Bring Me That Horizon: Going West

I grew up in New England, sandwiched between ocean and trees with a smattering of stars above me. One thing I always feared about going to college was that I would no longer be able to see the stars that seem to shine so much more brightly here. Every friend I’ve made so far has been from the city, where light pollution blots out the stars. I wonder how they’ve made it so far without those little points of light.

Having grown up in New England, I lived between two staple literary symbols with similar meanings: the vastness of the ocean and what once seemed like the vast, untamable county of America that lies to the west. Both are symbols of freedom and adventure, as at one point they seemed like insurmountably large places to be explored. However, they are both also symbols of danger. The sea and the large forests that used to populate my home (and still do to some degree) are both easy places to get lost. I went west in the literal and metaphorical sense, coming to Bard.

              

Last night I got lost. It was dark, I was alone, and I ended up on the opposite side of the campus from where I should’ve been (or where I meant to be – are those always the same thing?). I told myself again and again that I had loved the stars too dearly to fear the night as I quaked in my converse and anxiety labored my breathing. Was it fear of the unknown, or fear of isolation?

             

I am terrified. I am alone and terrified. I look around myself and I wonder, How the hell did I get here? Am I good enough, or will I be dragged to the depths with the first unsatisfied roll of the ocean? I want to say I can do this. But right now, I’m not even sure what “this” is.

             

Fascination with the stars is fascinating. The black of space is infinite, and it holds far more that we don’t know than we know. How is it that something so foreign, something that is quite literally alien, can bring the comfort of home? It seems that I am alone here, but the multitude of stars tell me that I am not alone in the universe.

              

I am terrified and alone, but I am not. Everyone else, or at least a good portion of everyone else, is terrified and alone as well. We all have somewhere, even if it’s not presented in quite the same way, an image in our heads of ourselves standing alone at the head of a ship, staring into impenetrable ocean. But the image is flawed, because we’re all standing on the deck together, if only we could make ourselves believe that.

              

The forest is mysterious, and we can’t know what it will bring for each of us as individuals, but the forest has always brought truth. And the ocean has always symbolized new beginnings, so maybe with the two symbols together we can decide what some of those truths are going to be for ourselves. The sky is cloudy, the canopy is thick, and the North Star is nowhere in sight. But we often have to get lost before we can find any direction. So it’s time to stare out into the seemingly endless ocean, say “I’m ready”, and keep going. Some things should be done because they’re terrifying, and because we don’t know.

The compass is spinning, so bring me that horizon.

Contemplating my Roots

Today is the day before I leave for the actual odyssey that this blog is named for. By this time tomorrow, I will be at Bard, and my family will likely be gone. I feel, now, like a young adventurer standing on a dock before the ocean, preparing to board a ship to explore the distant sea. The metaphor is, perhaps, inaccurate. I’m only a four, four-and-a-half hour drive from home, and with today’s technology I can keep my family in my pocket. However, regardless of the relative accuracy of the metaphor, it is how I feel. And, like that adventurer, I can’t help but take one last look over my shoulder before I take the last step that exists between myself and the endless ocean.

              

I turned eighteen a few short months ago. On that day my father, covered in a kaleidoscope of ink himself, took me to get my first tattoo. I was certain of my decision, and certain of the meaning. The tattoo, nearly an exact copy of the cover art of my first publication, was intended to be a symbol of the beginning of what will hopefully be a lengthy career in writing. That meaning has not been lost, but my Dad told me the day I went in that tattoos often evolve to take on meanings you did not expect, or realize, with time. He could not have been more right.

              

Josh, a truly remarkable artist, strove to remain true to the original artwork on my book. An artist himself, though of a different sort, he was in a unique position to understand the weight of the meaning of this particular tattoo. However, some slight alterations were necessary to make the art, a cherry tree in full bloom with lined-paper petals, work on a human arm. One such change, easily the most noticeable, was the softening of the hard line where the edge of the book ended into inky roots. The tattoo began, because of this alteration, to represent more than the beginning of my writing career. It began to symbolize myself, in past, present, and future. The roots where I came from, the blossoms where I could one day be, and everything in between a sliding scale of my personal reality.

              

Despite coming from divorced parents, I have been lucky enough to have an exceptionally stable family. My parents, all three of them, manage to be unerringly civil and sometimes even friendly with each other. All of my grandparents have survived well into my life, long enough to offer support and influence who I am and who I will be. My paternal grandmother has been a particularly important figure in my life. She manages to be both formidable and unendingly kind. She was a single mother before we had achieved at least the illusion of gender equality, and she took the added challenges of the time and bent them to her will.

              

My father, an artist like me (a musician, a poet, a writer, a true renaissance man), has always had an innate understanding of a need of the soul I don’t think I could ever properly articulate, despite my love of words. My mother, an easy and non-judgmental sounding board, always convinced I hold the keys to the universe at my fingertips. My step-mom, the spark of hope alive in my chest when the world seems a little less than worth it, the point of light that keeps me from making the transition from disappointed idealist into cynicism. My older brother, my built-in confidant, protector, and partner in crime. My uncle, the moment of unabashed mischief. My family, those mentioned and those not, of blood and otherwise. I’ve made my home in them far more than I ever did a place, and I carry them with me as a part of me as I take the step from the edge of the pier to the dock of the boat, as a part of me. And yet, in a way, I leave them behind as well.

              

They say you can never come home again. I wonder if that’s true.