It's Alright, It's Alright, It's Alright

Dar Williams' song "It's Alright" from her Promised Land CD album is rollicking along on my stereo tonight, and I find that, indeed, "it's all alright." After a first semester of graduate school in which I took a bit of a walloping and struggled to keep on kicking, I've found my stride here, in more ways than one. I actually love that phrase because when I'm feeling out of sorts, stressed, or a little lost I oftentimes walk great distances, and even though it is something I frequently do as someone who backpacks, it always takes a bit of walking and a bit of struggling before I finally find my stride.

Our second semester began last week, a fact I can hardly fathom. The way my graduate program works, the second semester blows into the summer (which is filled with research - for me, a summer-long trip to Asia), which blows right back into the fall. It feels a little bit like all that time is already lost to me, as I know the pace at which things will move once this weekend passes. But so it goes. Time always goes more quickly than I would will it to.

I reviewed my old blog posts earlier tonight, and was reminded of a friend I met this summer while working in Costa Rica. He was a videographer on the field research project with which I assisted, and we shared a bunkbed in a family vacation house out of which we were based. I had the luckless upper bunk, and every night after I stepped off his heavy duty camera box (locked by a heavy silver chain to the bed itself during our days in the field) and up onto the rungs of the bed, he would take a few minutes to scribble something in a small notebook before shutting the light and wishing me a good night.

Not known for my recalcitrance (not one bit!), I asked him what he was up to, and was caught very much off guard by his answer that it was his "diary." Now, this is not some skinny hipster boy, and not some soulful, introverted nerdy boy (at least not on the outside) either. This is a strong, rather attractive, outdoorsy type. The solid built, Nordic skiing, wrap-your-arms-around-my-chest-and-hang-on-little-lady, type of guy. Consummate professional, passionate about his craft, committed to nailing the shot. No way would I have guessed that under his pillow was a five year diary.

It turns out that his father and I believe grandfather before him had kept these diaries, scribbling down not what the day felt like, but mostly what happened, where, and with whom. He told me that his father had a diary entry for most of the days of his life, including his wedding to this fellow's mother, and the days he and his sibling were born. When the kids became old enough his dad shared what he had written on those life-changing days, and it was something my friend had always valued and respected. So there he was, 27 some odd years old this summer, a committed diarist, recording the days' events for his own recollection, if not public posterity. Come to think of it, there's a day or two I would be curious to read his thoughts on...

I thought of that little bound book of personal history today as I reviewed this site, mulling over a conversation with a friend about where and how we share our thoughts and reflection, and caught myself grinning (still!) at the story about Greg and Alaska, aching for the loneliness of the days after Paul (and there were so many), and cracking a grin at the fishtank story. Maybe my blogging quietly and infrequently over the last almost three years hasn't been the lackluster effort I've characterized it as, but simply an implicit acknowledgement of what I might have guessed - that in a big way, I'm telling these stories for myself. In which case, it's not a symtom of my failure that no one reads this blog (since I've not done anything to link it to anyone else), but a document that so far has existed for me, as a chronology of who I am.

But I do have stories I want to tell, and to have heard and more importantly read by others, and I spend countless and inappropriate hours pining for the courage to take the steps to make that happen. Sometimes it feels like I am made up of no more than a long series of sometimes endless stories. Maybe all of life is made up of such epic tales. In which case, we shouldn't hesitate to fail, or thrash, or struggle along the way, as I did last semester. Maybe some of the stories are about failures, and maybe their juxtaposition with the successes is what makes the latter shine so brightly in the telling. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

But tonight, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright. A new semester lies ahead. I spent the weekend in DC, and returned feeling refreshed and revived by the friendships and shared energies of conversations I have and had there. I've changed my advisor, I've interviewed for a scholarship. Everything is looking up, even as I remind myself to be cautious in celebration of little successes. And of course, as with all moments in which things look up, I've somewhat recently meant someone I could really care for, given timing, communication, mutual will and, perhaps, alignment of the cosmos. I really don't know if it's anything or if he wants it, and that's okay. The only thing that's for sure is that we will see, and time will tell - truths previous posts belie.

But it's alright, it's alright, it's alright. For tonight, I can wait.