Questions

I quit my job six weeks ago and have had nothing but wonderful, terrible, endless amounts of time. As expected, the first few weeks were fabulous; sleeping in past five, checking items of my to-do lists, reading entire days away. But equally expected came that turning point, that moment creeping up ever so slightly, quiet and undetected, until it was right beside me, nagging me urgently with the demanding awareness and unrelenting cruelty of time.

I wonder where it comes from, this need to be doing, this fear of wasting moments, this feeling of uselessness. I wonder why so much of my identity is dependent on what I do, and not, essentially who I am. I wonder if I can even define who I am, put a name to it, without the convenient blanketed idea of an occupation. It's more difficult than one would think.

While in Prague last December, I visited a preschool where a friend of mine was working, and the director very kindly took the time to show me around and talk with me about education. She was a lovely woman, interesting, well-traveled, passionate about her career and life in general. I love these spirited characters. I love that they give me something to look forward to, to aim for. I could be like that, someday, if I tried hard enough. I could be fiery and strong and in love with my life. I could be more than a weak, timid girl standing on the edge of her life, fearing the unknown before her, fearing - more than anything else - that what lies ahead is not the unknown, but rather just the continuation of a predictable, indifferent life. I am so tired of feeling half asleep in a world so awake with wonder.

This woman asked me to tell her about myself, and so I told her about teaching. She smiled politely. "No" she said, "tell me about YOU." Eight months later, I still have no idea how to answer this question. I looked at her anxiously trying to think of something to say, something that would express who I am, something that would define me. She sensed my unease. "R. tells me you've been spending your days sitting in cafes and writing." I laughed a little and nodded. Maybe that summed it up entirely.

I think about this moment quite a bit, especially at stages in my life like this, when I have nothing but time. My inability to answer that question both frightens and saddens me. I used to have such a lust for life. I used to have things that truly interested me, that I was passionate about, that defined me. I used to have goals and dreams and an idea of who I was and who I was working to become. And now, I'm just not sure. I've been unwilling to write simply out of the fear of having to admit my uncertainty. I've been avoiding the question. I've been avoiding my life.

When I discuss these types of issues with adults, they remind me that they were much older than I am before they figured out what they wanted, who they were, how to love and accept themselves. I know that they mean it to be comforting. I know that what they are trying to offer me is this idea of time, that I have more of it than I think, that it will help me to heal, that it is in fact a gift, and not cruelty at all. But what I hear is that I'll have to wait ten years before I'm happy. What I hear is that I'm too young to understand any of this. What I hear is 'wait it out. Float through. Be lost so that you can be found." What I hear is that there is no way out other than time. And I hate that. And I wish that I could simply jump ahead.

I wish that I knew how to tell you who I am. I wish that I knew myself.