Some Thoughts on Stepping into Twenty

My dear Reader, I am now twenty years of age.

If you are well acquainted with Anne Shirley- or are well acquainted with me and are tired of hearing me speak of her- then you know that age twenty is a significant landmark.

My eighteenth birthday, though a small and lovely affair, seemed rather silly in the way of adulthood. Eighteen year olds, in my path of life, are not to be seriously considered as adults. Yes, I suppose there are some nice legal doors which are unlocked. No need to turn to parents or guardians for signatures, and guys get to register for the draft. That's cool... Oh, and you can smoke and vote. But by and large, eighteen year olds are hardly treated with any sort of gravity or respect, and at eighteen I thought it a joke to consider myself an adult. (Then again, I suppose I still feel that way. I wonder if shall ever not feel that way...)
As for the twenty-first birthday- for one, it seems rather silly to remember that it is actually the drinking age, as most everyone violates that particular law, and second, I happen to be minimally concerned about alcohol, so I am not particularly worried about whether or not I am allowed to legally purchase and consume it. The point of the matter being, no, twenty-one isn't it for me either.

No, the big "coming-of-age" year for me is age twenty, courtesy of L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables. The twentieth birthday marks the end of the teens, and thus the end of one's "formative years." By age twenty, we select the path we choose to travel. I do not speak of a career path- though in Montgomery's days you should have had a pretty good idea of how you plan on making a living by this point- but, much more importantly, of a moral path, as Anne girlishly explains:

It's such a solemn thing to be almost fourteen, Marilla. Miss Stacy took all us girls who
are in our teens down to the brook last Wednesday, and talked to us about it. She said we couldn't be too careful what habits we formed and what ideals we acquired in our teens, because by the time we were twenty our characters would be developed and the foundation laid for our whole future life. And she said if the foundation was shaky we could never build anything really worth while on it. Diana and I talked the matter over coming home from school. We felt extremely solemn, Marilla. And we decided that we would try to be very careful indeed and form respectable habits and learn all we could and be as sensible as possible, so that by the time we were twenty our characters would be properly developed. It's perfectly appalling to think of being twenty, Marilla. It sounds so fearfully old and grown up. 

So, this is it for me. Twenty years of age, and my character has been fixed for good or for bad. Sort of.

At any rate, the realization that the fateful twentieth birthday was upon me was a daunting one. Is a daunting one. Once upon a time, twenty sounded like a ripe old age, and now it seems a very silly one... and yet not so silly. It is very strange. I feel much like Anne, who on her twentieth birthday cannot quite believe that is has come to be, who realizes that her character is still filled with cracks, and yet also realizes that there is some truth in her old schoolteacher's words.

I keep trying to make sense of what my twentieth birthday means to me. In my strange and sentimental way, it is a true coming of age for me. It stands as a bit of a warning sign-- real and scary decisions are in my near future. It also stands as a warm welcome, beckoning me to enter a new realm where I may uncover many surprises and great happiness. It is a pat on the back accompanied by an understanding smile and laughing eyes, saying, Yes, you have done some good things, but my dear girl, how much more there is to do!


I have learned remarkably little in my twenty years.
I have learned that, surprisingly, it's the small things that really matter to people. Yes, sometimes there's something tremendously large at stake, but often what matters is taking the time to talk to someone, or making the effort to move to where your friend is and sitting by them, or remembering to show support for a loved one. We love in small, ordinary ways, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful or important.

I think I have learned that many of the "big" things aren't really all that great, and that the small, silly things are usually the most wonderful. Prom? Yeah, dressing up was fun, but, honestly, it wasn't the fancy dinner and all the glamour that I enjoyed about that day. No, it was definitely the exhausted silliness of trying to recall (and terribly botching) the words to the national anthem (and the consequent laughter-induced aches) which I remember most clearly and most fondly. Actually, many of my fondest memories seem to share the properties of silliness and hilarity: laughing over terrible word plays (or a large number of terrible things) with мой друг, baking monster cakes/singing&dancing crazily/composing poetic masterpieces with my best friend, utterly destroying the brilliant lyrics of the latest boy band with my sister, totally failing to make balloon animals while almost managing to die of laughter in a crowded mall... Yes, the best moments seem to come unplanned, when I feel sufficiently comfortable to embrace a bit of playfulness.

I think I've also learned that goodbyes are never very convincing. It's hard to believe that the person who has become a happy part of your life won't be there the next day or the day after that or even a few days after that. I've also learned that with good friends, that's okay. A lot of days after that, they'll be part of your life again. And really, they were part of your life all along.

I have not learned how to say eternal farewells. (Do we ever learn that?)

I have learned that I am reserved, and hesitant, and scared.
I have learned that I am playful and eager to love.
I have learned that I would like to be confident and warm. And graceful. And interesting.

I have learned that there are many things that I wish to learn and think and feel and see and do.

On my twentieth birthday, I sat down and looked around and more or less settled on a certain winding path.
And now there's a whole lot of walking (and running and skipping and sitting and jogging and standing and sprinting and dancing and leaping) to be done.

How Reflection Is Like (Organic) Chemistry

This here, my writing, right now- it can only be considered miraculous.
It is 8pm, 5th week, on a Thursday night, and all of the necessary schoolwork is complete. I repeat, miraculous.

But let us turn aside from this strange, beautiful occurrence and do a bit of reflecting and whatnot.

Lately I have been contemplating all sorts of interesting questions. Unfortunately, schoolwork and contemplative behavior seem to go less well together than I would like. Perhaps we could make the comparison to trying to dissolve an alcohol in water... The OH group's polarity could represent my drive to dive into the waters of reflection while the mounting pile of schoolwork is analogous to extending the size of the hydrocarbon chain, thereby pulling me out of the refreshing waters I so long for.... But this week I seem to have thrown in some alkane branching and decreased the hydrophobic character of my life. It has been quite splendid.

Today I finished writing a paper for my ethics class on the subject of whether morality and self-interest are reconcilable. For reasons I cannot entirely fathom, I seem to have dropped out of the wrong century, because I align myself pretty nicely with those good old Ancient Greeks in characteristic Annette-idealism. I highly encourage you to read a bit about virtue ethics and the concept of eudaimonia. While I delight in the contemplation of this subject- and would gladly enter into conversation with you, dear reader, on the topic if you so desire, I would rather not dwell into specifics at this point in time. (I am being totally serious. Leave a comment, or email me (martina@carleton.edu), and you can even request to read my paper! Ohh the fun we may have engaged in philosophical discussion! ....Anddd *quenches nerd-outpour*)
 Instead, I will leave you with a few quotes that relate to my ideas rather nicely, and which I quite delight in. (Let's play a game! The guess-who-is-going-to-be-quoted game!)

First up, Thoreau. Oh, Thoreau! Aurora!

"It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour."

Next, dear old Anne (credit to L.M. Montgomery), on being a teacher:

"Perhaps she had not succeeded in 'inspiring' any wonderful ambitions in her pupils, but she had taught them, more by her own sweet personality than by all her careful precepts, that it was good and necessary in the years that were before them to live their lives finely and graciously, holding fast to truth and courtesy and kindness, keeping aloof from all that savoured of falsehood and meanness and vulgarity. They were, perhaps, all unconscious of having learned such lessons; but they would remember and practice them long after they had forgotten the capital of Afghanistan and the dates of the Wars of the Roses." 

 (Yet another reason why I wish to be Anne-like. Who wouldn't want to inspire young souls by virtue of being happy and awesome?)

And, finally, Ayn Rand:

“The purpose of morality is to teach you, not to suffer and die, but to enjoy yourself and live.”

“Why do they always teach us that it's easy and evil to do what we want and that we need discipline to restrain ourselves? It's the hardest thing in the world--to do what we want. I mean, what we really want. And it takes the greatest kind of courage."

Ahh, I do love thought-provoking, insightful quotes!

And I am afraid that this is where I will leave you all for now. Hopefully the next time I write (which should be soon) I will tackle some of those to-ponder questions, such as, where would Annette like to study abroad? Or does Annette want to go to medical school, or does she want a life of relative simplicity as a philosopher-teacher?  Or, wait, does she want to become some sort of counselor or therapist... or a biochemical engineer... or what about some sort of poet/writer? (Okay, abandoning third-person now...)
What skills do I have? What do I enjoy? What do I find fulfilling? How can I live in consistency with my ideals?

That actually reminds me of the other night... I had just started thinking about my philosophy paper and thinking about what it means to be moral, virtuous, and live a fulfilling life. As seems to be the trend, this contemplative behavior occurred fairly late at night, and eventually I decided it was more than time for me to go to sleep. As I crawled (or climbed, rather- my bed is lofted ridiculously high for a not-ridiculously-tall person) into bed my mind threw a startling question at me- Do you, Annette, contribute to the goodness of the world?
I was taken aback. Pesky, pesky brain! There I was, in bed, thinking over the last hour or so's worth of idealistic ethical outpouring, and I suddenly questioned whether I lived in such a manner as to increase the happiness of the world... and I didn't know what to say to myself.
So it's been tacked onto that to-ponder list.

And now I shall go do some glorious ballroom dancing.

On Portraiture

If I could draw to satisfaction, I would draw portraits.

I think it would be a wonderful challenge to try to capture someone’s essence on canvas. So many fascinating questions present themselves! If I were to go about drawing (enter name here), how would I do it? Where would I place them? What colors would dominate the interpretation? What would the lighting be like? What of their posture? How would I dress them? Would they be looking out, staring off, or intently studying something? 

Lately I have been pondering portraiture of a different sort. I have been contemplating a self-portrait. My medium is perhaps slightly unconventional, however.
I have attempted to draw myself using the colors of literary heroines.

The project is a very confusing one. Of the many characters I am drawn toward, how many do I sympathize with because we share similar characteristics? And which do I admire because I earnestly wish I were more like them? Tricky, tricky.

I have two “hues” (maintaining this artistic metaphor may prove tricky…) which I deem fairly reliable for the project. They are strikingly different. One would probably be something of a forest green; the other… perhaps a soft lilac. But as I stand poised before the canvas, all sorts of unforeseen complications arise, and I can’t seem to figure out where to put the strokes.

At first, I believe the matter is a fairly simple one. I feel like I have a Kel-ish exterior (allusion to Tamora Pierce’s ridiculously amazing Protector of the Small series. Go read her books!) and an Anne-ish interior (Anne of Green Gables. Do it!).

Kel is my exterior. My reserve. We present ourselves to strangers in the same way- with blank faces. I recall my many moments of fear and awkwardness, of feeling out of place or unwanted or like I simply don’t quite belong. I remember trying to find strength in Kel’s manner: the blankness of an unrippled lake or a flat stone. Remain neutral. Do not betray yourself. Do not overreact.
I slip out of rooms to shed tears. I reserve turmoil for the private lines of handwritten pages.

Sometimes I find it a bit…amusing when I realize that I have been standing in line somewhere for a large period of time, appearing very neutral, when inside my mind have been raging all sorts of passionate arguments, comical debates, or wild daydreams.
Sometimes it surprises me when my closest friends remark they have no idea what’s going through my head. I have to remind myself that however noisy the internal dialogue may be, there is silence on the outside.

So perhaps I have some of Kel’s reserve… but what else do I have of her? The question seemed simple enough when first picking out my tools, but suddenly it seems nearly impossible. Kel is a doer. She has a strong sense of justice, and she acts upon it with resolution. She doesn’t overthink things.
I don’t think I can say the same for myself. I love ideas. I like working with abstract things. I often find myself wishing I did more.

And how exactly does Anne-ishness comes in?

Hmm. Well. Anne is associated with lovely flowers and daydreams… wonderful, light things. Anne is poetry and dandelion-wishes. So… perhaps I am Anne-like when… When I am perfectly at ease? When I am alone? When I am with my dearest friends? When I dream? When I gaze upon pretty things or bask in golden happiness?

What of idealism? Am I idealistic in a Kel-like or an Anne-like way?
I share Anne’s desire for loveliness, but I want Kel’s sturdiness. Sometimes I am as sentimental as ever the kindred-spirit-seeking redhead can be, and at others I am sensible in the way that only Kel can be. Wait. Sensible? Hmm. Am I sure it’s Kel I want, or would I do better with Austen’s Elinor? Now that I think of it, am I not perhaps more of a Jane Eyre? Plain and reserved, but nonetheless filled with a passion that is not immediately apparent...

The more I ponder the issue, the more all sorts of pesky questions and suspicions begin to crop up, and, soon enough, I find myself sitting before a blank canvas with a very bemused expression on my face. The problem seemed clear-cut to begin with, but at every step I find myself wandering uncertainly or running into dead-ends.

Perhaps instead of drawing a single portrait to capture someone’s essence, I would like to draw various snapshots.

Perhaps I would draw them amongst a group of strangers. Sitting in a classroom. Engaging in their favorite pastime. Puzzling over a problem.
Perhaps I would capture their expression when they feel alone.  When speaking about their innermost dreams. When looking at someone they love.

Would I ever produce a single image to encapsulate the spirit of the whole? Or would it be best to stroll through an endless gallery of snapshot paintings?

I think I would enjoy the stroll.   

Literary Splendor: A Brief Glimpse

Let's talk about books.

In the last few days I have managed to finish two novels, and it struck me that I have yet to profess my love for reading. This must change.

I love reading.

[I will leave it at that for now, for I'm sure this theme will be a recurrent one. But that really needed to be said. Now a bit about those books I read...]

The first book I finished this week was Nabokov's Lolita. For quite a while the intention to read Lolita had lingered in my mind, and I finally resolved to do it.
I'm not sure what exactly I expected when I started the novel. I think I expected something... something very cold and modern, explicit and dark and twisted... fascinating in a terrible sort of way. But the expected feel was detached... cold is really the best term I can use to describe what I anticipated.
But Lolita was quite different. Far from being cold, the book is tender and warm. Tender and warm to the point that you aren't quite certain what the impact upon Lolita is... Humbert adores her... and you are almost willing to grant the possibility that Humbert's little nymphet delights to be in his loving arms. And then you hear her sobs in the night, every night... and you wonder what has been done to the beloved Lolita.
If you haven't read the book, I would recommend it. Lolita is spectacularly, impressively well-written... I still cannot believe that Nabokov's native tongue was Russian- the book feels so very English. At least, I was impressed. It is a very interesting read. If you have read it- thoughts?

The second novel I finished was Anne of Windy Poplars. This summer I have set about re-reading the Anne of Green Gables series, and it has been nothing short of delightful. To quote Mrs. Montgomery herself:

"An old book has something for me which no new book can ever have -- for at every reading the memories and atmosphere of other readings come back and I am reading old years as well as an old book."

Reading about Anne is like revisiting my childhood... No, it's more than that. It is revisiting old, beloved friends in old, beloved homes. Anne holds a very special place in my heart and has become a part of my soul. She has an incredible ability to recognize beauty, and has inspired me to do my best to be a small source of happiness in the world.

I could talk about how awesome Anne Shirley is for hours. From her beginning as a ridiculously talkative, imaginative, dramatic, red-headed orphan continuously getting herself into very amusing scrapes, Anne develops into a kind, graceful, warm woman with a great deal of insight and a healthy sense of humor, all the while retaining a delightful Anne-ness about her... Her love of trees and flowers and brooks... her kindred-spiritedness...
Anne is amazing.
If you haven't already, you should meet her. I think you'd like her.
And if you have, you should consider going for a visit.

Or, perhaps, you would prefer to acquaint (or reacquaint) yourself with other interesting characters. This is acceptable (though I still recommend adding Lolita and Anne to your list!). I simply encourage you to retreat from earthly chaos in the golden splendor of literary lands, explore strange new worlds, celebrate joys and triumphs or weep over sorrows and injustices.

Immerse yourself in a good book. You won't regret it.