an open space

december 27

the fragmentariness of life makes coherence suspect

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing.
They have departed for another city.
{Neruda}


When I was 16, I saw things much differently than I do now. I had big evanescent dreams that changed easily from one season to the next, but I always had something to hold and to hope for. I day-dreamed mostly about being a barista in LA, playing open mic most nights in hollywood (maybe I do want to start a band), where I would meet my partner, after he called me up on the phone about finding an old art journal I had left on the floor of the local coffee shop. He’d wear knitted stripe sweaters, and listen to folk, and he’d probably play the bass, and brood, with a five o’clock shadow. How silly!

When I was 12, I wanted to be a novelist. My dad told me other day, that he found 60 pages of an old story I had written, in my closet, typed single-spaced in word perfect. I wanted to be just like S.E. Hinton. My characters were all written in first person, so familiar that I could run into one in the grocery store. My main character was an inner-city tomboy, and I still remember the color of her eyes (green), the clothes in her dresser, and the way she arranged the furniture in her room. But that, still unfinished, stays in a box in my closet, collecting dust. Hinton really isn’t my style. At least not anymore.

When I turned 14, I wanted to be a beatnik. I’d write a movie synopsis in balderdash and the minute they would start, my family would dismiss them. My cousin Mia would groan, “Oh, I’ve seen it already, Trina, not another awful indie film!” But I liked the quixotism of Kerouac. I’d write his quotes on the corners of my papers in class, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved!” My mom already picked up hitch-hikers, and this is where my itch for travel began. I can still quote entire paragraphs from On the Road, even though, at the time, I hardly understood them. Some of it is pretty seedy.

Last year, when I was a missionary in Cambodia, I watched Blood Diamond, and wanted to be Maddy Bowen, Shane Claireborne, and Mother Teresa all wrapped into one. I fell in love with the sites and smells of Asia, the traffic, the open markets, and the bad manners. Many nights, I stared off the balcony in the darkness, rain falling on the tin roof, my heart burning with loneliness. I was constantly harassed in the streets for being an American, and I walked, self-effacing, in the marketplace, eyes aimed at the ground as a daily routine. I taught a class of first graders who took all of my heart and energy. Some would visit me after school had ended or on weekends, and we’d sit around, not speaking, drawing pictures of the houses and toys and pets we wished we could have.

This past year, I returned to University to pursue art. And realized so much of myself is still yet to be discovered. My day dreams still change from one day to the next. One day, it’ll be to wander the world with no attachments, maybe peace corp or organic farming. Yet, the next it’ll be about the names of my children, and the way I’ll raise them, the food I’ll cook for them, and the music we’ll dance together to in the kitchen. But the biggest questions are the ones still unanswered. I love and believe in so many things, like my Savior, but the church isn’t a place I always see myself as fit. I love art and design and literature, but I don’t know what I want to do with it, or what I can. But maybe it’s okay to not know, or to change your mind about it. I might not know who I am, or even who I want to be, but I find a deep joy, just living each day, each moment, trying to find out.

I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.
{Neruda}