Confessional

I tell myself I'm sleeping better for the first time in one-point-five years because I've found some source of inner peace that lulls me into slumber deeply, gently, like the rumble of dry thunder in August. Really, though, I think I'm just plain exhausted.

Thrown into the chaotic calorie-burning, brain-cell-stretching mix (never stop moving, never stop learning), I'm spending this summer scooping ice cream. I needed structure, I needed something familiar to hold onto when everything else is changing, so, late in the season, when all the temp jobs had already been filled by all the college kids, I popped into the cafe to ask my former employers if they could put me on the on-call list to cover shifts or work special events. They said sure, then called the next day saying to come take a look at the schedule stuck on the fridge because my name was on it regularly.

Twice now they've made good on their promise to give me a lift when I'm in a jam, even if they have enough people on staff already.

I like it because it is the one place where I can let my mind rest, or dream up a storm. Most people don't think to ask a girl armed with an ice cream scoop what her big plans are for her life, and it's a welcome reprieve.

I do have a plan; better than that, I know the exact essence I want for my life. The essence will always remain the same even if the plan goes south. But neither the plan nor the essence involve making much money; for that reason, they become less and less socially acceptable with each passing day. For as much as I have lived counter-culturally through my whole life, I'm still intensely self-conscious of deviating from the norm.

Scooping ice cream and waiting tables is socially acceptable for a recent grad—until the end of summer. Then—

Then, I will be a vagabond and a failure, a statistic that reflects poorly on my school and my government (which are pretty much one and the same at this point because everyone knows Mr. LU President and Mr. US President are thick as thieves). If only there were a check-mark box between "employed" and "unemployed" that read something like "sitting on a park bench at midnight with a friend synthesizing knowledge and passions and forming a feasible route forward." I could check that box. I could get points for that.

Not that I need points. What am I trying to prove? Who am I trying to please?

The past few years have been a journey in releasing myself from all the things I thought God required of me, as well as all the things I required of myself. There have been a lot of checklists to erase. I'm still erasing, still learning.

Now, though, as I am begging society to give me some grace as I wander around not taking the traditional post-grad school route, I am realizing how I need to erase the checklists I've written not only for myself, but, more importantly, for others. If a checklist exists for me, then sure as hell I've created one for other people.

How merciless of me.

Until I know the thoughts that haunt someone in the middle of the night, until I know how they've been loved, until I know how they've been abused, until I know what it is like to be them every minute of every day, I do not reserve the right to pass judgement. I cannot tell you how many times I've developed an opinion about who is doing what with their life. Probably (and here I confess) 98% of the time it is not a favorable judgement.

All of us, our lives are shockingly similar. We are such walking cliches that sometimes I throw up from the anxiety of it.

But we are still different enough that, if there is a checklist for what makes an acceptable life, it will be different in the details for each of us.

One of my favorite people is my older brother. It's not that we are super close, or even spend a whole lot of time together. We have shared a lot of the same experiences, yet are still different. Anyway, I admire the way he has reacted to me in recent years. Not to say he fails to voice his opinion, but he is an example of someone who doesn't judge my choices, who isn't measuring me up against a list of requirements. He takes me in stride.

"I want everyone to please take me in stride. Please know that there are a million minutiae that have brought me to this place. I'm an eggshell teacup, ready to break, so please don't press too hard."

I ask it from the world, but I also ask it from myself. "Mattea, stop murdering other people." (The mess. What have I been doing to my brothers and sisters?)

Yet even this altruistic act is self-centered. The only reason I'm trying to give people in general more grace these days is because I want grace myself. Then again, that sounds familiar, and maybe it's a little golden after all.