I Am Very Young and I Am Learning How To Live

My weekend of unintentional hibernation

Today I was planning on writing about the coming of spring. To me, the turn of March has always signaled an end and a beginning: there’s the end of winter and the start of spring, for Persians it’s the end of a year and the start of another, and it’s the same for me — my birthday on the 29th. It feels like turning a corner and seeing a light, or waiting on the platform for a train and feeling the breeze of its arrival. Despite this, I’ve been feeling pretty low. I remember around this time last year there was a lot of talk about how the body and mind respond to trauma anniversaries. March 2020 was, for most of us, the start of something scary and new. As the earth thaws and spring approaches, the ground is more sensitive. Maybe we are like that, too, removing our coats and layers and finally feeling the light of the sun only to be overwhelmed by its brightness. And I think as we move further from a dark, unprecedented time, we should be respectful of the feelings that are exposed.

I did not leave my apartment this weekend. There has been a heaviness that has settled in me recently, and I have been feeling very angry at it. I woke up at 7 am this morning to go to the flower market by myself, hoping that a small bouquet of tulips would relieve me of this weird layered grief. It took a lot of effort to get out of bed, and I got dressed and put my shoes and coat on. But something anchored me to the ground, and I could not bring myself to leave the apartment. The flower market closed. I decided I would take a walk around sunset to the park instead. But sunset came and went, and I still did not leave. I am so blessed to live in such a beautiful, vibrant city. The sun was half-out. I should have flown out the door. It should be so easy to live on days like this. Etty Hillesum wrote in a diary entry (in the context of a very similar situation): “‘Melodiously rolls the world from God’s hand’. This line by Verwey was stuck in my head all day. I too wanted to roll melodiously out of God’s hand. And now goodnight.”

by Holly Warburton

Hieu Minh Nguyen writes in “Heavy”:

I think the life I want

is the life I have, but how can I be sure?
There are days when I give up on my body

but not the world. I am alive.
I know this. Alive now

to see the world, to see the river
rupture everything with its light.

I felt guilty and shameful today, but never hopeless. I knew there was something in the way that happiness bubbled as I woke up to sun rays across my duvet, something that crossed the barriers of heaviness that weaken in the morning brain fog. It was reassuring, despite its brevity. I turned to that moment all day, knowing that the sunrays would eventually cross my bedroom again, and I’d be able to start over. I lost the fight with myself today, but I am still friends with the sun. I am alive, and time forgives. I will try again tomorrow.

I turn to this paragraph from a 2013 issue of Ask Polly:

Go home and write for an hour. Type out all of your thoughts, feelings, worries, regrets, and hopes for the future. Every single word is OK, because it’s a part of who you are. You are not damaged. You are not socially handicapped. You are young and you are learning how to live. Write that down. I AM VERY YOUNG AND I AM LEARNING HOW TO LIVE. Tape it to the wall by your bed and read it every morning.

You are very, very young. You are learning how to live.

I know this to be true. I turn 22 this month — which, hopefully, is not even a quarter of my life. For every day of all the years to come, I will be learning how to live. I don’t think I’ll ever know how — but that’s what life is. If we knew the secret to life I don’t think we’d be living it at all. That’s the beauty of it, I think. And it’s nice to know that the bad days will never cancel out the good ones. I hope we can all give ourselves a bit more grace and forgiveness this month while keeping our heads tilted towards the light. There will always be time for flowers and sunset walks. I will be grateful when I can collect those moments, fully present and lightweight.

Further Reading

“Falling and Flying” by Jack Gilbert

Ada Limón on Preparing the Body for a Reopened World

Excerpt from “What Comes After” by Mindy Nettifee

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What I Enjoyed This Week

Recent Reads

• Outline by Rachel Cusk. This is a unique novel told in the format of ten conversations, narrated by an emotionally distant writer who travels to Athens to teach a writing course. It took me a while to get through, but I did enjoy it. The conversations felt accessible and realistic in their confessions and philosophical discussions — diving into themes like love, career, and family. It was somehow vague and complex at the same time. It’s essentially a story about observance, and it’s very mundane at times. I enjoyed it, though I didn’t expect to.

Other Wonderful Things

• I finished the Korean drama Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha this week, by recommendation of my best friend. I loved it. I cried a lot. It’s a story that centers on a sleepy seaside town in Korea and the tight-knit community that lives there. I grew attached to so many characters and I miss it now that I’ve finished.

• Marianne by Tyler Burkhart. I’ve been listening to this album while I read, and it’s the perfect quiet, mellow album to play in the background. It’s almost sad, but not quite. It reminds me a bit of Turnover’s Peripheral Vision. I think my favorite track is “I remember your name”.

• This song, this song, and this song. Playlist

Thanks for reading,

<3

Tara