Wednesday, October 5, 2022 — 7
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
“Childhood is not from birth to a
certain age and at a certain age/The
child is grown, and puts away child-
ish things/Childhood is the kingdom
where nobody dies.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay
I remember exactly where I was
when Alex told me to write. More
specifically, he said, “You know what
you need to do. Just write about it.”
We were crammed on the platform,
a block or two from Cornelia Street,
slick with sweat and desperate to get
on the subway. I nodded and smiled,
but I didn’t have the heart to tell him
the truth and still don’t.
The truth is I can’t. I can’t write.
I’ve found myself in three of the most
inspirational cities in the world in
the last four months. As a girl who
still lives eight miles from where she
was born, this experience should be
the kind of eye opener that connects
me to my writing, but no, it’s not. The
thing no one tells you about being a
writer with writer’s block is that it’s
not that the ideas and inspiration
aren’t there. They are there. You
feel them crawling under your skin.
Fragments of sentences that are so
close to perfect, grazing the back of
your mind like, for lack of creativ-
ity, a broken record. The real prob-
lem is that there’s a disconnect; an
inability to tune into the frequencies
surrounding you and communicate
them. Have you heard the story of
the whale that was out of frequen-
cy? It’s referred to as the loneliest
whale in the world, forever bound
to believe it is alone solely because
no other whales can hear its calls.
Sometimes I think about the whale
going miles and miles in search.
Sometimes I think about how I feel
like that whale and I’m struck by
how terribly uncreative the thought
is. Sometimes I punish myself for not
pushing myself harder only to subse-
quently be frustrated by how hard I
am on myself.
I can’t remember where I heard
it, but I’ve thought often about the
argument that time is not linear, it’s
stacked. So in theory, everything
that is happening has already hap-
pened and everything that is going
to happen has already happened
and is currently happening. I’ve
always interpreted it as everything
I’ve gained and lost is always there,
just simply with me. This thought
has always comforted me. My best
friends have moved away, graduated,
but maybe if I close my eyes hard
enough, sitting on the porch we used
to cram ourselves into regularly, I’ll
be able to be there again. I’ll be her
again with all my friends, listening
to folklore for the first time while
standing on the table. If I concentrate
enough, Rita’s hodgepodge collage
will suddenly be removed from the
tabletop, as if it was never there, and
be replaced by bottles and lit candles
and the needle we had used to pierce
Hugo’s ear.
But what if I took it further, to
another place I never wanted to
leave? What if I never actually left
New York? Just stayed in the same
spot for ages through sheer force
of will? If I stayed on that subway
indefinitely back then in Manhat-
tan would I eventually go back to the
start? Travel through time right back
to the beginning? Do you think if I
stood here long enough I’d go back
to where I was, to who I was? Could
I feel the chill of the New York night
air pass through my teeth one more
time? The sun press against my back?
I bet if I sat on the 4 line long enough
I would go back again. Would I feel
time stacking like some overlapping
thing that piles and piles on? Would
I feel myself pass right by me, content
with the life she created?
I have a hard time letting go of
things, especially the past. This is
not necessarily conducive to this
period of life. I’m currently 21. At
22, I will be graduating and leaving
the city and this eight mile radius
in which I have spent most of my
life. Life will transition into either
Chicago or New York, where most
University of Michigan graduates
move. At 25, I will statistically have
the most friends I will have ever in
my life. The number will taper off
gradually as I get married and have
children and move to the suburbs
and, God forbid, participate in a car-
pool. Between 35 and 55, I will have
some internal midlife crisis, moving
to a farm to complete my first novel
or finally deciding to get my MFA.
This will be a somewhat successful
endeavor. At 60, I’ll retire and apply
for that AARP membership. Life will
continue on and I’m terrified. I’m
not scared of aging or the increasing
responsibility or of how life inher-
ently gets more and more narrow as
more and more choices are made.
I’m terrified that I will be in that car-
pool line staring off into the distance
willing myself to be able to go back.
I am terrified that I will continue to
remain disconnected and unable to
write again. Even more so, I’m terri-
fied that I will always be trying to go
to where I was and who I have been,
forever wishing I stayed on the sub-
way back then or on the porch with
my friends in Ann Arbor.
You want to know the quickest
way to feel old? Go to Festifall. See, I
had been contemplating whether or
not to smile knowingly at the fresh-
men wandering past or make a run
to the nearest injectable place and
get Botox, when I failed to notice a
bright-eyed freshman blinking at me.
“What if I can’t produce content?”
she said in a childlike voice that made
me sound as if I smoke ten packs a
day. She seems familiar. Like she
could very well be me. Not me at this
moment, but who I was on that Ann
Arbor porch three years ago before I
ever went to New York. She’s the me
that I have to still face as time stacks
and overlaps. She’s the me who can’t
write a piece and the me that clings
to a childish nostalgia. I blink. She
then asks me, “How do you get over
writer’s block?” My stomach drops.
I wish I could tell you I didn’t lie
to her. I did. I told her some bullshit
about seeking new experiences and
finding new sources of inspiration.
What I should have told her is this:
“Everyone gets writer’s block. I
haven’t written a complete story in
months. My latest piece is getting
published this month; it has taken
since May to write, since most of it is
just unfinished thoughts about how
I’m absolutely terrified about life. It’s
scary and I don’t know when this dis-
connect with my writing is going to
exactly end, but I have a hypothesis.
It’s growing pains. Writer’s block is
just growing pains. It’s the hurdle
between childhood and adulthood. I
bet, if I learn to let go of living in the
past, then I won’t miss the future me
passing right by like strangers on a
subway. If I just stop trying so hard
to go back to the old me, I will finally
hear those frequencies again and
finally be able to piece together those
fragments of near perfect sentences
and write. Write something new.” Or
maybe not.
On writer’s block
Beginnings as endings
In the beginning, God created the
Heavens and the Earth … and this
two-thousand word Michigan Daily
article. Indeed, it is crazy to believe,
insane to think the piece you’re
stumbling across at this moment
might’ve been planned out since the
dawn of time. And while origins of
the Universe remain the subject of
much dualistic debate, there’s no
denying that our mystifying fascina-
tion with the start stays stuck in our
mind.
The start and the end remain
divinely intertwined. One doesn’t
have to look any further than Beyon-
cé’s Renaissance to witness how riv-
eting a seamless transition from one
song to the next can be. Upon first
listen, I re-call, as do many others,
feeling uncertain in my ability to dis-
tinguish the beginning of one track
and the end of another. Such seam-
lessness can place us into a flow state
so sublime, we apprehend the linear
experience of time itself.
Similarly, September is certainly
a time in which we can see the lucid
interplay of beginnings as endings
with the start of school followed
by autumn’s imbricating advent
devouring whole the remnants of a
departed summer. In the enveloping,
we too are squelched … by school/
work schedules swiftly changing
and weather patterns vastly re-
arranging. Soon, we arrive in the
underbelly of adversity, hardship and
woe — fully estranged from the for-
mer glory of a season past.
Fall begins, foisting the forces
of late-stage capitalism onto us in
full swing. The damning compul-
sions of academic and professional
life leave us as lifeless as the fallen
leaves. Sordidly, we flounder in a
frenzy of applications and audi-
tions, mass meetings and recruit-
ment, harrowing responsibilities
and harsh deadlines. Summer feels
like sustained heat and unrestrained
youth. Fall feels like chills, chim-
ing in exponentially, brisk but not as
cold as the chains of autumn’s adult-
hood taking hold. For me, this fall in
2022 happened to fall in the humble
beginnings of my adulthood — roll-
ing forward toward the end of my
post-secondary academic career all
the while laying pregnant with the
prospects of my future professional
career.
All that to say: it’s the beginning
of the end of my college experience.
This month has mixed us seniors in
a slew of last firsts. Last first day of
school. Last first Game Day. Last first
shows, last first articles, the last of
the firsts which shall first and fore-
most last til we take our final steps on
Graduation Day, having finished our
formal time here as students at the
University of Michigan … Personally,
I ain’t thinking ‘bout that right now.
Right now, I been staying stuck in
the right now, the righteousness of
the eternal, now moment.
Now, my meeting with the current
moment is not without significant
consideration of the past, the future,
the lasts, and the firsts which shall
not go unforgotten. Instead, I realize
that in reconciling our origin with
our destiny, we can become inten-
tionally aligned with our true self in
the present, not neglecting our past
nor future, but remaining undeterred
by their detriments nonetheless. As
Indian guru Nisargadatta Maharaj
asserts, “When life and death are
seen as essential to each other, as two
aspects of one being, that is immor-
tality. To see the end in the beginning
and the beginning in the end is the
intimation of eternity.”
Many of us have pondered our
own destiny, whether consciously
or unconsciously. We are all aware
these lives are impermanent. We
may ruminate on after-lives, heavens
and hells, or opt out of such specula-
tion perhaps out of anxious appre-
hension. Yet, shall we re-call that
our endings are inseparable from our
beginnings, then we might find our-
selves not fraught with fear by death
but in deep understanding of its over-
arching potential to serve as to what
Japanese author Hiroshi Obayashi
refers to as the “liberation of noble
soul from bodily prison.”
But is this bodily existence a pris-
on? Are we trapped here on Earth?
Serving time for misdeeds done in
past lives on previous planets or
planes of being? What led us to live
these lives in the first place? While
ruminating on destiny can lead to
deliverance, we ultimately must
attempt to understand our origins
in order to be fully aligned with our
true self.
Pondering pre-existence can lead
us to be more curious about the ori-
gins of everything in our life. How
did we arrive where we are at this
moment? Why this life? Why now?
What events led up to this instance?
How might we have ended up else-
where? So often do we set out at
the start of an experience with taut
expectations
and
preconceived
notions. Our ego wants us to be in
control to be comfortable. Ironically,
it is typically not til we embrace the
discomfort derived from relinquish-
ing our power to divinity that we feel
most able to act. When we forgo our
desire to control and trust that all
things are working for our good, that
this eternal moment is sacred and
full of meaning, we find ourselves
enriched by all the possibilities our
Creator has in store for us. As English
philosopher John Ellis McTaggart
states, “A state of absolute perfection
would render further death improb-
able.” In other words, without con-
flict we would lead a monotonous
existence devoid of meaning. Once
we acknowledge we are always
arriving in the moment, conflict
becomes an opportunity for growth.
In our pre-existent state — wheth-
er we believe that to be constituted
by past lives or some form of previ-
ous consciousness — we undoubt-
edly acquired the qualities and skills
inherent to us in this life which ini-
tially seem innate.
Much like how our previous
experiences in high school, middle
and elementary carry themselves
over into college, much like how
the residue of our long-gone sum-
mer dwells with us, now, well into
the school year, the lessons learned
in our previous existence (whatever
that may be) certainly re-mains part
of our self. As McTaggart claims, “If
the same self passes through various
lives, any change which happens to it
at any time must affect its state in the
time immediately subsequent, and,
through this, in all future.”
This is not to say we are fully
determined by what’s come before, as
we know with our bodily experience
that this is not the truth. McTaggart
draws on the notion of forgetfulness
in order to elucidate his point about
us losing memories of important
events that nonetheless have dutiful-
ly shaped our self, provided signifi-
cant value and affected our essence.
He maintains that memory makes us
wiser, more virtuous and indicates
to us that those we relate with have
loved us and have been loved by us
in the past. Yet while we do forget
astounding instances, we do not
necessarily regress. Their relevance
endures on an energetic level.
It’s the feelings of déjà vu or
delight that we get when we experi-
ence a moment that feels timeless
or transcendent. When the music
at home, in the car or at the club
blesses with unremitting beloved
bliss. When we hear a word, phrase
or even a single syllable that sits with
us, lingering long after being uttered.
When seeing someone for the first
time feels like a re-union at last. At
the very least, we can re-cognize,
fully re-Sourced, how subtly we’ve
been informed by forces originating
from lifetimes ago … and with this
knowledge, know that our everyday
decisions in the moment will in part
determine our ultimate destiny, stay-
ing with us as we enter dimensions
beyond in death.
I think about this now, as I am, like
I said, stuck in the moment. I think
about how little so much of what I do
now will matter upon the academic
death that is graduation. Moving on
from Ann Arbor next year, I wonder
how many relationships will fade,
devotions disappear, fires inevitably
extinguish, alliances and associa-
tions wither away. And while I know
many of the ties I’m maintaining
at the moment may not necessarily
“matter” in nine months, when I’ve
moved on, what will prolong, what
will matter and what I will re-mem-
ber is the supreme impression it all
has had on my soul.
On a much more miniscule level,
there’s always the day-to-day begin-
nings as endings that entreat us to
treat our daily endeavors with an
underlying
episodic
awareness.
“The day is an epitome of the year,”
as Transcendentalist Henry David
Thoreau remarked, and with that
in mind, it becomes clear that each
morning is a master class in spring-
ing back to life as is the month of
March. When asleep we lose touch
with our conscious self. Thus, our
dreams do resemble a death of some
sort.
As analytical psychologist James
Hillman describes, dreams are chil-
dren of the Night linked closely to
Sleep and Death. He posits that, “We
may believe we are living life only on
the level of life, but we cannot escape
the psychic significance of what we
are doing.”
In between the start of a new day
and the end of an old one, our dreams
scaffold us into the dregs of the
underworld. As Hillman postulates,
dreams plainly put, ask us, “Where
is my fate or individuation process
going? … We know (exactly) where
our individuation process is going —
to death.” Yet upon waking, we are
given life, yes? It makes sense then,
why we often wake — if allowed
proper rest unfettered from the reins
of capital — regenerated, renewed,
reborn. If our waking up is rehears-
al for a future resurrection, then it
would do us well to ensure that our
mornings are filled with the most
fine-tuned spiritual practice.
Needless to say, this is rarely the
case. How frequently do we awake
and find ourselves fixated on the first
worldly pleasure we can find? Nowa-
days, our phone alarm so effortlessly
facilitates us into the fold before
we are even completely conscious.
Every morning is now an immedi-
ate marination in the matrix of mass
programming and corporate control.
And if we’re not apprehended by the
allure of our phone, then we’re likely
caught in the clutches of caffeine,
nicotine, marijuana, white sugar or
sexual gratification. Wrapped in a
wounding world of vice, we greet
mornings with such wretchedness,
leading me to wonder if we fear our
most natural state.
Are we afraid to be alone with
our thoughts? Alone in our body?
Alone as our Self? It seems the social
stratification of clock-time has con-
stricted our ability to truly be on our
own when white supremacy and
late-stage capitalism prey on every
minute of our day from the moment
we wake up. Mandated early meet-
ings, classes and work shifts are all
imposed as absolutely important,
subjecting us to punishment when
we fail to meet societal standards
which we did not agree upon. Even in
isolation or supposed solitude, we are
only one email, one phone call, one
text message and countless social
media applications away from con-
necting. Always allowing everybody
to access us, even in digital space, at
all times, has scathing implications
on a somatic and energetic level. No
wonder we’re so quick to quell our
everlasting discomfort with deathly
material delights.
Under our current cultural socio-
economic
system’s
hierarchical
structuring of social time, every
awakening is a rude awakening. We
are always tired. Our nervous sys-
tems are always dysregulated. We
are always experiencing some form
of physical, emotional and spiritual
depletion. Collectively, we’ve been
robbed of the relaxing joy of an early
rise. No longer do we view our morn-
ings as a revival in which we are to
actualize our abundance upon open-
ing eyes.
With that said, we might consider
resolving to start our mornings with
reflective, soul-enriching activities.
Journaling, meditation, music, exer-
cise and simply existing in the quaint
glory of a quiet sunrise can allow us
to clearly see, feel and witness the
all-encompassing beauty of morning.
Mornings build momentum! If we
are to see the day, the planetary hour
as our life and death cycle on display,
then we can simply say that in the
morning we are a mere child. But as
the day goes on, and we drastically
develop, have formative experiences,
learn, love and lose til finally, we’ve
aged, acquainting ourselves with the
wisdom of the night.
It would do us good to embrace
this wisdom, these nights which
as we know, exist as beginnings in
themselves. The day is on its death-
bed but the night is still young. Espe-
cially on the weekend, our nights
are rife with potential. Bountiful
new beginnings open up at the end
of the day when we roam and play
in the darkness, in deep space, in
divinity, in non-duality, in between
in-betweens.
Of course, in between the begin-
ning, the end, the morning and the
night, there is the middle. Too often
do we overlook the middle in which
we are not straddling two extremes
but meandering in the mundane.
Just as summer situates itself as the
high noon of our Earthly seasonal
cycles, there’s something about the
sustainment, the warm, endearing
sensation of a mellow after-noon
that invites us to be idle. To rest. To
re-connect with others. To take life
a little slower. To bask in mediocrity.
In the middle. And at the moment.
And in the after-noon when sum-
mer is over, evening arrives, as does
Fall. We fall back into place, once
again arriving in autumn, not yet
deterred by the dead of winter, of
night, of self in slumber. Instead, we
arrive — sensibly so in September —
in autumn, in evening’s middle-aged
maturity, reveling in the knowledge
of setting sun. By then it seems we’re
nearly back to where we began. At
the end.
KARIS CLARK
MiC Columnist
KATHERINA ANDRADE
OZAETTA
MiC Senior Editor
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