College

Deeply Awake – Guest Post by Zoë Trout

Have you ever come across an essay and thought, “Wow! Another human being understands the way I view the world!” As a writer, a quiet observer of humans, I’m constantly wondering if others have the same sensitive intuition as me. When Zoë emailed asking if she could post on my blog, and I read her essay, I inhaled deeply into her words. She gets it. She’s wired like me, at least a little bit. I’ve got sisters and brothers and sensitive folk out there doing the same beautiful work as me. I feel honored to share her perspective. From one beauty seeker to another, write on.

Author: Zoë Trout
Blog: https://speckonaspeck.wordpress.com/

Her favorite quote: “i thank You God for most this amazing / day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees / and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything / which is natural which is infinite which is yes”  – e. e. cummings

Lately I’ve wanted to write about beauty. When I say lately, I mean for months—
and for months I haven’t written a thing. It daunts me to render something so
vast and brilliant in plain words, and my mind spirals in a hundred directions. I
still don’t know how the thoughts will come together. What I know is that beauty
wants to be written about. It’s been knocking softly over these months of
avoidance, and I’ve come into surrender, and so begin.

. . .

Our acquaintance is long, I’ve always loved beautiful things. When I was little I
slipped into imagination easily and intuitively and no one demanded answers. I
collected beautiful images in a mental folio for daydreams, pouring over
photographs in coffee table books, and copies of O magazine and House &
Garden. I treasured a calendar with pictures of French countryside, and pictured
my own “some day” life nested in fine art and stylish decor in a beautiful setting.
The appeal extended beyond possessions, I wanted my whole being to be a
beautiful thing. I sat on the big purple couch in our living room and practiced
writing in cursive over and over, pouring my attention into the loops of o’s & p’s
& b’s, and the quick, elegant peaks of lowercase r’s—it wasn’t task so much as joy.
I wrote, and drew, and painted; I took pride in helping my mom choose furniture
and fabrics, and in laying out outfits for her to wear. I courted loveliness with the
unspoken belief that it would enrich my life, or really that it already was.

I continued to harbor that belief as I began to grow up. Driver’s license in hand,
many of my first independent trips were to beautiful places that made the world
feel quiet and deep. I went outside, into green spaces and under trees. I went into
chapels and galleries, and visited art I loved. I sat before text and pictures, and let
myself steep in their harmonies. I obeyed the same gravitational pull that lured
me into daydreams, the same finger wagging me towards pockets of delight. I
followed enchantment with beautiful things.

Beauty inspired more substantial decisions, too. In high school I let it direct me
to my first job in a restaurant with windows on a stylish plant nursery across a
little green lawn. At night Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday swam through the
candlelight like honey and kept the restaurant glowing. I wasn’t always excited
for long shifts on my feet but my delight was renewed in going to a beautiful
place, and getting to be part of its melody. When I had to choose a college, an
impalpable charm drew me to the school I attended on first glance. Even from the
car, its campus had the same lyrical poise as a poem, and held me under the same
power of awe.

I would go on to choose apartments the same way, and find myself laying tracks
in beautiful spaces wherever I went. Now, I often get pressed into the fog of daily obligations and then wake up to some physical grace, like a silk scarf, or leaves on
a tree branch, twirling together madly in a sudden breath. Out of the daily plod of
emails, errands, and hourly pay emerges something plainly extraordinary, like
sun on the grass, and my spirit lights anew. Sometimes I don’t watch the road as
carefully as I should in the car; my eyes drag on glassy pond-tops, shop windows
and wings outstretched in the sky; my heaven is a perch with a view.

. . .

The question of vanity is raised, and also the question of escape. Isn’t it
superficial to swoon for aesthetics? Isn’t it irresponsible to abandon screens and
numbers and the high-stakes sport of “figuring out?” What do you get from
simple reverie? The spreadsheet and the checkbook demand an answer. The
insurance company demands an answer, and the accountant, and the banker, and
the boss.

For a long time I asked these questions, too. I thought I must use beauty as a
means to escape or avoid, running away to a false palace of my mind. I assumed
my delight was undisciplined. I reasoned that it was, by nature, a weakness.
It’s easy to confuse immersion with escape.

Today I know the difference. I still seek out brilliance in nature and art, and
anything else that stills my soul. It’s no secret that I know how to escape, and
have plenty of practice, but now I see that beauty never asks me to hide.
Submerging into wonder might look going to sleep, and perhaps it is a kind of
numbing to the outside world. It asks to be prioritized over tasks and lists and
news headlines. It asks that I surrender thinking, and let myself be led. But on the
other side of that quiet I hear my own harmony in a timeless choir. I come to
know myself as lovely and beloved. I come home to my necessity in the great,
mosaicked mystery of everything alive.

The world may continue to question. All I can offer is heartbeat, and sky reflected
in my eyes. All I can do is continue, pen in hand; there’s more to see and more to
say. I keep an eye out for wonder, and the discovery reminds me I am never
asleep in beauty, but only more deeply awake.


1243364_10151631700702984_1530260115_o
Zoë Trout was born and raised in Texas and studied English and psychology at the College of William & Mary. Despite living in the Boston area, she harbors a deep affinity for the South and enjoys memoirs, contemplative poetry, and traveling widely. She has previously worked as a university writing consultant and served on the editorial board of The William and Mary Review, and she continues to write creative nonfiction while working in mental healthcare.
You can read more of Zoë’s work by following her blog, where she writes about growing up, living with purpose, and finding meaning in a noisy world.
Advertisements

The Best Years of my Life?

You know how people say, “College was the best years of my life!”? When I was in college, I hated when people told me that. College, for me, were some of the roughest four years of my life. Academia was a breeze and I was thrilled to learn about social dynamics, structures, and inequalities. Socially, however, those years were full of personal growth, individuation, and emotional development that was difficult to process through. I quite often felt alone, and isolated, and frustrated that I wasn’t having the best time of my whole life. I didn’t like to drink those feelings away either.

However, this weekend, we went back to my old alma matter because we had a few things to take care of in town. I instantly turned into a full blown nostalgia machine. Dylan and I walked around like those obnoxious adults pointing out buildings that had changed, developments that had morphed structures into plazas, and laughed about memories that took place back when our biggest financial stress was textbooks. I was filled with Buffalo pride – embarrassingly so! It became so clear to me how people can block out the bad, and choose to remember the good, enjoyable, and funny moments that shaped you.

I am so pleased with myself, to see too, how just a few years later I have changed as an individual. I think I’ve grown more confident, more sure of myself in a world that seems big. It is a beautiful thing, to return to a place, and to see that perhaps, you’ve out grown the you who you once were when walking those paths and crossing under the stone walkways.

photo-3

We also got to go to Boulder’s iconic Pearl Street Mall and walk around enjoying the Colorado blue sky in the bustle of people on a Saturday morning. The walking mall is typically full of people displaying their talents, and asking for money. I ran into an interesting gentleman playing a really neat drum called a hang. Stereotypically, he screams of Boulder – bare foot and with dreads in his hair. After a conversation, he became so much more than a visual stereotype. Along the way, Dylan and I stopped to talk to this kind man about his instrument.

photo-2

I loved so many parts of our interaction. Before he played the drum for us, Ryan explained to us that he does his best to match the rhythm of the music to the pace of people’s feet as they walk by. He intentionally tried to connect to the people around him in a way of perceiving others and giving back their energy in musical form. His first little beat was slow, and steady, and indicative of a Saturday morning stroll. The second melody he played, however, he described as what was going on in his head. It was fast, and staccato, and his hands moved around the smooth surface in a tizzy.

Isn’t it amazing how we can choose which energy to engage in? We thanked him for playing, and walked in the other direction. After we got a block away I couldn’t help but think that his intentional choice to observe others, absorb their energy, and reflect back in peaceful ways of musical talent was a marvelous practice. We turned around so I could ask him his name and if I could write about him here. Look above – his face is full of pure joy. So thank you, Ryan Post, for giving me something to think about on Saturday. Thank you for sharing a brief glimpse of who you are with us, and for choosing to be intentional in the energy you put out into the universe.

How can you be more intentional with your choices about what you are giving to the universe? What is worth matching energy, and where do you instead take care of yourself?