I guess when you look at the facts of it, my entire life as I knew it was suddenly gone.
Gone was the grad school application and plans to move to Maryland. Gone is the
wedding plan. Gone were the hours spent studying – they were suddenly rendered futile.
Gone was the sweet little house we planned to stay in until leaving Moscow, gone are my
friends. Gone are the late nights and crazy morning hairstyles.
With simply the bare facts, I should feel empty.
But I don’t.
There’s something about being home that makes one feel somewhat fulfilled. Wait, that’s
not quite the right word, fulfilled implies going off and following your dreams. Breaking
free. No, there’s something about home that makes one feel somewhat ‘filled’. That’s
better. Whole. Comfortable. At Ease.
James and I are staying at my dad’s house this week, the old country home with
sprawling flower gardens and multitudes of birds singing that I grew up in. That familiar
trampoline that I have spent countless hours flying high above the earth on, into the vast
blue sky that at night is speckled with millions of stars. The lounging cows out the front
that stretch their necks over the fence and nibble on dad’s native trees, the sheep named
Bruce, and my old grey cat daisy who has survived 18 years on only fish and refusing anything else.
While mum and Guy are holidaying at a beach paradise up north, Whangapoua, with it’s
golden sands and perfect weather, I couldn't be happier to sit in the living room writing
this with a few clouds floating around the mountain, black sands and rugged
coastlines just a few minutes away. I couldn't be happier to snack on toast as we always
did, daydreaming and cooking for the guys within walls brimming with memories.
Yes, that old life is gone. But in a way, I’m happy it has. Because it’s given us a clean
slate; a future which we can begin painting once again. It took me a while to come around
to it; for a month or so after surgery, still in a slight state of shock, I would smile and nod
when James would begin talking of future plans. But all I’ve needed was a dash of belief
and a dollop of hope, and we’re back on track. Now, the future is one of my favorite
topics.
I know when we’re on a certain trajectory, it’s so easy to feel locked into that and there’s nothing you can do about it. I wish I had known sooner that no, I didn't have to continue in Anthropology, I didn't have to be an academic, I didn't have to be ‘the best’ at everything I did. Everything was a choice. You see it so often – someone who followed that same trajectory until it wore out, then at 50 realized “I wanted to be a school teacher all along, who was I kidding?”
It’s as if we are laying our entire lives in the hand of the seventeen-year-old us (which we
would never do otherwise), trusting them and saying, “yes, self-conscious, confused teen,
I will follow this choice you made to study at university until it wears me down”.
For much of my degree, I considered myself more of a writer than an anthropologist. I
knew I would write someday, but I had to continue, I had to get a sensible, successful,
internationally focused job. I did all the right things – ticked the international experience
box, work experience, volunteering, grades, whatever they needed. All so that someday,
after multitudes of academic publications, I would have the freedom and respect to write
whatever I wanted.
I've enrolled for a journalism diploma beginning this July. It’s a one-year multimedia
course, consisting of writing, photography, television and film, and radio. I know, I’ll be
in the middle of chemotherapy, but with a cohort consisting of many high-school leavers,
I think I’ll be able to do it. Plus, the medical warnings of side effects are always the
worst–case scenarios. When I told my dad, he was pleased, saying that although
‘journalism’ seems a little below my capabilities and training, I’ll be able to do it well. It’s an
interesting stage in life, this early-twenties thing. Pick a way to go and you’d better hope
you've picked the right path…
Nicola and I were talking about an old friend of ours, Alice, who gave university a go for
a couple of years knowing it wasn't for her, but was too afraid to pull out. Nicola had
signed a lease with her, and a month before they were about to move in together for the
next year of study, she received a call from Alice, in tears. She told Nic that she
was so sorry; she was going to pursue hairdressing and couldn't come back. Nic was
ecstatic, as she had known Alice had always wanted to be a hairdresser, yet had been afraid of
the societal analysis of the job.
Aden never went to University, in fact, he never finished high school. Yet here he is,
doing his grocery shopping with us and talking about his saving goals in his job, which he loves.
Yes, he picked fruit and trapped possums for a while, but I couldn't have been prouder.
It’s so important to do what fits you well and not cave in to judgment, and my little
brother has taught me this.
We’re also working on a short film for a festival at the moment, which has a deadline of
just before the journalism course begins. I won’t give the plot away now but plan on publishing
the script and film here once we have submitted it.
With these new directions in jobs, plans and lifestyle, I guess ‘fulfilled’ is the right word
for this unexpected stage in life. Although not as 'successful' by societies standards, hanging out with my parents while on the sickness benefit and wanting to write, it just feels right.
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