Easy street

I'm a senior in high school so slacking off is something very relevant in my life. For the past couple of months I have left essays unwritten, math problems unsolved, meetings unattended. One by one, I have replaced each should-be- priority with ice cream and naps and phone calls with friends. Despite my plummeting grades and lecturing parents, I didn't really think my "senioritis" a problem until today. It was a right of passage, something I had earned after seven semesters of stress and regulation.

But today I went on a bike ride. It's very nice out and I didn't want to revise my paper for Honors Sem and with prom in two weeks, this sounded like a better use of my time than making a chipotle run. A bike ride, now that I think of it, is a pretty productive way to slack off.

When I wheeled out of my driveway, I thought about all the places I wanted to see before returning home, most of them places I had spent with the friends I am so scared to say goodbye to in a few months. (I crave nostalgia). One such place is a few blocks west of my house but, because the rest of my destinations were east, I decided to skip it. So I turned east and peddled into Hinsdale, crossing the tracks at Stough. It is hilly on that side of the tracks and my legs felt weak trying to find a park my friend and I once snuck out to. Soon, it became obvious that I had no idea which way Adams was or weather Sixth went through to Bodin. Not wanting to look as lost or as tired as I was, I kept going east.

Eventually, the hills leveled out and I was biking on much smoother streets. I regained my breath and my sense of direction, recognizing I was very close to an old friends house. I effortlessly glided past his house, thinking about an inside joke we once shared, and felt proud of myself for knowing exactly where I was. For another half hour, I past a plethora of old memories near by my friend's house, barely having to peddle on the smooth surface I had found. It was a very easy thirty minutes that eventually landed me in the parking lot of a playground my brothers and I used to love. That's where I still am right now.

Laying in this parking lot, I am forced to think about the bike ride that got me here. It started off so hard and so disappointing. But, as soon as I found an easy rode, I stuck to it. I never got to find that first park or anything west of my house because it just seemed like too much work.

The more I think about my bike ride, the more I am realizing I have turned into this person who has learned to settle for the easy option. Maybe it started when I traded in a leather prom dress for a more normal one. Maybe it was when I passively let others decide my college choice for me. Maybe it's a product of every weekend I have spent with whoever texted me first instead of working to do what I really wanted. Maybe it's just a product of senioritis and I will graduate out of it this May. But, most realistically, it is a flaw in character. I settle for things. I tell myself that doing what's easier is okay because nothing matters that much to work for it or to stress over it. I chose the flatter sidewalks over the hilly streets because I didn't want to peddle that much. But who knows what I missed on the other side of those hills. It's probably worth it to find out. But I won't.

The worst part is that I know if I worked to get over this, I could start picking the harder, more beneficial option. But, I am justifying my laziness by saying this is who I am and I shouldn't try to be better than I am. Really, it just seems too hard.

Calming Penny Lane

It has been raining a lot tonight and, although it started out as a gentle and happy rain, it has since escalated into tremors and booms. It is the kind of storm that haunts the background of dramatic movies, the kind that induces childhood fears and, apparently, the kind that terrifies my dog.

Penny Lane is nearly 8 and, like many dogs, has a distinct fear of rainstorms. After half an hour of watching my dog pace and run away from windows, I found Penny curled up in a ball in the safest place she could find - under our huge, very heavy, not so sturdy piano.

Feeling pity for my dear friend, I curled up with her under the piano and continued to pet her trembling back. I grew discouraged (and, shamefully, a little bored) as I scratched the underside of her neck and it continued to shake so I did what anyone watching someone struggle would do: climbed out from under the piano, onto the seat, and began to play.

Penny Lane looked up from me as she rested her head on my non-pedal foot and a bright flash shook the room. She looked sad and lonely but I continued to play, hoping to get her mind off of the storm. I was unsure weather a happy song or a sad song would comfort her more, so I wondered awkwardly between major and minor keys. Turns out neither was better than the other.

For about an hour, my eyes wandered between sloppy sheet music and my dog's sad brown eyes. I expected that, with each authentic cadence, her fears would slowly subside. I expected to feel her tremors still and her pulse slow. Instead, I watched hopelessly as she continued to shake, sometimes with even more frequency than before. It became obvious to me that I really was not helping her at all.

I cannot make the storm pass. I cannot steady our shaking floors or silence the booming walls or mask the flashing windows. I can't do any of that. I can't even properly comfort anyone as they face what scares them. All I can do for my puppy, for anyone, is keep playing music and hope that the experience is a little more beautiful and a little less lonely than it would be alone.

Why?

Today the majority of my street gathered in the Notre Dame Catholic Church at the end of our block to grieve the loss of our dear friend and neighbor, Heidi Walsh. As anyone who knew me growing up would confirm, my street is extremely close knit. My oldest friends, the ones whose houses can be seen from my bedroom window, are also among my closest. There is a sense of vulnerability that comes from knowing a person since childhood, an honesty that masks any attempt to better or worsen your reputation. And, in the case of Waverly, Norfolk, and Chestnut, that vulnerability as led into undeniable trust and bondage.

So, when we were all reunited last night to tie ribbons on trees in Mrs. Walsh's memory (something we have done far too many times for far too many good and well-missed people), there was no shame in sadness. Mrs. Walsh's passing was tragic and horrible and so unexpected that even I, someone much less religious than I should be, felt drawn to seek god and pray tonight at Noter Dame. I wanted to put on my black dress and cry because there was nothing else I could do. I chose grief over what I was really feeling: guilt for being alive when someone so great was not and helplessness towards trying to lessen any of the pain in front of me.

Tonight, when my mother and I took our seats beside the families of two of my closest friends, she placed her hand on my leg and nudged at the young children sitting a few rows a head of us. "Poor kids," she whimpered through tears. "They don't even know what's going on. They don't even know why there here."

It's true, they didn't. Their youthful grins looked out of place beside their mothers' moist eyes. They twirls around in oblivion while the rest of us sat motionless in our pews. They were kids; they had no idea what they were doing in church on a Tuesday night.

But, really, does anyone? None of us - my mother, my teachers, my friends, my neighbors - understand what is going on. We don't know why we all have to meet so frequently under such unfortunate situations. We don't know what to do when these things happen (and god knows, on Waverly, they happen a lot). It doesn't matter how many people I hug or candles I light or times I tell my mother I love her, the truth of life's end will always be as foreign to me as a catholic mass.

I don't understand death. I don't understand why it comes so quickly to those who don't expect it and so slowly to those who suffer. I don't understand what I am supposed to do when it comes so close to me, when it takes people I know and love and care about and leaves me behind. I don't understand what I can do for the four children Mrs. Walsh will never see grow up, why I will see them tomorrow but she won't, why I will tell at my mother tomorrow and their kind words toward theirs was cut short. I don't understand how natural and predictable each breath is for me and still, no matter how harmless inhaling feels, how inevitable it is that each breath steals one from someone else. I am a child, twirling in church, so oblivious to what is happening and why it keeps happening. We all are.

So I sat between my mother and an old friend, acting like I knew which shoulder to cross first, pretending to know when to stand and when to sit, faking like I said "trespassers" and not "debtors" or "sinners." I thought that maybe, if I could make sense of the formula of catholic prayer I could make sense of its content. But none of that matters. None of this makes sense to anyone, no matter how young or old or religious or distant we all may be. There is no sense to be made of a death on Waverly. There is only guilt for still being alive.

At least I'll go out swinging

I sat upper deck today for the White Sox season opener. I had a full view of the field as Chris Sale threw the season's first strike out and Tyler Flowers hit the season's first home run and the sox claimed the season's first victory. It was really nice. I got to be back in the ballpark, beside my brother and my father, watching a sport we all love.

But, nonetheless, I got the feeling that I wasn't where I should have been. As much as I enjoyed the noise of the upper deck and appreciated the factual time-line that plasters the walls of the 500 section, I felt out of place. I should have been in section 137, row 12 in seat either 7,8,9, or 10. That is where I have watched countless ball games and that is where I should have watched today's game. The upper deck gives an unblocked view of every play in the game, an umpire-worthy judge of each pitch as it passes over home pate. The 500 section is reliable because there is never anyone blocking your view and you can see basically everything.

And still, I missed the scorn in my neck from searching for fly balls and the anticipation of an umps call after each pitch. I missed the familiar calls of my favorite beer-man and the condescending coos of the man who sits behind us. It's not that I think my season tickets are better than the upper deck, I just know them as home. I grew up in these seats. They are where I learned to snap and swear and smile big enough for a second Lemon Chill. Section 137 is where I imagine myself always watching sox games.



Earlier this week I decided to attend Wake Forest University next year as a member of the freshman class of 2017. I know Wake is a great school and is full of people with similar morals as myself. Still, I cannot help but feel like this choice has left me in the upper deck. Sure, the school will present me with a ton of opportunities and will broaden my horizons post-graduation, but at the same time, I will miss the comfort of what I have always known. I will miss the Big 10 rivalry and the ability to get lost in a huge crowd. I will miss the frigid winters and waking up before anyone has walked in the snow. I will miss the flatness of farmland and the proximity to water. Those are the things I feel comfortable with; they are my section 137 and I think they might be where I should be.

But, then again, the world we live in is so huge and I cannot always expect to feel a sense of belonging. Really, I should be happy to at least be in the ballpark.