Damping the Echo.

Listening hard is a choice.  At first, we open ourselves to hear everything. To use “big ears” and soak in all the noise. The trick is in the tuning. Exposing the clarity of crystal notes that break through the interference. To feel the warm hum of low frequency embracing us with forgiveness. The quiet descent of a slow fade. Letting the walls of our heart absorb unwanted waves. We can use discord in our favor. The echo chamber is softened. This is an artful craft. To create an acoustical wall where sound is controlled. No reverberations, still and noiseless.

I don’t want to hear everything. Just what needs to be heard. Crank the volume–full blast. It leaves me floored. My face is contorted. I cover my ears to stop the ringing. The electric thumps of my heart joins the squeal. Sensory overload jams the circuits. It feels like all is lost. Good noise and bad. Will it ever go away?

Is it possible to have stillness without isolation? This is part of the practice. A chamber with no echo is maddening. Our souls need reverberation. We bounce off ideas. Children scream in tunnels, as we smile. This is the joy of sound. Carefully controlled chaos that brings us closer to hearing the truth.

Messages don’t always arrive in four part harmonies. Most are a grinding blast of negativity. My mind wanders into a dark place. The sounds are thin and reedy. I can change stages, find a new set. Good sound is always noticed and rarely applauded.

Yet, the universe is full of glorious sound. I am beginning to tune in.

A Dorky Girl’s Trouble with College-A Cautionary Tale

I have got to let go. I have many decisions to make and I can’t hold onto the past. My angst this morning stems from the fact that I want to change colleges and degree, again. I am a perpetual student and at the same time I hate school. Let me explain.

As far back as I can remember I have idolized the thought of going to a university. In my adolescent mind college was a warmly tinted movie, with golden and brown hues like a scene from “The Dead Poets Society.”

The Dead Poets Society On the first day of school, my teacher would throw the recommended course curriculum out the window and we would erupt into a spontaneous cheer! Hurrah! He would teach in the fashion of Aristotle, our small group would sit semi-circle around our beloved professor. He would answer each and every inquiring question, goading us to dig deeper with kindness and humor. We would “Seize the Day!” Carpe Diem our motto for life.

I am sure you see where this is going. Somewhere dark and ugly.

I loved learning in High School and hung out with some of the dorkiest girls ever. We went to a book reading for fun. Practiced playing the intro to “Stairway to Heaven” on our flutes, of our own accord. When we said we were working late on the school newspaper our parents could actually find us in a classroom at 8 pm. But at the same time, I hated High School. I struggled with the social scene and horrible little humans who played football and flapped pom poms.

Apparently I was the only one who thought I was a good student with any potential. According to school officials, the number 2.76 and the rank of 227/385 indicated a student with average intellect and so-so prospects in life. I was better suited for a community college and maybe a part-time job. Nothing stellar here.

So, I struggled on my own to find a college, the advice I got was to try CSU as I might squeeze in if my SAT scores were high enough. I could get lucky. But I was warned, it wasn’t going to be easy. Of course, at 17 this advice just made me feel like crap and filled with shame. Going to college was going to be a very unlikely possibility and I was probably destined to fail anyhow.

But I did it, I worked hard and got decent enough SAT score to get into CSU, Fullerton. I opted for a practical degree in Journalism, advice I took from my parents and school. There was no need to pursue creative writing, what would anyone do with an English Degree? I relented and when I try to look back, I see a meek little kid with little fight in her. It was a sad time for me, I had dreamed of dorm life and going away to school. But my parents were sure I only wanted to party and “be bad”. Besides, Indian girls don’t live in dorms. My only choice was the nearest commuter school and living at home with my family.

Anyhow, I did get excited to sign up for classes. I loved the school bookstore and bought binders and stickers with the unrecognizable seal of CSUF. A few of my High School friends also chose CSUF so I had buddies, which was great because the campus was huge and the administration was uninviting.

And then it was the first day of school. A good kick in the gut.

I walked into a very impacted Journalism 101 class and the professor announced to a standing room only that students with less than 56 units should drop the class. They did not have space for incoming Freshmen. I am not sure how I was even allowed to register? Anyhow, all I could feel was utter sadness and disbelief.

The day only got worse, I trudged to my next class–Political Science, which was at least an undergraduate requirement so I allowed to take the class. I walked into the largest lecture hall I have ever seen in my life. I found a seat, where I could barely see the professor. I felt small and defeated and every second he droned on made me drift further away into my sadness.

I continued to drift through school. I made it through one semester, if I recall I probably got something like a 2.7 (my GPA for life). My parents were disappointed. I was depressed, probably clinically, but nobody knew (and I felt that nobody cared). I would drive to school and sleep in a warm car just so my parents thought I was at school. The second semester report card was filled with W’s and that was the end of my life at CSUF.

So here I am, 22 years later. I have continued school off and on throughout these years. I have an insane tally of schools and after CSUF I have attended a total of FIVE community colleges slowly trying to finish the Intersegmental General Education Transfer Curriculum (IGETC). I still have a 2.7. I have straight up failed some courses, almost always math and science and I am nowhere near getting a B.A. If I attend school full-time I will graduate in 2 more years. Right now I am attending a degree mill type of business school and feel the same drudgery and sadness as before. I keep telling myself to get that piece of paper, just do it. But its not enough to motivate me past the drifts of melancholy.

This all seems so pathetic to me that I can barely write these words. (Deep breath taken here). I want so badly to erase this past. I hate that it exists in my mind. Yet I have held onto this identity for so long. Why?

Thinking about the decision to change schools, simply brings up doubts and stirs up unresolved issues. I can feel myself contracting, getting smaller, feeling less open and hardening. My body is used to this posture and it quickly begins to recoil. So as I write today, I feel like I am trying to save myself.

Part of the reason that I started this blog was to relinquish my attachment to past mistakes. I know I don’t need to share any of this with anyone, but I am finding that the simple act of opening up and being blunt about the truth gives me a distance from myself that is less painful. The less pain I have, the less attached I become to the little nugget of shame that I grasp so tightly. I also admit, that I share because I feel that we are all connected–so that maybe the act of healing will transfer to others. As I continue on this journey, I keep hearing good things from the voice inside and others around me. This is what is keeping me going. After all, my new journey is about listening.

I was reminded, that there is a sad little 17 year old girl still stuck inside. A girl that was not heard. Well, I am listening. Today I am listening hard. So hard, I feel like crying. If I listen she will take me on a different path, a smaller school perhaps, with a few people that could care about her well-being. A school that has focus on liberal arts. Someplace that is a haven for her to heal.

If I listen, my grip will soften

and what could happen?

Will I see a young girl

float safely away?

 

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