a call from the doctor’s office. It turns out the tests results were a false negative. You have mono after all.”

My mind replays every ounce of contact throughout the day, each one an opportunity for the slightest bump to rupture my bloated spleen and take my life.  

“So when can I practice?” are the only words that I can bring myself to say to my trainer.

Quitting is not an option. I had mastered my pain and hardened all the feelings I deemed weak. Self-doubt. Insecurity. Fear. Fatigue. Confusion. They were all vestiges of a softer, more fragile self. I contracted my mind to build walls surrounding my weaknesses ensuring that they never see the light of day again. I disposed of every part of myself that I hated, and with it I became the person I always dreamt of being. The sick truth of it all? I loved it. I loved the ability to be someone that I wasn’t. To be popular. To be tough. To be invincible in my own mind.

Only now have I come to realize the consequences of glorifying my self harm. By numbing myself to pain, I lost touch with the sensitivity to feelings that had made me feel alive. For years I wandered aimlessly, trying to control the feelings I couldn’t bring myself to confront. I searched desperately for coaches and mentors that could relate to my struggle of living a dual life, and found only lost souls who hadn’t yet accepted their complicity in this cycle of toxic masculinity. I became a shell of my true self, a disguise that to this day I struggle to remove.

Buddhist scholar and environmentalist Joanna Macy writes, “the refusal to feel takes a heavy toll. Not only is there an impoverishment of our emotional and sensory life . . . but this psychic numbing also impedes our capacity to process and respond to information. The energy expended in pushing down despair is diverted from more creative uses, depleting the resilience and imagination needed for fresh visions and strategies.”

A journey is before me, one that I must continue to tread. I often return to the experiences that I have endured, to garner the resilience that came with them, and I know that if I built these walls, that with time I can bring them down.

Today, god offered me a gift, and I reflexively declined for it was much simpler to devise a way to refuse. Wrapped in the guise of humility my words slipped off the tip of my tongue to shield me from shame. Hidden between the space of each spoken work was a raw truth.

The universe persisted, and I felt it call to me, but when I looked up I was alone. I felt a curious pull on the strings of my imagination, and sparks of life reached my fingertips, but when I called out to the darkness no one answered. With each lonely moment came shadows of doubt.

This is stupid.

This is going nowhere.

This is a waste of time.

I am not good enough.

My breath quickened, my heart hardened, and my dreams started to fade.

I persisted and took one brave step into an uncertain world seeking the truth that was controlling me. God was alongside me with each passing step, but I could not speak to it. The creator’s presence was tangible, but I could not grasp it. My gift was before me, but I could not decide if I was ready to accept it.

So I listened to the world around me, and sought out the beauty in the moment, until there was only one choice before me.

Create.

Tomorrow, the creator will offer me a gift. Such is my obligation.

My life was simple, rigid
until thoughts took over.

My response was flexible, complex
until my contradictions rebelled.

My past was soldiering, uncompromised
until my shield fell.

My future is open, vulnerable
until the present humbles.

My world is hopeful, deliberate
until I lose the trail.

The journey is simple, difficult
I trudge willingly into my soul.

Masked demons abound,
senses dull.

Over shaky ground
darkness pulls
me down.

I spiral.

Until I hit solid ground.

I have found
the light that surrounds
my heart, mind, body, my soul.

The flicker of compassion
for the one that needs it most.

Rest. Rest. Rest. Rest. Rest.

I am enough. I have enough time. There is enough time. I am enough. I have enough. I have enough! There is enough time. There is enough money. I have enough. I am enough.

I can rest. I can walk mindfully. I can find flow. I can be creative. I can take pictures. I can write. I can take things slow. I can take my time. I can be deliberate. There is time to breathe. There is time. I can rest.

I love myself. I do love myself. I do love others. I can love all people. There is enough love. I have infinite love. I can share my love. I am enough. I love myself.

I am grateful. I am grateful for my home. I am grateful for my family.  I am grateful for my friends. I am grateful for my job. I am grateful for my boss. I am grateful for my colleagues. I am grateful for my students. I am grateful for my neighbors. I am grateful for my landlord. I am grateful for my home. I am grateful for my trees. I am grateful for my block. I am grateful for my neighborhood. I am grateful for the outdoors. I am grateful for this city. I am grateful to live in this country. I am grateful to live on this planet. I am grateful for my ancestors. I am grateful to be awake. I am grateful to be breathing.  I am grateful to be alive. I am grateful.

I am privileged to have a job that I enjoy. I am privileged to have a job that pays me fairly. I am privileged to have no debt. I am privileged to be able to afford to live on my own. I am privileged to live in a safe neighborhood. I am privileged to enjoy the finer things in life. I am privileged to come and go as I please without restrictions. I am privileged to live without fear. I am privileged.

I am safe. I am safe from violence. I am safe from environmental harm. I am safe discrimination. I am safe from exclusion. I am safe from terror. I am safe.

I am human. I am human. I make mistakes. I react impulsively. I react defensively. I react argumentatively. I react competitively. I react harmfully. I react spitefully. I react shamefully. I react violently. I react. And I am human. I am human.

I am learning. I am learning how to slow down. I am learning how to choose my response. I am learning how to create space in moments. I am learning how to pause. I am learning how to stop. I am learning how to breath. I am learning how to be grounded. I am learning how to listen to myself. I am learning how to listen to others. I am learning how to seek the truth. I am learning how to nurture self growth. I am learning how to prioritize self care. I am learning how to seek healing. I am learning.

I am surviving. I am surviving through stress. I am surviving through anxious moments. I am surviving through confusion. I am surviving through uncertainty. I am surviving through loss. I am surviving through pain. I am surviving through never-ending change. I am surviving.

I am thriving. I am thriving by adapting. I am thriving by accepting. I am thriving by failing. I am thriving by learning. I am thriving by doing the work. I am thriving with compassion. I am thriving with resilience. I am thriving with creativity. I am thriving with openness. I am thriving with connection. I am thriving with challenges. I am thriving.

I don't have the answers. I don't know where this journey will take me. I don't know what life has in store for me. I don't know who I will meet along the way. I don't know when this chapter will end.

I do know what I have in me. I do know that I am enough.

My days are defined by true ebb and flow. Some have a distinct pattern to them like the rise and fall of the tide. Others are impossible to predict like dark and stormy seas that give way to blue sky and calm water. What is consistent in each day, like a journey at sea, is conflict and growth. It has been three months since I returned from France. During this interlude, my camera has laid dormant, as I seek out a balance between the confluence of personal, family, and worldly events. Something about my inner conflict has also pulled me away from my writing, the same tool that is at the foundation of my creative expression. Something tells me that those feelings are all related.

The conflict in my life feels as nuanced as life itself, and it arrives multiple times a day in distinct boxes and packages. Most of my conflict is as small as a postcard and the moments come and go in brevity. Some of my conflicts show up unexpectedly in all too official envelopes, containing much too daunting documents, that I tell myself I should read through, and always sit untouched on my desk for weeks on end. Other conflict I order ahead of time and am excited to receive the joy of its contents. Then there is the conflict that is overwhelming, that arrives in a collection of unwieldy boxes with parts that don’t seem to fit together and directions that are written in foreign languages. Conflict is everywhere and often. It is expected and surprising. It is simple and complex. It is encouraging and overwhelming. Conflict encompasses a multitude of feelings that I have on a daily basis.

Conflict is used to describe wildly complex events such as war, competition, and internal struggle. Within each of those concepts is an even wider breadth of context and detail, and while I have always understood the definition of the word, I only ever associated it with the feeling of exhaustion. The exhaustion of fighting unwinnable battles, dealing with constant emotional struggle, of perpetual loss.

It was only natural that I began to avoid conflict and pretend that it never existed in the first place, and damn are there plenty of great ways to ignore conflict! Here are my current favorites:

• Joking away my conflict
• Eating away my conflict
• Binge-watching away my conflict
• And the one and only ignorance, if I avoid it, then it doesn’t exist.

Unfortunately for me, there is a fatal flaw in the association between conflict and avoidance, conflict is all around us and it is here to stay. It is a shared human experience and seems to be as natural as love, joy, grief, and shame. As people grow and seek their own path, conflict is guaranteed to greet them along the way. I feel conflict every day in the classroom with my students, when I spend time with my family, when I walk around my community, and especially when I read the news. If my conflict continues to be bitterly exhausting, then I don’t stand much of a chance.

While my conflict often begins in interactions that I have with others or myself, it always seems to settle into the crevices of my mind and set up camp in my consciousness. Although I was initially hesitant to seek it out, I have learned to identify the onset of the specific stress and become more aware of it. That discernment process has been arduous, but it has helped me realize that conflict brings me to the present moment, heightens my awareness, and is the beginning of restoration.

If life is a journey across a long wooded trail, then harmony is the slow and quiet waltz through tall meadows high atop the mountain range. It is soothing to our nerves and restful for our minds. It is this part of the trail that we seek to find and submit to its comfort. And this harmony rarely lasts. Conflict appears at the end of the meadows towards the descent into the dense forest. The trail of conflict is necessary to travel in order to reach our destination, but it disrupts our flow and challenges our serenity. It is my feeling of dread when I stand at the crossroads and the feeling of exhaustion as I trudge over muddy trails, back and forth between switchbacks, and through deep streams.

Conflict is also the feeling of accomplishment at the end of the journey, it is the feeling of strength, resiliency, and growth. One would never enter into conflict if there wasn’t a gift along the way. It is both a challenge and a reward. It is one of the deepest practices of delayed gratification and self-exploration a person can seek. As I get quiet and pursue harmony along my own path, I become more sensitive to disruptive situations. Although they challenge me at the moment, I believe there is growth in each experience. I know that each event is an opportunity to use my strengths, practice my tools, and change the way that I perceive conflict. It exists to challenge my perceptions and in so doing, broaden my understanding of the world. It is not here to harm or exhaust me, it is here to guide and teach me.

Practiced little by little over time, learning from conflict becomes less exhausting and more affirming. Looking back on how I confronted conflict with fear and avoidance, shows me how complacent and closed off I was from growth. How my fear was a shield that I used to protect me from harm and although it was an effective tool, the shield weighed me down and stunted my growth. The tool that protected me was the tool I needed to let go of in order to grow strong in courage and compassion.

Without conflict, there is no growth. Today, our world is engulfed in conflict. Police brutality and loss of life, Black Lives Matter protests, COVID resurgence, joblessness, recession. They tear us apart internally through prolonged uncertainty, ambiguous loss, anticipatory grief, and constant stress (What is this feeling? By Esther Perel). More and more, it seems like another unwinnable battle. My journey is to find a way to navigate all of these conflicts in a healthy way and do what I can to support each cause. I can respond by leaning into what is good and practicing wholehearted living (Gifts of Imperfections by Brene Brown). Over time, as each personal practice continues to align my actions with who I am, I can practice showing up as my authentic self to greet each conflict as it truly is:

• An opportunity to deepen my understanding of the human experience
• A lesson in the complexity of people, life, and the connection between it all
• A practice of compassion towards everyone

I have my daily struggles showing up as my authentic self, and this compounds the difficulty of perceiving particularly complicated conflicts as learning opportunities. But I know that through daily practice and a little bit of self-compassion, the journey will continue to unfold in beautiful and unforeseen ways. Just as the sky darkens and the sea begins to rage, do I find the space and the strength to commit to the coming storm and seek the growth that accompanies it. Only then can I appreciate the deep harmony of a life full of meaning.

Huge thanks to my bestie in wholehearted living Abby who introduced me to Brene Brown and Esther Perel. They are now a seminal part of my journey and have helped me grow through these challenging times.

If my house could speak it would voice its confusion to the people,
and the objects that live within its four walls would languish over the sudden change in routine.
Showers would sit solemnly and ponder their precipitous drop in popularity.
Vintage bottles of wine would gasp as their last precious drops empty from their body and they are filled with air.
Cars would howl to be taken out for a run onto empty expressways, dreaming of right feet pressing into their pedal.
Screens would stare back at us with bags under their sullen eyes wondering if they will ever get a chance to rest.

But not all are desperate in the house.
Mixing bowls and whisks rejoice as they are pulled gleefully from their hearth.
Gardens take in the spring sunlight and stretch their arms into the sky appreciative of the diligence they are receiving.
Couches take pride in their significance, eager to cuddle up with the ones that have carved out a space on their cushions.
Pages of long lost books answer reluctantly like orphans as they are dusted off and cracked open, forgetting what it felt like to be held with such care.

And our alarm clocks lay patiently on our nightstands,
sound asleep dreaming lucidly about a peculiar world,
where the rules have been changed,
where time is not used,
yet it’s not wasted either.
Where its people have been forced to alter their routines,
where they suddenly have nowhere to be
and little to do.
Where their work is no longer needed.
Where my work is no longer needed.

Our alarm clocks watch gravely from afar,
as we stir at the same time every morning,
and lay spiritless in our beds,
staring up at the ceiling for hours on end,
and sink further into our covers
with every minute that passes.
They are happy to have company,
but wonder if all that time spent in bed is doing us any good.
“The more time I spend in bed, the less time I spend awake”, they overhear us whisper to no one in particular.

Still, our alarm clocks sit fervently on our nightstands,
believing the day will come,
when the gift they share with the world is valued again,
that the people will rise in earnest with their call,
and that their work will be underappreciated no more.

A week ago, I decided to return to the states. I had lost my sense of direction and my plans had been ripped to shreds. Every step I took sank me deeper into a puddle of mud that I couldn’t escape from. I expected to confront a myriad of challenges on my journey, but then the rules changed. There was nothing that I could have done that would have prepared me for COVID.

The daily stress that COVID brings is a heavy burden for us all. I was attempting to make sense of this surreal world in a foreign country, living in a stranger’s home, with no one to talk to, and thousands of miles separating me from my closest friends and family. Doubts formed in my mind like a dark storm front threatening a clear blue horizon. I couldn’t help but think that I was choosing to carry unnecessary burdens until my knees began to buckle under the weight of the consequences. I needed to let go of my baggage.

The unfortunate truth of my journey is almost too painful for me to write. I spent 18 months preparing to let go of the only home that I have ever known, taking the time to bid farewell to friends, family, coworkers, and my community. I intentionally removed the familiarity in my life to open up more space for curiosity and immersion in new cultures. I came to terms with the idea that I could be leaving Evanston for good.

Then over the first three weeks of quarantine in France, I felt a dearth of familiarity, comfort, and love, and I realized that those were the same feelings that I had chosen to sacrifice in my quest to fully embrace life in a new country. The loss of those feelings was only intensified by the mood of estrangement, grief, and uncertainty that COVID brought with it. With no opportunity to build a new community in France and strengthen that emotional structure to balance the effects of COVID, I was exacerbating the problem.

I fought to build myself back up and regain my balance. I scrapped the original plans for my trip and drew up a new itinerary and budget. Then when government restrictions around the world tightened, I extended my timeline to account for the changes. I felt like if I was clever and flexible enough then I could stay one step ahead of the virus and save my trip. Then it got worse. New cases rose exponentially and death tolls rose at an alarming rate. More countries closed their borders, and enacted fines and threatened jail time for breaking the quarantine. Now, when I daydreamed about gallivanting around Europe, the only thing I could picture was being cooped up in another stranger’s apartment for months on end. My trip was no longer about curiosity or cultural immersion, it was about survival. I began to sheepishly confront the very nature of my trip, “Do I really have the audacity to travel during the most difficult time to travel in modern history?”

With this loaded question in mind, I cautiously allowed the flow of difficult subjects to come to mind, and over time, as I became more comfortable accepting each topic, negotiating with myself lost its hostility. With my newfound leverage, I boiled the decision down to two questions, “How do I feel when I imagine myself staying in France? How do I feel when I imagine myself leaving France?”

I wrote the questions in my journal to feel my gut reaction. I meditated on the questions to see how they resonated in a silent space. I brought the questions to my yoga mat to see how my body responded after working off my anxious energy. I brought the questions to my friends and family to listen to their feelings and reactions. I was met with warmth and encouragement to forge my own path.

Then a close friend of mine helped me frame the question differently, “What if the learning opportunity here is to cease fighting the unwinnable battle. To acknowledge my accomplishments along with my limits. To concede the trip as it stands in hopes of returning stronger and more prepared to continue the journey another time. What if the true growth of this trip is letting go?” With a new purpose beckoning me toward the finish line, I brought the questions on a walk and into nature.

I found my spot on the edge of a rock, overlooking a vast expanse of crops, and I connected to the world around me. I felt the warmth of the sun shining bright overhead and casting light onto the fields below. The wind kicked up and sent gusts across the top of the valley and the blades of grass flowed like waves in the ocean. I felt a sharp chill as the wind blew through me and emptied out my heavy thoughts, like opening the windows on that first warm spring day. With that space, my mind brought me back to my place of comfort, sitting on the edge of a rock on the shores of Lake Michigan.

I brought up each question one by one. As I imagined staying in France I felt a wave of tension consume my body. My shoulders and neck locked up and nausea came over me. I couldn’t live another day with that feeling. As I imagined going home, a lightness entered my heart as if the idea had lifted a great burden from my chest. I felt an undeniable and cathartic wave of relief.

And in that calm moment of harmony, I heard faint lyrics from a distant place. “Home, is where I want to be, but I guess I’m already there. I come home she lifted up her wings, guess that this must be the place.” My decision brought me peace.

I booked my flight home later that day, thanked my host family for their undying hospitality in the face of uncertain circumstances, and left France two days later. What followed was both the smoothest travel experience I have ever had and the most stressful.

Charles de Gaulle airport was empty by its typically teeming standards yet small clouds of chaos swirled around the building. A large family congregated around one check-in gate, desperate for answers and for their ordeal to end. Backpackers gathered for a cigarette outside of the airport, without a home to return to. Staff people waited nervously, at arms distance, prepared to give the news that no one wanted to hear. I cautiously navigated this maze and quickly found my gate. Designed in a hexagonal layout with gates in each direction, only the gate for my flight to Montreal was in use for that day. In that space fashioned for hundreds of passengers, twenty people sat patiently as they awaited our flight. I felt relieved by the emptiness.

On the plane, we were seated far away from other passengers and the interactions with cabin crew were limited. I felt safe in my personal space and trusted that people would maintain the social distancing that I had become accustomed to. Unfortunately, not everyone was as disciplined as I expected. A pair of children spent the flight using the cabin as their own playground climbing in and out of chairs and hopping between aisles. At one point in the flight, the father picked up the rambunctious child and sat directly in front of me. Had there not been 55 other rows to choose from I would have been gracious with my space. However, under these circumstances, the plane was flying at 6% capacity. Find another place to sit my dude.

Sadly, the children were not the worst part of my traveling experience. That wretched number one spot is awarded to using the bathroom (and every other movement that forced me to interact with my surroundings). Entering these flying cesspools was a living hell but it needed to be done. Let me walk you through the 19 step clusterf**k that was going to the bathroom on an airplane during the Coronavirus Pandemic of 2020:

1. Sanitize my hands and put on gloves
2. Adjust my mask and exit my seat
3. Walk to the bathroom and lock the door with my gloved hand
4. Lift the toilet seat up with my foot
5. Dispose of my gloves
6. Pee
7. Use a paper towel to flush the toilet
8. Dispose of the paper towel
9. Close the toilet seat with my foot
10. Use a paper towel to turn on the faucet
11. Wash my hands for a good minute or two
12. Rinse and dry my hands
13. Dispose of the paper towel
14. Use a paper towel to open the door
15. Dispose of the paper towel
16. Walk back to my seat
17. Sanitize my hands and put on gloves
18. Breathe a sigh of relief
19. Repeat as necessary
20. Too neurotic? I think not.

When I reached Montreal, I went through customs and explored the nothingness of the US connections terminal at Montreal Trudeau Airport. I counted a total of 15 people spread across 16 gates. Out of the 16 flights scheduled for the day, 13 had been canceled. Thankfully, my flight to O’Hare was still scheduled for an on-time departure. Although my travel experience was going smoothly, I overheard stories of travel hell. One person was attempting to make his way from Tel Aviv to Minneapolis and was on his fourth flight of the day. Flights were being canceled left and right because of a lack of passengers. The people who had booked the flights were left with few options, the best of which was connecting to another airport in hopes of finding a flight carrying enough passengers to their final destination. I imagined someone starting in Tel Aviv and making their way to Istanbul, connecting to Paris, traveling to Montreal, flying to Chicago, hopping over to Minneapolis, and renting a car to drive 10 hours home. I had run out of synonyms for flying and I felt overwhelmingly grateful for my own experience.

My flight from Montreal to Chicago had six people on it. I didn’t dare test the bathroom this time. I indulged in Nutella crepes that I had packed the day before and finished “My Neighbor Totoro” on my Kindle. Just the escape that I needed, and the flight went without a hitch. From the time the plane touched down at O’Hare to the moment I walked through the storm door of my parent’s house in Evanston a little over an hour had passed. I immediately stripped off my clothes and jumped in the shower. After 20 hours of wearing a mask, not touching my face, sanitizing my hands after every movement, and avoiding all human contact, I had made it home. I took the most meaningful shower I have ever taken.

It is day nine of my self-isolation. If you add my time in French confinement, I have been in quarantine for over four weeks. I feel healthy with no symptoms, and I hope the worst is behind me. Being home feels much different than France. Practically speaking things are worse than before. I can’t go on walks, and I am stuck in my parent’s basement for two weeks. I have zero physical contact with my family even though they are mere feet away from me, separated by a ceiling, at any given moment. I don’t have unlimited access to crepes, quiche, or croissants. But what I do have can’t be defined by practicality. I am surrounded by the love and support of family and friends. The weight of finding a home in Europe to wait out the storm has been lifted off my shoulders. I am in a familiar place, and in this time of doubt comfort is the perfect antidote for uncertainty.

Maybe I will learn something from this crisis. Right now, I can barely think past tomorrow. The best advice I received before my trip was from my cousin. She told me that my journey would be difficult and that the growth would be limitless, but that it wouldn't happen overnight. It will take time, sometimes years, to make sense of the personal change that I am experiencing today. With that in mind, I am taking the time to gather up every restorative tool that I can to balance out the fear, grief, and uncertainty that I feel every day. In time, that may give me permission to explore each troubling feeling to find meaning in all of this. Or it won’t, and I will have spent this time surrounding myself with love and joy. Either outcome sounds pretty good to me.

Even the best plans change
No need to plan ten steps ahead
two steps will do
So they said

When those perfect plans vanish
and I am left grasping at the empty air
searching fruitlessly for signs and direction
I remember

that plans don’t need to be chiseled into stone
for all the world to see
and appreciate the audacity of

They are best written delicately in pencil
with the eraser close at hand
ready for the change that is coming
and willing to let go of the promises
of a younger man.

-  JR
Written June 2019 a younger man
Revised April 2020 a slightly wiser man

Little Women, adapted and directed by Greta Gerwig, was a movie that surprised me with its beauty and poignancy. I will place the blame of underestimating the movie solely at the feet of 13-year-old Jake who believed that Little Women wasn’t quite his demographic, and completely missed the boat on the March sisters. I certainly didn’t think it would be the movie that I related to most out of all the 2019 Oscar nominees, but pleasant surprises and reveling in new stories are why I go to the movies.

The feel of the movie is bursting with warmth from crisp autumn leaves, to cozy scenes by the fireplace, and even the filth of 1860’s New York City has an air of invitation to it. With Coronavirus greedily restricting my every move like the Grinch on Christmas morning, maybe my only choice is to book a ticket to Gerwig’s Civil War-era America. Just as long as I steer clear of scarlet fever.

In Gerwig’s World, no one has it better than Laurie. At a time when first cousins were actively shipping, Laurie had the dumb luck to be neighbors with the four most eligible bachelorettes in the northeast corridor. I can’t fathom better conditions for love than the ones Laurie finds himself in, and in retrospect, 13-year-old Jake could have really used Louisa May Alcott’s dating advice.

What impressed me most about Little Women was Gerwig’s ability to put a modern spin on a 152-year-old story without changing the time period of the movie, and make it a thrill to watch. She tackles important topics such as feminism, gender expectations, love, and marriage. She takes one of the most well-known American stories and flips it on its head with elaborate dialogue and ingenious editing. Every time I found myself peaking around the corner trying to sneak a glimpse at what was coming next, she would spin me around and send the story in an unforeseen direction. Alcott’s story stands the test of time and Gerwig’s adaption adds a sharp reflection of our modern society.

I recognize Gerwig’s intentions in almost every story about women that I encounter. On a trip to Anet, France a few weeks ago, I visited the Château d'Anet which is famous for being the residence of Diane de Poitiers. The vast majority of castles around the world follow a similar pattern, the more important the Lord or Lady, the bigger the castle. Château d'Anet is no exception as it’s grounds stretch over fields, ponds, and streams, and its castle is highlighted by a stunning chapel and gate. Diane de Poitiers was fit for the grounds as the mistress to King Henry II and was so influential that she was granted the power to manage the estate that she inherited from her husband after his death. An apt precursor to Gerwig’s depiction of Amy March, Diane de Poitiers even has her own movie.

In the Anet Church, there is an altar memorializing St. Joan of Arc, a compelling figure in France who is known for her part in the siege of Orléans which helped turn the tide in the Hundred Years War. She rode into battle wearing a soldier’s outfit and carrying her own banner that rallied soldiers around her. Born in 1412, her strength and heroism predate women’s suffrage by over 400 years. Her life, along with many others that came before and after, is a direct influence on the essential stories of brave women that we consume today. Little Women is a wonderful addition to that collection. Here’s to Gerwig, Céline Sciamma, Lena Waithe and all the incredible female directors that continue to tell stories that broaden my understanding of the human experience.